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Bob is a quiet guy in interviews, but for the most part he'll tell the other guys just about anything they want to know. That said, there are limits, things he knows better than to mention, because he doesn't really want to spend the rest of his life being mocked. Or, at the very least, he wants to cut down on the level of mockery that he could be open to.

It is for this reason that he keeps his deepest and most long-lived kink a secret more well-guarded than most national security codes.

Bob can't really listen to a British accent without getting hard.

He's tried.

He blames it on his mom's affinity for the Beatles and the fact that his first wet dream was definitely all about John Lennon.

Whatever the cause, there is nothing to be done for it now. Nothing at all.

It makes touring in England a bitch, because Frank has eyes like a hawk and a tongue twice as sharp, but Bob has learned his own ways to be clever. Mostly hiding behind Mikey, whom Frank never goes through to get to him.

The problem is, a guy doesn't expect to be ordering coffee in a Starbucks in LA--the coffee's not even for him; he's taken mercy on Gerard, who really is going to pass out if he doesn't get a hit, and Bob is recognized less when out in public--and to hear pretty much the most refined, layered, luscious British accent ever to have been given to a human behind him, ordering a tall chai latte.

Bob hates sneak attacks.

The good news is, Frank is nowhere around and Bob is wearing fairly baggy jeans. The bad news is, he can't stop listening.

He knows he shouldn't but he turns to see the body the voice is wearing and oh, that's a mistake. Bob tries to turn to wipe his brain clean of the image of tall and fit and so fucking pretty Gerard would have to stand aside.

His brain is determined to stay utterly filthy.

Bob hates his brain.

In his mind, Ray is saying, "You unbelievable pussy, just get his digits."

It has to be Ray, because nobody else has used the word "digits" since around the time the telephone was invented.

Bob says, "Is that good? The chai thing?"

Bob also sucks at come on lines. When he was in high school, nothing was going to get him laid and then later, he was either going to get laid because he was with the band or he wasn't.

English blinks at him. "Ah. Well. It's sort of tea-like but it has cinnamon in it and so better than tea even though biologically I should be pre-disposed to think nothing better than tea, but I much prefer coffee, if truth is told and chai is sort of in between, not quite so bad for you, not great, either, mind, but-- Er. I enjoy it."

English blushes and Bob bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from saying "keep talking." Instead he says, "I'm Bob," and whoa if that isn't a calculated risk, but English doesn't look like the type to be listening.

English offers his hand. "Wesley."

Bob shakes it. "Nice to meet you."

Wesley smiles. "Even after that stunning treatise on my wayward British habits?"

Bob is pretty much going to come right there. He's not proud of it. "Particularly, after."

Bob can see the moment where Wesley reconsiders him. "Were you going to drink your coffee here?"

Fuck. "Um. It's actually for a friend. I'm sort of skipping out of work. But maybe-- Do you work around here, too?"

Wesley nods.

"Maybe I could try that chai thing out later, get you another one."


"Seven," Bob says.

"My job's a bit unpredictable."

That's a bit of a surprise. He comes off as a nine-to-fiver. "Have a cell phone?"

Wesley says, "Yes, of course."

Bob steals a pen from the cash register and writes his number on a napkin. "Call me if you need to make it later."

He watches as Wesley programs the number in.

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Skin by egelantier, photo by microbophile