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“Ten bucks says boss pulls his ‘Eyebrows of Disappointment’.”
“Ten says it’s the ‘Puckered Face of Doom’.”
They both watched from across the bar, heads tilted to the right like seagulls eyeing up the last chip as they watched Jason talk to Sonny. Clay scowled and pulled his wallet from his pocket, slapping a tenner in Brock's hand when Jason's eyebrows took their ‘I’m disappointed in you but I’m not yet ready to say it to your face’ position. “Goddamn it. That’s the third time today.”
Brock put the cash on the counter, and the waiter neatly swapped it for two beers. “You just need to up your game, Spense,” his brother replied, knocking the necks of their bottles together, probably a little harder than he’d intended, and took a sip. “’sides, the ‘brows of Disappointment are all Sonny has ever managed to achieve. I think we're the ones who get the Puckerment of Doom more than anyone else.”
“Well that’s not fair,” he complained. Pouted? It sounded more like a complaint, but he could have sworn his bottom lip made a runner from its natural alignment on his face. Eh, whatever. He took a sip of his beer.
“Are you pouting?”
“No.” Yes. Brock poked his bottom lip, Clay tried to bite him in return. Maybe they were both a bit more inebriated than either of them realised, but that had never stopped them before.
“Did you try bite me?” Brock asked, his brows furrowed as he tried to glare at him and failed miserably. Clay gave him points for trying, eyes following the finger that was wagging in his face. “’Snot very nice.”
“You’re snot very nice,” he retorted, shoving a handful of peanuts in his mouth. Brock pouted and did the same.
An hour later, Clay was leaning against Brock heavily, the pair of them drunk and giggling like a couple of kids who had just stolen their first naughty magazine.
“Lookit,” Clay hiccupped, waving a floppy hand in Full Metal’s direction where Alpha 1 was with his team, playing pool. “Ten bucks he says ‘Move it asshole, let me show you how it’s done’.”
“Ten says he says ‘My Mumma can throw a dart straighter than you can, you pansy ass bitch’.”
Clay blinked at Brock owlishly. “They’re playing pool, Broccoli.”
“And your point is?”
“Move it asshole,” Full Metal scoffed from across the room. Clay sat up straighter, away from Brock because more height meant better hearing. Possibly. “Let me show you how it’s done.”
Brock and Clay grinned at each other and high fived, missing each other entirely and nearly toppling off their chairs in the process.
“Biiiiiiiiingoooooooo!” Brock sing-songed quietly, laugh-hiccuping as he tried to regain his balance.
An idea struck Clay, so he smacked Brock on the head lightly to get his attention. Multiple times. “Oh my god.”
“Ow, Clay!”
“Oh my god!”
“Ow! Why’re you hitting me?”
“Ohmigod!”
“Keep it up and I’m telling mum!”
Clay clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle his giggles, then clapped his other hand over Brock’s mouth to shut him up. “Shush, shushushush,” he said, trying to get himself under control. “I has... I have an idea.”
“No need to get violent over it,” Brock grumbled, rubbing his head. “What is it?”
“Bingo.”
“I'm very confused,” Brock said, looking very confused. “I didn’t say anything. Was I supposed to guess?”
“Huh?” Clay felt very confused. “What? No. Bingo.”
“I haven’t guessed anything yet,” Brock whined. “C’mon, Clay – it's beer pumping through my brain right now, not blood. What’s bingo?”
“Ohmigod, Brock. Catch up, would you?” Clay sighed, rolling his eyes as though it should be obvious, and nearly falling out of his chair in the process. “We should make a bingo card, for everyone on the team.”
Brock looked at him, eyes wide. “Oh my god.”
“Like, oh my god, right?!”
Both SEALs pulled out their phones and got to work.
“Those two have been quiet all evening,” Ray commented, looking over to where Brock and Clay were huddled over their phones, looking deep in conversation. “What do you think they’re doing?”
Jason looked up from where he was lining up his shot at the pool table, following Ray’s line of sight and shaking his head when he realised who his friend was looking at. “They’re there, they’re upright and they’re unharmed, Ray,” he replied, readjusting his angle slightly. “That’s all I care about.”
Ray shrugged, unable to argue with that.
“We want nine, or twelve?”
“Twelve - more choice.”
“Good call. Right, have you adjusted your cell?”
“Uh, yeah. How many pixels again?”
“Um, twenty-nine?”
“Fuck this writing is way too small, it’s hurting my eyes.”
“We can fix it tomorrow when we’re not wearing beer-goggles.”
“Fair call. Right, how about...”
Sonny froze midstride and started walking backwards slowly. Whatever those two were talking about, numbers and pixels were involved and it was far too complicated for him. He wanted no part in it.
“I thought you were getting Brock and Clay,” Trent said from behind him.
Sonny Quinn doesn’t jump in shock, he slipped on the floor, thank you. “Ah, they’re busy talking techno-babble; I didn’t want to disturb them. Seemed serious.”
Trent looked over to the pair, frowning slightly. “What did they say?”
“Somethin’ about cells, and pixels? I dunno, weird stuff.”
Trent looked at him. “They’re talking about excel, Sonny,” the medic said flatly. “You got spooked by excel?”
“Shuddup Trent.” Pfft, excel-smexel. He hated that bloody program.
“Well now what?”
“Trent, Quinn,” Scott called, waving them over. “My boys need a lesson on how to play pool properly.”
Trent looked at him, and they shrugged at the same time. “Guess that solves that issue, then.”
“Okay,” Clay said, looking at his phone which was held as far from his face as possible, because the beer had made him go cross-eyed. “So, we’ve got a square for each of us, and a combined one for Lisa, Mandy and Blackburn.”
“Ya-ha,” Brock replied, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “What are the terms?”
“To win, all squares must be completed and dated – multiple dates are allowed, but no extra points.”
“Slow down,” Brock complained, blinking at the screen. “My fingers are drunk. They need time to catch up.”
“Loser has to cover the winner’s next pub tab?”
Brock looked up and nodded, the typing of game rules abandoned. “Sounds good to me. Start tomorrow?”
“Yep, tomorrow it begins.”
Brock and Clay went to high-five each other and missed, the momentum sending them toppling to the floor, the chairs clattering loudly behind them. “Ow!”
“Goddamn it,” Jason growled.
“Trent!” Ray sighed.
“Duty calls,” Sonny said.
“Those two clearly can’t hold their drinks,” Full Metal laughed.
“Fucks sake,” Trent muttered.