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ozmissageTitle: Half a Glass of Trouble
Characters/Pairing: Britt, Hank, Katie (Britt/Katie)
Rating: R (Sex & Violence)
Words: 2,100
Disclaimer: Not mine. Unfortunately.
Summary: Britt finds himself in a tight spot (story of his life) and learns a very important lesson about optimism.
A/N: Originally written as a![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
yuletide fic for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
perdiccas and posted here. A big thank you to the wonderful mollivanders for the beta!
The cuffs bite into Britt’s already raw wrists as he braces his foot against the nearest wall and throws his full weight into pulling against the pipe that stubbornly holds firm to the radiator. He fights back the urge to scream, he can’t afford to lure Jones’ asshole bodyguard back into the room unless he wants a matching set of black eyes.
He’s been in deep shit before, but this has got to be the deepest he’s been in a long time. He rests his head on his arms and takes a deep breath to stave off the panic threatening to set in. If he doesn’t find a way out of this soon he’s going to end up with a bullet between his eyes and as appealing as the prospect is of dying young and leaving behind a pretty corpse, there’s no way Katie and Hank would ever forgive him for getting himself killed over something so stupid.
Britt lets the breath out in one great whoosh and even manages a grin as he returns to yanking his own chain.
+
Two Hours Earlier
Britt traces the inside of Katie’s ear with his tongue before kissing his way down the sharp line of her jaw to her neck. She giggles and the vibration tickles his lips.
“I never do this sort of thing,” Katie demurs and goddamn if that doesn’t turn him on even though he knows for a fact that they do this sort of thing at least six times a week and twice on Sundays.
“Is that so?” Britt asks with his face buried against her shoulder. “All you got to do is lie back and think of California.”
“Isn’t it supposed to be England?”
“Nah. We’re Americans, just because we’re fucking doesn’t mean we get to forget about our patriotic duties. It’s right there in the constitution: freedom, liberty and the pursuit of the perfect orgasm.”
“You’re insane.”
Britt slides down a few inches until he’s face to face with Katie’s breasts.
“That’s what happens when you invite strange men who crawl through your window in the middle of the night into your bed. Let this be a lesson to you,” Britt says before taking one nipple between his lips and giving it a gentle tug. Katie arches her back up eagerly to meet his mouth.
“God bless America,” she gasps.
Britt’s downward progress is interrupted by the sound of his cell phone vibrating on the nightstand. He groans and pauses at Katie’s waist as she pushes gently at his shoulders, urging him to stay focused.
“Ignore it,” she says.
“It’s Hank, he said he’d call if there was a break in the Jones case.”
“Hank won’t mind waiting, I made sure to put that in our joint custody agreement.”
“Aww, you guys drew up papers and everything?”
“Absolutely. We’re very thorough people.”
They pause for a moment as the vibrating stops.
“See, if it was important he’d---”
The vibrating recommences and Britt clamors over Katie to reach for his phone.
“Do that.”
“Hey, Hank, what’s going on?”
“We got the sons of bitches, Britt!” Hank whoops. “They’re on the move. I’m sitting outside of an abandoned warehouse on Eighth and Elm. All I need is one good picture and we can call Mrs.
Jones and tell her, her cheating husband is doing the waitress. Then we can collect our six grand and live like kings. At least for a week and a half.”
“Do you need back-up?” Britt asks silently willing Hank to say no.
The line is silent for so long that Britt starts to think that Hank hung up.
“Hank? You still there, buddy?”
“Oh, shit,” Hank hisses. “Britt, get your ass down here.”
“Why? How kinky isthis Jones guy?”
“Not kinky enough. He’s not screwing the waitress, he’s loading her down with enough crack to send a whole group’s worth of NA members into a state of nirvana.”
“She’s a mule?”
“Looks like.”
“I’ll be there in ten.”
Katie shakes her head sharply.
“Make that twenty.”
+
The door swings open as Britt’s still in mid-pull and one of Jones’s cronies shoves a slightly bloodied and battered Hank in behind him. Hank lands in an ungraceful heap on the floor beside Britt and flashes him a cheeky smile, the effect of which is ruined by the blood oozing down his chin from his split lip.
“What the hell are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in the truck,” Britt says with a mix of exasperation and gratitude.
Hank coughs, one hand clutching at his side.
“I’m the cavalry,” he wheezes.
“I wanted Gustafson to be the cavalry.”
“Change of plans.”
“Damn it, Hank.”
“Just relax; I’ve got this under control.”
Britt’s eyes slowly train upward until he finds Jones’s disturbingly quiet henchman standing above them, gun raised.
“I don’t think you do,” Britt says slowly.
+
One Hour and 15 Minutes Earlier
“We’ve got to get in there.”
“Hank, I love you man, but you’re out of your mind. We just watched an actual drug cartel walk in there strapped with a wide variety of guns. What we’ve got to do is call Gustafson and then high tail our asses out of here.”
Hank raises the camera to his eye and leans towards the dirty warehouse window to snap a photo before turning back to Britt.
“Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“I traded it in for a sense of self-preservation around the time you arrested me.”
Hank ignores him and points toward a ladder leading up to the roof.
“You think you can get up there?”
“Maybe,” Britt says.
A scream brings their conversation to an abrupt halt. Britt eyes Hank warily.
“Did that girl look willing?”
“She looked scared as hell.”
“Fuck.”
“Exactly,” Hank nods.
“I can get in there.”
“Good, I’ll cover you from out here.”
“Cover me with what?”
“My natural charisma and that big ass two-by-four over there.”
+
“Mr. Jones does not like to be spied on,” the henchman says, crouching down to press the gun to Hank’s temple. Britt feels his palms begin to sweat.
“Well, we don’t like assholes who blackmail seventeen year old girls into doing their dirty work for them, so what do you say we call it even?”
The henchmen brings the butt of his gun down hard against the side of Hank’s face and Britt jerks forward out of reflex only to have his cuffs pull him right back on his ass.
“I assure you Mr. Dolworth, this is no joking matter. Mr. Jones would very much like to know who sent you here.”
“Hey man, we’re just a couple of concerned citizens,” Britt interjects.
“You are a couple of private investigators. Someone hired you. Either I hear a name or
else I start shooting.”
Hank leans toward the henchman until his mouth is inches from the man’s face, smiles, and then proceeds to spit a large wad of blood and saliva right into the man’s eyes. The henchman recoils in disgust, but not before Britt has a chance to lash out with his feet. His boot makes contact with the man’s knee causing him to stumble forward and lose his grip on his gun. It skids across the floor and both Hank and the henchman dive for it.
“Come on, Hank!” Britt calls, the only support he can offer while he’s cuffed to the radiator.
Hank slams the heel of his shoe into the henchman’s nose and Britt winces at the sound of the bones snapping, but his wincing is quickly replaced with a whoop of joy as Hank comes up with the gun.
“See,” he says over his shoulder. “I told you I got this.”
+
40 Minutes Earlier
Britt creeps down the iron staircase as quietly as possible, but to his ears every step he takes sounds like a shot going off. The warehouse was clearly not designed for stealth. He stops midway down the steps and peers through the bars at the scene down below.
The girl is on the floor, her dark hair has fallen in front of her face, but Britt has seen enough sobbing girls to tell she’s crying all the way from his perch. That cocky bastard Jones is standing over her wiping his hands on a red-stained handkerchief while two of his henchmen keep watch on the doors nearby. There’s a long scratch down his cheek that makes Britt feel a swell of admiration for the girl. It takes serious balls to fight back when you’re that outmanned.
At least eight people entered the building while he was watching with Hank outside and it makes Britt nervous that he can only account for two of them now.
As he’s watching, Jones draws back one steel-toed boot and kicks the girl in the stomach, causing her to let out a howl of pain and curl further into herself on the floor. Britt loses all sense of where he is as a rush of adrenaline seeps into his veins. He vaults over the side of the rail without thinking and lands in a heap damn near on top of Jones’s feet.
Everything stops for a moment as Jones and his men stare blankly at Britt, too astonished to move. Britt takes advantage of their shock and line drives Jones, slamming him into the nearest wall. He starts swinging punches blindly, not giving a damn where they land so as long as they do.
The henchmen are on him in seconds, their powerful arms wrapping around Britt’s waist from behind. They try their best to haul Britt off their boss, but Britt digs in his heels and holds on tight, pausing only to shout over his shoulder to the girl.
“Move! Get up the stairs to the fire escape!”
She’s barely disappeared from sight when the largest henchman sucker punches him in the eye.
For a split second, Britt sees nothing but white then everything goes black.
+
Britt and Hank limp slowly toward the exit, ignoring the end of Gustafson’s tirade about proper procedure and three strikes entirely. There’s a defeated slump to both of their shoulders as they emerge into the cool night air.
“At least we saved the girl,” Hank says.
Britt rubs at his aching temple.
“Yeah, but Mr. Jones and his buddies got away and Mrs. Jones isn’t going to pay us six grand for busting up her husband’s drug ring.”
“But that bastard with the mean left hook’s going away for a long time.”
“Your glass is always half full, isn’t it?” Britt asks.
Hank drapes an arm over Britt’s shoulder.
“The trick is to never see the bottom.”
+
One Hour Later
Britt jerks away with a hiss at the first sting of antiseptic. Katie shoots him a warning look and continues on with the tedious process of mopping up his face.
“I’m not the one who got himself kidnapped tonight,” Katie says, her voice falsely light.
“I wasn’t kidnapped, I was taken hostage. That sounds much manlier.”
He lifts his arms up and Katie tugs his irreparably stained t-shirt over his head and tosses it directly into the trashcan. Britt almost protests; he loves that shirt, but he knows deep down it’s a lost cause. He carefully pulls a fresh shirt on and Katie bends down to press a quick kiss to her handiwork.
Her lips feel cool as they graze against his throbbing temple.
“All better?” she asks.
“It’s a miracle.”
She winks and pulls back the covers before helping Britt ease onto his side of the bed. She climbs in behind him and wraps her arm gently around his side. He threads his fingers through hers and pulls her hand to his lips, kissing the back of her knuckles.
“You know, if you keep coming home all beat up like this I’m not going to let you play with Hank anymore,” she teases.
Britt chuckles.
“I’ll try to behave myself next time.”
It’s Katie’s turn to laugh. She scoots closer to him, lifting her head up slightly so she can whisper in his ear.
“I guess we’re not going to try for a round two tonight, huh?”
“Mmm,” Britt murmurs. “Can I pretend to rob you tomorrow instead?”
“Sure, babe.”
Katie hugs him tight and Britt sighs happily. They may not be going to get paid and sure he almost died, but the night wasn’t all bad. It never is as long as he’s still got Hank and Katie.
He falls asleep knowing he’ll be ready to do it all over again tomorrow.
Characters/Pairing: Britt, Hank, Katie (Britt/Katie)
Rating: R (Sex & Violence)
Words: 2,100
Disclaimer: Not mine. Unfortunately.
Summary: Britt finds himself in a tight spot (story of his life) and learns a very important lesson about optimism.
A/N: Originally written as a
yuletide fic for perdiccas and posted here. A big thank you to the wonderful mollivanders for the beta!The cuffs bite into Britt’s already raw wrists as he braces his foot against the nearest wall and throws his full weight into pulling against the pipe that stubbornly holds firm to the radiator. He fights back the urge to scream, he can’t afford to lure Jones’ asshole bodyguard back into the room unless he wants a matching set of black eyes.
He’s been in deep shit before, but this has got to be the deepest he’s been in a long time. He rests his head on his arms and takes a deep breath to stave off the panic threatening to set in. If he doesn’t find a way out of this soon he’s going to end up with a bullet between his eyes and as appealing as the prospect is of dying young and leaving behind a pretty corpse, there’s no way Katie and Hank would ever forgive him for getting himself killed over something so stupid.
Britt lets the breath out in one great whoosh and even manages a grin as he returns to yanking his own chain.
+
Two Hours Earlier
Britt traces the inside of Katie’s ear with his tongue before kissing his way down the sharp line of her jaw to her neck. She giggles and the vibration tickles his lips.
“I never do this sort of thing,” Katie demurs and goddamn if that doesn’t turn him on even though he knows for a fact that they do this sort of thing at least six times a week and twice on Sundays.
“Is that so?” Britt asks with his face buried against her shoulder. “All you got to do is lie back and think of California.”
“Isn’t it supposed to be England?”
“Nah. We’re Americans, just because we’re fucking doesn’t mean we get to forget about our patriotic duties. It’s right there in the constitution: freedom, liberty and the pursuit of the perfect orgasm.”
“You’re insane.”
Britt slides down a few inches until he’s face to face with Katie’s breasts.
“That’s what happens when you invite strange men who crawl through your window in the middle of the night into your bed. Let this be a lesson to you,” Britt says before taking one nipple between his lips and giving it a gentle tug. Katie arches her back up eagerly to meet his mouth.
“God bless America,” she gasps.
Britt’s downward progress is interrupted by the sound of his cell phone vibrating on the nightstand. He groans and pauses at Katie’s waist as she pushes gently at his shoulders, urging him to stay focused.
“Ignore it,” she says.
“It’s Hank, he said he’d call if there was a break in the Jones case.”
“Hank won’t mind waiting, I made sure to put that in our joint custody agreement.”
“Aww, you guys drew up papers and everything?”
“Absolutely. We’re very thorough people.”
They pause for a moment as the vibrating stops.
“See, if it was important he’d---”
The vibrating recommences and Britt clamors over Katie to reach for his phone.
“Do that.”
“Hey, Hank, what’s going on?”
“We got the sons of bitches, Britt!” Hank whoops. “They’re on the move. I’m sitting outside of an abandoned warehouse on Eighth and Elm. All I need is one good picture and we can call Mrs.
Jones and tell her, her cheating husband is doing the waitress. Then we can collect our six grand and live like kings. At least for a week and a half.”
“Do you need back-up?” Britt asks silently willing Hank to say no.
The line is silent for so long that Britt starts to think that Hank hung up.
“Hank? You still there, buddy?”
“Oh, shit,” Hank hisses. “Britt, get your ass down here.”
“Why? How kinky isthis Jones guy?”
“Not kinky enough. He’s not screwing the waitress, he’s loading her down with enough crack to send a whole group’s worth of NA members into a state of nirvana.”
“She’s a mule?”
“Looks like.”
“I’ll be there in ten.”
Katie shakes her head sharply.
“Make that twenty.”
+
The door swings open as Britt’s still in mid-pull and one of Jones’s cronies shoves a slightly bloodied and battered Hank in behind him. Hank lands in an ungraceful heap on the floor beside Britt and flashes him a cheeky smile, the effect of which is ruined by the blood oozing down his chin from his split lip.
“What the hell are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in the truck,” Britt says with a mix of exasperation and gratitude.
Hank coughs, one hand clutching at his side.
“I’m the cavalry,” he wheezes.
“I wanted Gustafson to be the cavalry.”
“Change of plans.”
“Damn it, Hank.”
“Just relax; I’ve got this under control.”
Britt’s eyes slowly train upward until he finds Jones’s disturbingly quiet henchman standing above them, gun raised.
“I don’t think you do,” Britt says slowly.
+
One Hour and 15 Minutes Earlier
“We’ve got to get in there.”
“Hank, I love you man, but you’re out of your mind. We just watched an actual drug cartel walk in there strapped with a wide variety of guns. What we’ve got to do is call Gustafson and then high tail our asses out of here.”
Hank raises the camera to his eye and leans towards the dirty warehouse window to snap a photo before turning back to Britt.
“Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“I traded it in for a sense of self-preservation around the time you arrested me.”
Hank ignores him and points toward a ladder leading up to the roof.
“You think you can get up there?”
“Maybe,” Britt says.
A scream brings their conversation to an abrupt halt. Britt eyes Hank warily.
“Did that girl look willing?”
“She looked scared as hell.”
“Fuck.”
“Exactly,” Hank nods.
“I can get in there.”
“Good, I’ll cover you from out here.”
“Cover me with what?”
“My natural charisma and that big ass two-by-four over there.”
+
“Mr. Jones does not like to be spied on,” the henchman says, crouching down to press the gun to Hank’s temple. Britt feels his palms begin to sweat.
“Well, we don’t like assholes who blackmail seventeen year old girls into doing their dirty work for them, so what do you say we call it even?”
The henchmen brings the butt of his gun down hard against the side of Hank’s face and Britt jerks forward out of reflex only to have his cuffs pull him right back on his ass.
“I assure you Mr. Dolworth, this is no joking matter. Mr. Jones would very much like to know who sent you here.”
“Hey man, we’re just a couple of concerned citizens,” Britt interjects.
“You are a couple of private investigators. Someone hired you. Either I hear a name or
else I start shooting.”
Hank leans toward the henchman until his mouth is inches from the man’s face, smiles, and then proceeds to spit a large wad of blood and saliva right into the man’s eyes. The henchman recoils in disgust, but not before Britt has a chance to lash out with his feet. His boot makes contact with the man’s knee causing him to stumble forward and lose his grip on his gun. It skids across the floor and both Hank and the henchman dive for it.
“Come on, Hank!” Britt calls, the only support he can offer while he’s cuffed to the radiator.
Hank slams the heel of his shoe into the henchman’s nose and Britt winces at the sound of the bones snapping, but his wincing is quickly replaced with a whoop of joy as Hank comes up with the gun.
“See,” he says over his shoulder. “I told you I got this.”
+
40 Minutes Earlier
Britt creeps down the iron staircase as quietly as possible, but to his ears every step he takes sounds like a shot going off. The warehouse was clearly not designed for stealth. He stops midway down the steps and peers through the bars at the scene down below.
The girl is on the floor, her dark hair has fallen in front of her face, but Britt has seen enough sobbing girls to tell she’s crying all the way from his perch. That cocky bastard Jones is standing over her wiping his hands on a red-stained handkerchief while two of his henchmen keep watch on the doors nearby. There’s a long scratch down his cheek that makes Britt feel a swell of admiration for the girl. It takes serious balls to fight back when you’re that outmanned.
At least eight people entered the building while he was watching with Hank outside and it makes Britt nervous that he can only account for two of them now.
As he’s watching, Jones draws back one steel-toed boot and kicks the girl in the stomach, causing her to let out a howl of pain and curl further into herself on the floor. Britt loses all sense of where he is as a rush of adrenaline seeps into his veins. He vaults over the side of the rail without thinking and lands in a heap damn near on top of Jones’s feet.
Everything stops for a moment as Jones and his men stare blankly at Britt, too astonished to move. Britt takes advantage of their shock and line drives Jones, slamming him into the nearest wall. He starts swinging punches blindly, not giving a damn where they land so as long as they do.
The henchmen are on him in seconds, their powerful arms wrapping around Britt’s waist from behind. They try their best to haul Britt off their boss, but Britt digs in his heels and holds on tight, pausing only to shout over his shoulder to the girl.
“Move! Get up the stairs to the fire escape!”
She’s barely disappeared from sight when the largest henchman sucker punches him in the eye.
For a split second, Britt sees nothing but white then everything goes black.
+
Britt and Hank limp slowly toward the exit, ignoring the end of Gustafson’s tirade about proper procedure and three strikes entirely. There’s a defeated slump to both of their shoulders as they emerge into the cool night air.
“At least we saved the girl,” Hank says.
Britt rubs at his aching temple.
“Yeah, but Mr. Jones and his buddies got away and Mrs. Jones isn’t going to pay us six grand for busting up her husband’s drug ring.”
“But that bastard with the mean left hook’s going away for a long time.”
“Your glass is always half full, isn’t it?” Britt asks.
Hank drapes an arm over Britt’s shoulder.
“The trick is to never see the bottom.”
+
One Hour Later
Britt jerks away with a hiss at the first sting of antiseptic. Katie shoots him a warning look and continues on with the tedious process of mopping up his face.
“I’m not the one who got himself kidnapped tonight,” Katie says, her voice falsely light.
“I wasn’t kidnapped, I was taken hostage. That sounds much manlier.”
He lifts his arms up and Katie tugs his irreparably stained t-shirt over his head and tosses it directly into the trashcan. Britt almost protests; he loves that shirt, but he knows deep down it’s a lost cause. He carefully pulls a fresh shirt on and Katie bends down to press a quick kiss to her handiwork.
Her lips feel cool as they graze against his throbbing temple.
“All better?” she asks.
“It’s a miracle.”
She winks and pulls back the covers before helping Britt ease onto his side of the bed. She climbs in behind him and wraps her arm gently around his side. He threads his fingers through hers and pulls her hand to his lips, kissing the back of her knuckles.
“You know, if you keep coming home all beat up like this I’m not going to let you play with Hank anymore,” she teases.
Britt chuckles.
“I’ll try to behave myself next time.”
It’s Katie’s turn to laugh. She scoots closer to him, lifting her head up slightly so she can whisper in his ear.
“I guess we’re not going to try for a round two tonight, huh?”
“Mmm,” Britt murmurs. “Can I pretend to rob you tomorrow instead?”
“Sure, babe.”
Katie hugs him tight and Britt sighs happily. They may not be going to get paid and sure he almost died, but the night wasn’t all bad. It never is as long as he’s still got Hank and Katie.
He falls asleep knowing he’ll be ready to do it all over again tomorrow.