"Nikolai, a feel inclined tae tell ye that yer fly is doon."
If the slur to his words wasn't a dead giveaway that MacTavish is feeling his drink, then his death grip on the table for balance might be.
If he were a smarter man, like John, he'd stay sitting to mimic the facade of sobriety. Nikolai would be managing if his voice didn't raise a few decibels at the end of every glass.
After a brief check, Nikolai does zip up his jeans. The ones that he has to jump into to get them past his arse, a sight that John enjoys greatly.
"I feel inclined to ask why you were looking there, sergeant?"
Not that John could blame the man, who wouldn't be staring at the pilot's crotch? And that line of thought has him shaking his head and trying to jump back onto his original train of thought.
"Should be glad a wis the wan who noticed. If it wis a bird, she'd huv been tryin tae fix it wae her teeth, captain."
Johnny has a familiar grin on his face, the one that tells John he thinks he's being sly as he undresses them both with his eyes. Maybe he'd get away with it if he didn't lick his lips at the sight of John's arms. If he flexes, then that's between him and his God.
Nikolai is no help to the situation, offering Soap a wink as he hooks a thumb over his belt.
"Well, it looks like you missed your opportunity."
Nikolai's voice is filthy when he's drunk. The heavy lilt of his accent that worsens as his blood alcohol content rises, the rasp to his voice after a few drunken fags, and a rushed blowjob in the men's room. It's alluring; if he were a siren, John would drown in his desperation to get through the water and into his arms.
It's clear he isn't the only one when Johnny staggers on his feet and takes a moment to breathe before responding.
"Well, if another opportunity presents itsel, the two ae ye can book me the fuck in."
They have nowhere to be tomorrow and a desire to test what else his mouth is capable of other than cheek, so John beckons the Scotsman forward with two fingers as Nikolai tugs another chair over with his foot.