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    Summary

    “I still don’t understand why I am wearing bloomers,” Vox said as Alastor held firmly to his wrist, preventing him from fleeing. Which he really would like to do, given that he was not only wearing bloomers, of all things, but also terribly scratchy tights and a ruff around his neck that poked at his screen. Everything looked vaguely ridiculous.

    He… didn’t mind the codpiece, though. That could stay.

    “We’ve been over this, Vox,” Alastor replied patiently, pulling him to a halt outside the bar and resting his hands on Vox’s shoulders. Vox sniffed. “They’re breaches, not bloomers. You’re several centuries too late with your terminology.”

    “Yeah, well, these breaches are several centuries too late for me to be wearing, too,” Vox grumbled as Alastor adjusted his ruff. “We’re going out for a drink, not a Renaissance festival.”

    “Why not both?”

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