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At the Cross Keys
by ML

He was really, really drunk.

That wasn't so unusual; most Friday nights found him in
this condition, tearing it up with his mates in the local.

He was pretty damn proud of himself that he even thought in
the local lingo. Harder to speak it, though. More familiar
American phrases sometimes got mixed into his conversation
and then he had trouble.

On the other hand, saying you were going to "knock someone up"
in the States had a much different meaning than it did here. He
got knocked up most mornings, which only meant someone came and
pounded on his door to wake him up.

He grinned in his beer.

"What's so funny?" Gerard asked. Always Gerard, pronounced
"JER-ard," never Jerry. There were still some parts of England
where Jerry meant German, and not in a good way.

"Just thinking about linguistics," he replied, proud of the
way the word came out without slurring, despite the fact that
his tongue seemed awfully thick in his mouth.

"You should be thinking about the birds, not the words,"
Freddie scolded. "Logistics, not linguistics."

"I can get any bird I want," he said. "Any time. As easy as
kiss your ass."

That didn't sound right. By the expressions on Gerard's and
Freddie's faces, it obviously was not.

"As easy as kiss your hand," he amended hastily, feeling his
face flush from more than the overheated room.

"You can kiss my ass anytime," came a sultry voice from over
his shoulder. Elegant, long fingers slid around his chest and
down his stomach, stopping just short of his belt.

Watching from a safe distance, Gerard nudged Freddie. "No hope
for him now. Phoebe's got him. What's the phrase? Hook, line and
sinker."