Dolphin-san: Hey there y'all! If any of you are reading this and thinking that you've read it before, that's because I started it on mediaminer ages ago, but got kinda bored with it. But I thought of how to continue with it. This is basically going to be the same concept as the one on mediaminer, but I'm making it more Beyblade character centric, instead of the main characters being made up by me. So I'm hoping this turns out better than my first attempt.

Oh just a few thing to clear up before I begin though. The characters may seem a little OOC and Takao and Hiro aren't related, instead Takao has an older sister. Hmm I think that's all. Oh no wait there is going to be MPreg in this fic, just to warn you, and everyone in this AU is totally alright with it. If you personally don't like it then don't read it. I don't want to have to read any reviews saying stuff like 'That's sick' or anything, okay?

Enjoy.

Chapter 1

It was the first day of April. Seeing the reception desk temporarily unmanned, Ray snatched up the ringing phone.

'Takao Kinomiya salon, how can I help you?'

'Hello.' It was a male voice. 'I need a complete restyle.'

'We do have a long waiting list,' Ray warned, uncapping a biro with his teeth. 'Could I have your name, please?'

'Duncan Goodhew.'

Over the phone, he heard gales of background laughter.

'Oh ha ha, well done, very good.' Ray recited dutifully. 'If only Eddie Izzard was as witty as you.' He rolled his eyes at Bev, the salon's glamorous receptionist, now racing back from the loo.

'Who was that?' said Bev as Ray hung up.

'A big wally. April Fools' Day, don't you just love it?'

Grabbing his coat and rummaging in the pockets, Ray dragged out one green woollen glove and one pink leather one. Well, imitation leather.

Bev's manicured blonde eyebrows went up.

'Lunch break already? It's only half past eleven.'

'Dogsbody duty.' Making sure he wasn't being watched, Ray pulled a face. 'Cigarettes for Alice Tavistock. And a box of herbal tea bags. And half a dozen first-class stamps. That woman, honestly, I don't know why she doesn't write out her whole week's shopping list, pack me off to Sainsbury's and be done with it.'

'And when you've finished that,' Bev suggested helpfully, 'you could valet her car.'

'Pop her washing round to the laundrette.'

'Mow her lawn.'

'Fill out her tax return.'

'Clean her loos,' Bev blinked innocently, 'with her own toothbrush.'

'Ray, are you still here?' Takao Kinomiya, emerging from the VIP room, shot him a look of disbelief.

'Sorry, Takao, no, Takao, I'm gone.' Ray jammed his gloves on, getting three fingers stuck in one thumb-hole. He grinned at Bev, and made a dash for the door. 'Back in ten minutes, okay?'

Takao called after him, 'Make that five.'

Since Takao Kinomiya had landed himself a regular slot on the hugely popular TV show 'It's Morning!' his client list had blossomed beyond belief.

As the show's producer had pointed out, he was a seriously attractive hairdresser. How could he fail?

The female producer had been right.

With his midnight-blue shoulder length hair, thickly fringed storm-blue eyes and come-to-bed smile, Takao had a way with people and with scissors that had done his business no harm at all. No longer buried in the back streets of Bermondsey (special rates for pensioners on Monday and Wednesdays), he had been catapulted upmarket to the altogether glossier pavements Knightsbridge's Brompton Road (special rates, never). Celebrities queued up, for months sometimes, for the privilege of shelling out two hundred and fifty pounds and being able to boast to friends, journalists . . . well anyone who'd listen, basically, that theirs was a Takao Kinomiya cut.

Nowadays you could spot his clients a mile off, thought Ray, teetering on the edge of the kerb as a chauffeur-driven limo pulled up inches from his toes. The snow had all but melted now, leaving only squelchy dregs, but the woman emerging from the back of the limousine was kitted out in enough fur to see her through a hike across the Antarctic. Gingerly, in her fur-lined boots, she picked her way through the slush.

Well, it was an awfully wide pavement. All six feet from the car to the apricot-tinted-glass and brass doors of the salon.

And if you were going to pay a chauffeur to run you around town, it made sense to economise in other areas, Ray acknowledged, recognising the famous romantic novelist as she removed her dark glasses. That must be why the stingy, face-lifted old hag had only tipped him thirty pence last week.

The stamps and cigarettes weren't a problem, but the Grapefruit Zingg herbal tea bags with extra ginseng took longer to track down. By the time he'd bought everything, Ray was already fifteen minutes late.

He was there, sitting in his usual spot outside the shoe shop. Experiencing a horrid qualm of guilt, Ray wondered if he could cross the road so he wouldn't catch sight of him, or simply rush past pretending he hadn't seen him.

Then again, perhaps he should just explain that he was in a tearing hurry and didn't have his wallet in him right now, but if he hung around for another hour or so, he'd see him later.

Hung around for another hour or so, Ray thought with a shudder. Crikey, patronising or what?

Poor chap, as if he had anywhere else to go.

Oh, but he looked so cold, so utterly miserable and chilled to the bone.

Too late to try and avoid him now anyway, he realised. He'd spotted him.

'Hi,' said Ray, feeling rotten already. His blanket was damp, soaked through with slush. 'Look, this isn't my lunch break, I'm picking up a few things for a client, but I'll definitely be back before two.' Inwardly, he cringed. Oh help, why did a perfectly good reason have to come out sounding like a feeble excuse? He didn't want one of his sandwiches in two hours time, he needed something to warm him up now.

'Okay.' The man, who was probably in his early thirties, nodded and managed a faint smile. 'Thanks.'

He never begged, never asked for anything. Just sat there, with his greasy two-toned hair falling over his face and his dark eyelashes half shielding his eyes, as he watched the rest of the world march on by.

Ray had never given him any money in case he was a drug addict. The thought of his spare cash being injected into the nearest collapsed vein made him shudder. At least he couldn't fit a prawn sandwich into a syringe.

But today the circumstances were different. And there was a Burger King just across the road, selling hot drinks. What's more, Ray remembered, Alice Tavistock had given him a ten-pound note to go shopping with . . .

'Here.' Hurriedly he fumbled in his coat pocket for change and thrust seventy pence into his hand. 'Buy yourself a cup of tea. Thaw out a bit.'

'That's very kind.'

Heroin cost more than seventy pence, didn't it?

Worried, needing to check, Ray said, 'You don't do drugs?'

Another fleeting smile, accompanied this time by a shake of the head.

'No, I don't do drugs.'

Except . . . well, he would say that, wouldn't he?

Ray gave up; he had to get back. Ugh, this weather, his feet were going numb.

'Okay, see you later.' He flexed his icy toes. 'Ham and tomato or prawn with mayonnaise?'

The man on the pavement shrugged.

'I don't mind. You choose.'

'Sorry I'm late.' Panting, Ray burst into the VIP room. 'Harrods was packed and the woman in front of me at the counter had a funny turn. Never mind, back now. Here we are, Mrs Tavistock.'

Takao was putting the finishing touches to Alice Tavistock's French pleat. Not believing the funny turn story for a second, he watched Ray empty his pockets of stamps, cigarettes and change.

'Take the towels out of the tumble dryer,' he said, 'and give Corinne a hand with Lady Trent's highlights.'

Ray wondered if Alice Tavistock might say thank you, but getting a cigarette out of its packet and into her heavily lipsticked mouth was evidently far more important. He watched the expensive silver lighter go click and the tendons of Alice Tavistock's skinny neck stick out like trapeze wires as she sucked in the first lungful of---

'Ray. Towels.'

Five minutes later, Ray was dutifully passing rectangles of silver foil to Corrine when Takao and Alice Tavistock emerged from the VIP room into the main area of the salon.

As Takao beckoned him over, Ray clearly saw coins glinting in Alice Tavistock's hand.

Hooray, tip time!

Then again, maybe not. The expression on her freshly powdered face wasn't exactly brimming over with gratitude.

'I gave you a ten-pound note,' Alice Tavistock announced without preamble, thrusting her outstretched palm under Ray's nose. 'And this is how much you gave me back. Do you think I'm incapable of adding up?' she demanded stroppily. 'You've short changed me.'

'God, sorry, I forgot!' Ray clapped his hand to his forehead. 'I meant to give it back, make up the difference, then Takao told me to sort out the towels and I---'

'And you thought you could get away with it.' Alice Tavistock always spoke with a plumb in her mouth. Now, she sounded as if she were spitting out the stones. 'Swindler. Thief.'

'I am not a thief!'

Takao closed his eyes.

'Ray, what did you do with Mrs Tavistock's money?'

'Gave it to someone.'

Frowning, Takao said, 'What? Stop mumbling, talk properly.'

Ray lifted his head. Oh Lord, he wasn't looking happy.

'I gave it to a homeless person so he could buy himself a cup of tea.'

'My money!' squawked Alice Tavistock. 'You're telling me you gave my sixty pence to a filthy scrounging beggar? For crying out loud, boy, are you mad?'

So much for boasting about her ability to add up, Ray thought mutinously.

'He isn't a beggar.' He couldn't let it pass, somebody had to defend him. 'He never begs! And it wasn't sixty pence either,' he concluded, 'it was seventy.'

Ray loved hairdressing, despite the abysmal rates of pay for trainees. He was happy working in Takao's salon, he adored cutting hair – on the rare occasions when he got a chance – and he really enjoyed the contact with clients.

Well, most clients.

The big drawback was having to carry on being nice to them when they were horrible to you.

'I'm not a thief,' he told Takao when he had reimbursed his outraged client from the till, apologised profusely and shown her out of the salon.

'I know that. But you aren't exactly Mensa material either,' Takao pointed out, 'are you?'

'She's a hag! That woman spends her life boasting about all the charity committees she's on. How can she be so mean?'

'Hardly the point. Alice Tavistock is our client.'

'She's a stingy old battleaxe,' Ray muttered.

'Stop it. Now listen to me.' Takao consulted his watch. 'Bev has to see her dentist at one o'clock. I'll need you to take over at the desk for a couple of hours.'

'You mean . . . work through my lunch break?'

Horrors! Ray's honey eye's widened in dismay. He was already ravenous.

What's more, he remembered guiltily, I'm not the only one.

But it was no good. Takao was giving him one of his serious, I'm-the-boss looks.

'I think that's fair, under the circumstances. Don't you?'

Max watched the checkout girl pick up each item in turn, pass it over the scanner and send it on its way along the conveyor belt. Like the prizes on 'The Generation Game', minus the cuddly toy.

Packet of chicken breasts.

One lemon.

Pint of milk, semi-skimmed.

Shrink-wrapped bouquet of broccoli.

Small carton of hugely expensive new potatoes.

Pregnancy testing kit.

'The Generation Game'. Very apt.

Max held his breath, wondering if the girl would glance at him in a secret, knowing way, but when she looked up all she said in a bored voice was, 'That'll be fifteen pounds seventy. Got your Clubcard?'

It clearly took more, these days, than a few chicken breasts and a pregnancy testing kit to arouse a checkout operator's interest.

Back at Special Occasions – perfect gifts for every occasion – Max hung the Tesco carrier on his coat hook and locked himself in the tiny downstairs loo.

His fingers shook as he tore the cellophane wrapping off the testing kit. The words on the accompanying leaflet danced infront of his eyes.

Oh help, this is it, this is serious.

Right, can't afford any mistakes, thought Max, feeling sick already. Treat it like an exam, read the instructions slowly and carefully. Concentrate, concentrate, and for goodness' sake stop this stupid shaking.

The sudden hammering on the door almost catapulted him off the loo seat.

'Max? Are you in there?'

Well, who else was it likely to be? thought Max resignedly.

'Um . . . yes.'

At least he hadn't been in the middle of some tricky form of gymnastics involving pipettes and mid-stream flow.

'Okay.' Bruce, his manager, sounded impatient. 'Keep an eye on the shop, would you? I've need to make a call.'

'Two minutes,' Max called out in desperation.

'What?'

He couldn't not find out now, the suspense was killing him almost as much as the need to pee.

'Just give me two minutes, okay?'

Outside the door, Bruce shook his head in bewilderment.

'Okay.'

Out in the shop, the bell above the door went ding, heralding the arrival of a customer. Relieved, Max heard the sound of his boss's retreating footsteps. He couldn't possibly pee on to a stick with Bruce lurking just inches away on the other side of the toilet door.

The crucial stream of urine was duly passed. Max closed his eyes and began to count.

When he opened his eyes again, the end of the stick was blue.

'Oh, good grief,' Max whispered, the words almost drowned out by the thundering of his heart. Pulling open the neck of his sweater and peering down at his stomach, he said in an unsteady voice, 'Hello.'

Out in the shop, Bruce was wrapping up his customer's purchase, a wildly expensive yellow and white Italian vase. When Max eventually reappeared, looking pale, he said, 'Max, before I forget. Bit of a do on at the golf club this evening. Verity and I were hoping to get along for an hour or two, but the blasted babysitter's let us down. Any chance of you riding to the rescue?'

Having ridden to the rescue before, Max wasn't fooled for an instant by his jovial tone. Like cat years, Bruce's idea of an hour or two usually meant seven or eight.

'Bruce, I'm sorry. I can't.'

Taken aback wasn't the word for it.

'But you said you didn't have anything on tonight.' His tone was accusing.

Be brave, stand your ground, don't let him bully you into it.

'That was this morning.' Max spoke as firmly as he dared. 'I do know.'

Dolphin-san: There we go. First chappy complete. So what do you think? Is it good? Does t make sense? Please review and tell me what you think.

Ja Ne.