By Scarlet

Fandom: JAG

Pairing: Bud Roberts/Mic Brumby

Rating: NC-17

Summary: A missing scene from Valor, where Mic and Bud go out to have a drink.

Disclaimer:
The characters herein portrayed
Belong to others, I'm afraid.
To CBS and DPB
Belong the rights, and not to me.
The profits go to Paramount
And never show on my account.
The labor spent on writing slash
Is but for love, and not for cash.

For Gail, who got me hooked on JAG slash with her fantastic stories. She is a great writer and a wonderful friend, and now also my beta reader. This is her birthday present.

Thanks to Robin from Down Under, who helped me get Mic's language right.

* * * * *

"My girl ... " Bud Roberts was still singing at the top of his lungs, even as he was using the urinal in the men's room at McMurphy's Tavern.

"My girl," echoed Mic Brumby to his left. "You know what? It feels almost better going out than coming in."

Bud laughed at the vulgar joke. He had always found the Australian a fun, easy-going guy, and now that Mic had resigned his commission and was a civilian, they could hang out as friends and equals. Of course, Bud always enjoyed having a drink with Commander Rabb and Colonel MacKenzie, but he could never let himself forget that they were his superiors. Which was as it should be, Bud thought, but it made it difficult to relax in their company.

"Hey, nice, thick one," Mic said suddenly. Bud frowned and stared at him, but when he realized what Mic's gaze was fixed upon, he just chuckled. He wasn't sober enough to be shocked, and he actually thought it was a nice compliment. Even if Harriet frequently assured him that she was more than happy with Bud's equipment, it was kind of flattering to hear something like that from another man. After all, Mic had no reason to make that comment, and nothing to gain by saying it.

"Thanks. Uh, nice, long one there," Bud got out. "Wait a minute ... how come you got two of them?"

"You're drunk, mate," Mic laughed. He zipped up his pants and grinned. "I wouldn't mind having two of them, though. Might make Sarah twice as happy."

"My -- my Harriet is completely happy as it is," Bud slurred. "She wouldn't want it any other way."

"Good for you, mate," Mic said and slapped Bud's back so hard that Bud almost fell to the floor. "It's a good thing they don't all want a man who's hung like a bloody horse. No, it's not the size, it's what you do with it," he continued, nodding slowly and looking as if he just said something utterly profound.

Bud's good mood began to falter. "Exactly what do you mean by that, Brumby? D'you think I don't measure up to you?"

Mic looked a little confused and reeled over to wash his hands. "No offense, mate. I just know what I saw. Nothing wrong with a shorter, thicker one, I'm sure. As long as Harriet's not complaining, all is good, right?" He grinned again, a little sheepishly.

"Listen, Mic ... " Bud started, caught his less-than-distinguished reflection in the mirror, quickly zipped himself up, and continued: "You saw nothing. You have no idea what my rhubarb is like when it matters."

"Enlighten me, counselor," Mic said theatrically and with a slight bow.

"With pleasure," Bud replied in the same fashion. He struck his best argumentative pose. "According to scientific research," it was actually an article in Playboy that he had read several years ago, but Mic didn't need to know that, "there are two basic varieties of the male organ. Type A, and," he paused for effect while Mic blinked and tried to concentrate, "type B. Type A typically doesn't grow very much in its excited state ... or was that type B? Anyway, the important thing is ... "

"Yeah, skip over the shientific ... scientific mumbo-jumbo and give us the bottom line," Mic agreed.

"Bottom line: Some dicks grow a little when you get it up, and some of them grow a lot," Bud rattled off. "So you really can't tell, from just looking at a guy taking a leak, what he's gonna look like in bed with his wife. Or fiancée," he added. Bud straightened up, getting ready to play his trump card. "And furthermore," he tasted the word 'furthermore' carefully, "those that grow a lot, they usually get a lot harder."

"Harder than what?" Mic inquired.

"Harder than ... you ever could imagine," Bud blurted out and started laughing, then composed himself. "No. I mean, harder than the other type. The type that's bigger in its resting state and doesn't grow as much when erected." Bud finished his short speech, a little exhausted but visibly pleased with himself.

"So it's got to do with percentage? A prick that grows 40 pershent ... percent gets harder than if it just grew 30 percent, which it would, in case it was 10 percent longer to begin with ... "

"If it's 4 inches long when it's limp ... " Bud began.

"What's that in centimeters?" Mic wondered.

"Look, mate," Bud emphasized, "all I know is that when I'm with Harriet, I get a woody that you could hammer nails with, and she hasn't complained, ever. Quite the opposite, actually."

Mic looked at him with big, blood-shot eyes. "Doesn't that hurt?"

"Hurt? Of course not," Bud shot back. "I always make sure that Harriet is more than ready and willing when we do it. It should never hurt if the lady is in the mood."

"Where I come from, a woody is a surf board," Mic intoned gravely.

The two men stared at each other for a moment before they both exploded with laughter.

"I'd be happy to show you what an American woody looks like," Bud whimpered, wiping at his eyes. "But I don't think this is the place."

"Okie dokie," Mic agreed. "This way."

He pushed Bud into one of the stalls, and Bud was too surprised and too drunk to protest.

"Now." Mic had closed the door and was resting his back against it for balance. "Exhibit A." He fumbled with his pants and managed to get his cock back out. "May we have exhibit B, please, counselor?"

Bud giggled drunkenly and did as requested.

"I don't suppose you military blokes carry a measuring tape with you?"

"No, and I don't suppose you civilian attorneys carry a pocket calculator to the bar. We'll have to settle for an appox ... approximation."

Mic looked down at their sadly limp members. "Now, to test your theory, some wanking should be in order."

"Wanking?" Bud looked as if Mic just said something in Greek.

"Like this," Mic said, gripping his own cock and demonstrating.

"Oh." Bud laughed again. "You mean jerking off."

"You Yanks have a funny way with the Queen's English," Mic stated, even as he kept working his cock. He was quickly getting it up, Bud noticed, and decided to follow his example so he could prove his point. The American man's honor was at stake here.

"If 'wanking' is an example of the Queen's English," Bud began, leaning against the wall so he could concentrate more on getting his cock hard and less on keeping his balance, "the Queen must be a very interesting person."

Mic stopped stroking for a short moment and laughed heartily. "I believe she is, mate."

Bud looked down at the growing penis in his own hand. It was a good thing they hadn't had more to drink. If the Australian had won on walk-over, the home team's dishonor would have been unbearable.

He glanced over at Mic. "So you do it with your right hand, too? I thought you did everything on the left side in your country."

"We do, but here in America, I've had to adjust to local customs like driving on the right side. And I've taken up right-handed wanking just so I won't forget which side to drive on," Mic joked. At least Bud supposed it was a joke.

"You ready yet, Bud?" The line between Mic's eyes was deepening, as always when he was getting serious. "I think Australia's still in the lead."

"You started before me," Bud protested. "Give me a minute." He closed his eyes, but that made his head spin too much, so he opened them again and tried to pretend that he was sharing the small space with Harriet in black lace lingerie instead of Mic Brumby in a sweater. Mic looked nice in his sweater, though. Much more relaxed than in the suits he wore at work, or the Royal Australian Navy uniform he used to wear.

Bud found himself getting bigger and harder. "Ready when you are, counselor."

"All right, this is it." Brumby took one small step forward, and before Bud had a chance to react, Mic had his own cock next to Bud's. "I'd say the Australian team wins the title with ... five millimeters," Mic triumphed.

Bud squinted down. He wasn't sure Mic was right, but without a measuring tape, it would be difficult to prove him wrong. "But the American team scores points for hardness," he objected. "That's an important part of the theory ... I mean, that's a fact."

"That's a fact?" Mic teased.

"Yeah, that's a fact. Feel for yourself, feel and cry, Aussie!" Surprised with himself, but too angry now to care, Bud grabbed Mic's hand and wrapped it around his own erection. He grinned when the other man's eyes widened in surprise.

"Crikey," Mic almost whispered.

"That," Bud stated, just as proudly as he felt in court when he knew he was going to win a case, "is what we Americans call a woody."

"Not bad," Mic admitted. He seemed too fascinated by Bud's hard-on to let go of it. He was even giving it a few slow up-and-down strokes, as if examining it all over.

"How does yours feel anyway?" If this was the Australian way of male bonding, Bud thought, who was he to judge? He grabbed Mic's cock and gave it a tentative squeeze. He had been right: Mic wasn't quite as hard as Bud, but, he had to admit it, the guy was a little longer. And Mic's cock had a slightly different shape, too. It was tapering at the base, which made it almost club-like. Interesting.

Bud didn't really want to let go of this cock that was so different from his own. He dismissed the weak voice that was trying to say that maybe Harriet would have objections to what he was doing. What did his marriage have to do with this? Harriet had given him permission to go out and have a drink with Mic. In fact, she had taken the opportunity to invite Renée over for 'wine and girl talk'. Sometimes, guys had to hang out with other guys and do guy things. Suddenly, he was hit by the ridiculous idea that his wife and Renée could be doing something similar this very moment ... but that was out of the question. He chuckled at the thought.

"What's so funny, mate?" There was a barely perceptible threat in Mic's voice, and his grip around Bud's erection hardened. Bud let out a gasp. The man had big, warm hands, and a really nice touch.

"Nothing at all." What was wrong with his voice all of a sudden? He never sounded this breathless, except in the bedroom. But Mic was working his cock with great skill. Harriet was wonderful in bed, but it had taken Bud a long time to teach her how he liked his cock stroked. 'And here comes this Aussie and does it right from the first moment,' Bud thought, not without some irritation.

He wanted to think about something else and speeded up his hand on Mic's cock. "I'll admit it, yours is bigger, but mine is harder. I think our women should be equally happy." He could see a glistening bead of precome forming in the faint light and spread it over Mic's cockhead with his thumb. Mic inhaled sharply, so Bud flicked his thumb over the head again. This was fun, playing the taller man like an instrument, pushing the buttons and watching the result.

"Faster ... " Mic breathed.

Bud complied, and the Aussie threw his head back against the door with a gasp and a faint plea: "Harder."

'He likes what I'm doing,' Bud thought, and it was a warming thought. 'He thinks I'm good at this, and he enjoys it.' He worked the Australian's cock hard and fast, and his work was rewarded when Mic moaned loudly and came all over Bud's hand, then sank back against the door, limp and panting.

Bud reached out for some toilet paper and wiped his hands before turning back to Mic, who was opening his eyes with difficulty. "Like that, Aussie?"

"Yeah," Mic admitted. He had never entirely lost his grip on Bud's still hard cock, and now he was stroking it again. "Like this, Yank?"

"Mm-hmm," Bud replied, trying to find his balance. The best position turned out to be leaning into Mic and holding on to his free arm, so he could rest his head against Mic's broad shoulder. Mic smelled nice. Mic felt safe. Mic's skillful hand on his cock was making him lose control and come and come and groan into Mic's shoulder and feel very, very good.

An eternity later, Bud felt Mic move and push some more toilet paper into his hands. They both wiped themselves off in silence and rearranged their clothes. When all traces of their activity had been erased, their eyes met again.

Mic opened his mouth first, but closed it. He appeared to be thinking, which seemed to hurt, then drew a deep breath and looked pleadingly at Bud. "What was your point again ... ?"

"My point," Bud began, before his words ran out. "I don't remember any more."

"I can say one thing for sure," Mic stated, some of his usual spark back in his voice and his eyes.

"And that is ... ?"

"I need another beer." Mic opened the door, scanned the rest room, whispered "O.K." and quickly got out of the stall.

* * *

Mic Brumby drank thirstily and put his mug down with a satisfied sigh. "Ah, the simple things in life. Beer, red meat, a fire, a good game ... "

"A little hand job between friends," Bud Roberts completed the sentence.

"We're not telling the ladies, are we?"

"They wouldn't understand."

The two men raised their beers and burst out laughing again.

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