RP: Wankered Who: Robb McLellan and Jon Snow When: 17 March 2013 Where:Muldoon's, Newport Beach, Ca. Status: Complete Word Count: 4,038
In all of Orange County there was only one place for two young British lads to be on Saint Patrick’s Day.
Muldoon’s.
The recommendation came straight from Eddard Stark, Jon’s Lordly father who back in his own youth had discovered the newly established pub around his twenty-first birthday.
Eddard only needed to suggest, but Jon had not stopped him from recounting a particularly raucous night while the two shared an intimate moment Friday morning over breakfast. Catelyn already left the manor, taking Arya, Bran and Rickon to school which left Jon and Eddard the rare opportunity to sit and talk and simply enjoy being father and son.
In any case, Eddard had not been wrong. Muldoon's was the place to be if your heart beat to the counted rhythm of rashers and sausages, rashers and sausages, more keen on the tabor's leathery thump and the whinge of the didgeridoo than the electric, tinny sounds of contemporary instruments.
Round one.
Jon bought the first round of the night, determined to get them well and pissy without too much fuss as to how, as long as it happened quickly. Being English, Jon couldn’t have cared less about the religious or historical foundations of St. Patrick's Day. All he latched onto was having an excuse to let his hair down and someone to blame the morning’s hangover on. The English blamed everything else on the Irish (or the poor forgotten Welsh) so why not a good cottonmouth as well?
With his goals firmly in mind, Jon had arrived at Robb's Santa Ana home around six thirty, green Penfield trousers this time and a tight black shirt with the sleeves pushed up past his elbows. Every bit of fabric clinging like it’d shrunk in the wash and Jon brandishing a flask chock-a-block of whisky, ready for their cab ride out to Newport Beach.
True to fashion, Robb accepted the challenge with a glint in his eye and that million dollar smile firmly in place.
Round two.
Whisky and a pint down, it was Robb's turn to weave through the quickly crowding beer garden into the Dublin pub for top ups.
Muldoon's, built first in 1974, had started as one pub with a beautifully dark oak bar back and hand-carved tableaus lining the kick-board. Brick, mortar and stained glass with brass finishings, all earthy materials capped with a grumpy bulldog insignia, a shamrock topping his cap.
It was quintessentially Irish without ever once falling into the trap of little green-white-orange flags or anti-establishment postings.
Today of course, the place was packed with all kinds of Irish pride accoutrements but the spirit of the pub remained pure. Nothing tomorrow's cleaning crew could not restore to true Gaelic fashion following a bit of elbow grease and some aspirin.
Then there was the beer garden where Jon and Robb had chosen to bunker down for the evening. A cobblestone patio of low stone tables and cushioned wrought iron chairs. The pub's bright red garage door added a splash of Los Angeles flair to the otherwise wooded scene, oil lamps providing a warm glow even under the cool LA sky. And what fire did not warm, Robb and Jon had liquor, laughter, and entwined fingers laced with whisky kisses.
Across the garden was the Gaelic bar, an additional drinking room with a fully established kitchen more in line for dinner parties or seductive date nights with its dark artisan lighting and wall-to-wall framed photographs. They’d left that part of the pub unexplored for the evening, but there would always be further opportunity.
Why populate one bar when you could just as easily reside in two?
The Droppers were playing in the beer garden so that was where Jon and Robb downed their second pint of the night, feet tapping to the jigs and occasionally getting tangled beneath the table.
Round Three
Jon's again. For all his mass, though, two pints had been quite enough to get him oiled up and happy. So much so that he’d convinced Robb to a round of Irish Car Bombs, which he was just bringing back to the table.
“I know you’re going to win this race,” he conceded. With that wide mouth and controlled gag-reflex there was no possible way for Jon to pound back a pint faster than Robb. A point which the Scotsman's seemed quite proud to prove time and again, starting with their trailer tryst last Thursday.
Jon had been right - Robb’s mouth was deadly. But not nearly as undoing as the combination of experience, tongue and throat.
Needing to sit down at that thought, Jon slid a shot and a pint towards Robb. This was in all likelihood going to lead the evening towards truly stupid ideas but already tipsy Jon had little to no control over his brain.