"You want proof? I can phone them up now if you'd like; and I guaranteed your leg won't get pulled..."
He almost hoped Jon would want to make that call, just to see the expression on better half's face when Renly - it had to be Renly, for who else could set lover straight on the subject? - informed his Doubting Thomas, flat-out and no bollocks, of their forthcoming wet dreams for wee lamby pie.
"It was our foray to La Cage that set it off," Robb explained, taking hold of sturdy wrists. Keeping their connection solid was so important now; so crucial, he decided, as thumbs rubbed idle shapes against first one knuckle, then the next, slowly working his way along. Everything could still go tits up in a spectacular fashion right until they were shut inside posh L.A. playroom, and because it always took a bit for Jon to process things and stop sniffing for a rat, he'd have to be as transparent as a piece of window glass. Easy-peasy now that the hackles seemed to have gone down a bit. Now they could discuss the pertinent details.
"Remember when we went into that tacky backroom for a one-off? Yeah. Then."
Memories of drug-fueled dirty sexcapade sent a shiver up his spine, caused pupils to dilate and brought about impish grin. He couldn't help himself, really. Exhibitionism was a favorite of his made that much more addictive now that Jon was a permanent part of the scenery.
Batman and Robin. The Lone Ranger and Tonto. Frodo and Samwise. Doctor Who and Sarah Jane Smith. Every hero, every sleuth, every adventurer down through the ages needed a relevant sidekick to keep him honest; made certain ego remained in check and didn't blow himself (and everybody else within a fifty-mile radius) up. Fierce friendships that withstood tests of fire and blood and mayhem.
"Renly is aware - somewhat - of our fits and starts in the bedroom. I reckon they've talked about it, about us, and decided it convenient to couch an invite to see the new sex chair with a lads' weekend..."