Summary: Jury and Melrose get drunk. That's...pretty much it.

Rating: PG

Jury set four pints on the table with a thump, then carefully lowered himself into his chair.

Melrose squinted at the cluster of glasses and the liquid sloshing within them, then shifted his gaze to Jury, waiting half a second for his eyes to focus. “Four?”

“Two each,” Jury said. “Saves time.”

“Saves nine,” Melrose said, then frowned. “I’m not sure why I said that. Maybe two more isn’t such a good—“

Jury shoved a pint toward him, and Melrose fumbled to catch it before it fell in his lap. A good portion of ale slopped over the side of the glass and soaked his sleeve. He shook his arm absently toward the floor, shrugged, and lifted the pint to his mouth.

He’d lost count how many rounds they’d gone through tonight. He’d also forgotten why they’d come out with the sole purpose of getting completely pissed in the first place. Something about a woman, probably, or a murder. Or both. It was usually both. He supposed the fact that he couldn’t remember meant they’d done a good job of it.

“’Sides,” Jury continued. “S’last call.”

Melrose set his pint down. Jury had drained two-thirds of his already. “Already? That’s rot.”

Jury nodded several times, somehow managing to finish off his pint at the same time. “It’s also true. See?” He shoved his wrist in Melrose’s face, but Melrose couldn’t focus on the watch’s tiny numbers when they were only an inch from his nose.

He shoved Jury’s arm away and moved on to his second pint, even though the first was only half gone. “If we ‘fuse to leave, think they’ll call the police?”

For some reason, this made him giggle. As soon as he realized he was giggling, he stopped, but it wasn’t soon enough. Jury smirked at him.

“What?” Melrose asked.

Jury shook his head, lost his balance, and gripped the table to steady himself. Melrose snorted, then looked at the two half-full pint glasses in front of him, trying to figure out which one to drink. Jury swiped one of them, making the decision a lot easier.

“Thaz mine,” Melrose said out of some need to defend his territory rather than any real offense. He finished off his remaining pint in one long pull and then set the empty glass on Jury’s side of the table with the other three. He giggled again.

“You’re drunk,” Jury accused, smirking again. It was the fourth time one of them had made that particular statement.

“Of course, I am. So’re you, in case you’d forgotten. Now – are we being kicked out of here or not?” It was hard to tell at this distance if the look on the bartender’s face was disapproving or amused, but either way, that meant it was time to leave.

They stood, pretending it was easy, and slowly walked toward the pub’s exit. The floor was much more uneven than Melrose remembered, but he only stumbled once. Jury couldn’t find one of his coat sleeves, and kept turning circles, trying to see it. He struggled his way into it just as Melrose pushed open the door, the chill of wet, January air knocking some of the alcohol out of his blood. It still took him four minutes to find his keys. Between them, his suit and coat had far too many pockets.

“Put those away,” Jury said, digging through his own pockets. “You can’t even stand up straight. You’re not driving.”

“I can, too,” Melrose protested. “I am, right now.”

Jury looked at him. “You’re swaying.”

Melrose hesitated. “I thought you were swaying.”

“We’re prob’ly both swaying, which is why…” Jury pulled a cell phone from his breast pocket with a sloppy flourish. “…I’m calling Wiggins.”

End.

Usual disclaimers apply: Not mine. Nonprofit organization.