kitsune_writes: (tg3)
[personal profile] kitsune_writes
Author: Fox
Title: Pass the Ammo
Rating: R for language.
Pairing: Gen with subtext
Summary: The journey to the cantina doesn't go quite as Richard planned.
Disclaimer: This didn't happen. I am not making any money, only using my (admittedly) overactive imagination.
A/N: AU wherein the boys are also assassins and mercenaries.
Betaed by the lovely [ profile] pippinmctaggart. While this has been betaed, I am a compulsive tinkerer and any mistakes are my own.

Part One can be found here.

Richard took the stairs at a run, knowing there was no way a man of Clarkson's bulk would be able to catch him, not with the lead he had. He kept himself in excellent physical condition - it was a requirement for longevity in his line of work. He imagined Jeremy standing at the elevator bank punching the buttons and shouting at the machines, as if that would hurry them up.

He was still grinning as he hit the lobby without losing stride, enjoying how it felt to run because he wanted to rather than having to in order to survive. It was an added bonus that he would soon be drinking a pint on someone else's shout. He ran out the back of the hotel toward the cantina.

Even though he'd been a bit distracted, his training kicked into gear as he caught movement in his peripheral vision, and he dodged mid-stride. The tackle was glancing instead of full-on, but it still knocked Richard to the ground. As onlookers gasped and scuttled out of the way, he rolled, kicking out with his left leg, and quickly twisted round to see - Jeremy Clarkson.

Richard blinked in surprise. Clarkson took advantage by grabbing Richard's left ankle and right wrist, trying to get him rolled up and unable to move. How the fuck does Jez know how to do that, Richard thought as he twisted his hip enough to generate some power when his right knee connected with Clarkson's chest just as he grabbed his left ear and dug his fingernails deep into the skin behind it before jerking down viciously.

"Fucking hell," Jeremy roared, instantly letting go of Richard's ankle so he could get at the hand on his ear.

Richard wrapped his thighs around Clarkson's hips, and with a quick yet powerful snap of his body, he had Clarkson beneath him, puffs of dust settling around both of them.

He didn't think he'd ever forget the amazement on Jeremy's face. "I like being on top," he taunted.

The amazement faded into resolve, and the next thing Richard knew, he was on his back in the dirt again, Clarkson's weight firmly holding him down.

He opened his mouth, but closed it as an amused voice floated down to them.

"I didn't think your affair would start this publicly," James drawled, grin on his face and mischief in his eyes.

"Fuck off," Richard spat, squirming under Clarkson's bulk.

"I should think you'd do better to address all notions and permutations of 'fuck' to Jezza, seeing as how he's the one on top of you at the moment."

Clarkson laughed. "Admit it, Hammond, you've always wanted to be between my legs."

"While you decide which positions are best for each other, I'll be inside getting the drink one of you will be paying for."

And with that, a very amused Captain Slow stepped around them and headed for the cantina.

Richard went still. There was no way Clarkson could get up without releasing him, and he didn't want to really hurt his mate, so he waited for Jeremy to make the next move.

"Think you can get there before me?" Jeremy said, smirking down at him.

"Let me up and we'll find out."

"I believe they refer to this as a standoff. If I let you up, you'll take off, yet we both lose if I stay like this."

"Reckon you'll have to take your chances. It's only a round of drinks."

"Is it?" Jeremy's eyes gleamed with amusement.

Richard grinned. "Not really, mate."

Jeremy took a breath, made his decision and, quicker than Richard would have ever believed possible, heaved himself to his feet. He got two steps before Richard rolled and caught his ankle, pulling him off balance. Leaving Clarkson to right himself, Richard sprang to his feet and sprinted toward the entrance.

Just at the door, Jeremy caught the back of Richard's shirt and yanked him back. Richard grabbed the door jamb and the two of them squeezed through at the same time. James stood just inside sipping a lager and enjoying the show.

"Your shout, Clarkson," Richard said, heading for the bar.

"Mine? The sun has done your brain in, Hammond. We got here same time," Clarkson replied loudly, following.

"My fingers were inside before any of your great bulk. I win."

"What?" Jeremy shouted. "Fingers? I'll cut them off, you little--"

"Relax, chaps," James cut in. "I bought the round. It was worth it to see the two of you look even more buffoonish than usual."

Richard and Jeremy looked at each other, looked at James, then shrugged.

"A drink is a drink," Richard said philosophically.

Jeremy clapped him on the shoulder, a plume of dust going up. "And you're a cheap date these days."

"So round two is on you then," James said, chuckling.

Jeremy grinned. "Why not." He turned back to Richard. "So, Richard, where the hell did you learn to move like that?"

Richard shrugged. "Short kid at school. I got sick of being beaten up by big brutes like you."

Jeremy's sharp gaze told Richard he didn't quite buy the answer, but he didn't ask any more questions about it, so Richard considered the matter dropped. For now.
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January 2012

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