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[ronmanmob]

How Many Shots Would It Take You to sleep with Lieutenant Riley?

How Many Shots Meme

There were a couple'a things about Ron's situation that saved Pat Connolly's life when he asked - half way to having a skin full and only when most everyone else round the room had been subjected to their motley crew's version of Would You Rather - how much Ron would have to drink to go bed with their own Leftenant Riley. Their setting was one of 'em. The lads - Ron, Pat, Riley and Sam - had come upon a gem of a live jazz-come-swing performance and were ensconced front row round a table. The air may as well have simmered with the band's bassy rasp and Ron, about as carried away by it as the music man among 'em, just didn't have the pointed focus to level Pat with anything like the daggers he would've outside such congenial climes. That said music man had his arm round the back of Ron's chair helped matters too, and that was before even a glance was given to the publican's ABV.

So Pat asked.

And he did not die.

The question caught Ron jiving, a riff rolling up his spine like fingertips; making him shudder pleasurably the way only absolutely killer music could. It knocked a laugh free, pinned his attention on his mate across the table for a heavy second before the moment broke, the tension broke and he was all easy animation and affable charm.

"---Righ'...lissen" Ron said, whiskey's purr cut through his voice as he leant a hint left and confided more to Riley than to Pat - much as the latter could still hear him. "Lissen, I'm anyb'dy's aftah a couple'a Long Island Iced Teas, yeah? So if i's in y'want luv, tha's th'ticket." A rattle of laughter, low and smoky for all he was wanting for a fag like nothing else right this second, came up when he paused a half second. Then, straightening a bit to include Pat and Sam in his opinion-giving, Ron added,

"Fink th'fairer question's 'ow much this'n 'ere-", he nodded to Riley, "w'd need t'drink t'wanna take ME t'bed." Another beat of laughter bought a lopsided smirk up on his lips. "Bettin' is I'd be able t'light 'is sweat on fire b'fore then, so le's not giv 'im no ideas, aye Pat?"

His soused bodyguard and long-time pal threw his head back laughing at that notion, and Ron watched him - his smirk still lingering on his lips for all it'd started to dim. Ron didn't look round at Riley to see if he was laughing too. He let the music carry him off again instead; got caught up in the sound of it all and put Pat's joking bullshit out of mind. It was only when he settled back in his seat again that he clocked Riley'd not moved his arm away; that he'd not moved away at all for that matter. And that, more than most else, was what saved Pat Connolly's life.

Ron had warned him more than once about shit-mouthing in the direction of Him And Riley. Man knew what he was risking - knew Ron would find him if his fuckery cost him a friendship. He'd gambled this evening, at least to Ron's mind. And he'd won. But the house was never far off from looting back its take'a winnings, so they'd have a chat - Ron and Pat - come the morn.

@tarnishedhalo