whatho | It's actually a little bit of fic.

Not glirty, thinks Ian, nor lumplin, nor floringe, nor macrobabbletrump, and Paul says 'Peagloss'. Ian snorts an easy laugh. He needn't so much as swap a pair of knowing looks because peagloss doesn't make him sweat or chuckle or rush to take the 'phone off the hook or whimper with relief, and Paul hasn't traded a piece of them for a laugh: it means precisely nothing.

Only Paul never coined a innuendo-free neologism in all his puff. All the ones Ian knows are for him, and he gives a sudden squirm as he thinks back to the 'phone-calls to Julian and the random household objects pressed into service as pet-names. 'Alright, Kettle. Paintpot. (Peagloss?) .' And if Paul and Ian never indulged in a spot of Peagloss, who's to say Paul and Tony showed such restraint, and he wonders if the strangled word he chokingly heard through Angus' dressing-room door was....

Fern twists the pronunciation and dubs it an obscure sort of medieval armour. Alistair throws a 'what?' at him and he thinks to himself 'Well, precisely! What?'

When Paul shows the 'bluff' card, he knew already, he knew.