Another piece of the leverage au I'm not fucking writing, damnit.
Under the cut for violence and Leverage-esque shenanigans:
At the first kick to the solar plexus, a shocked noise spilled out of Jamie's mouth. He hadn't been prepared.
"You don't fucking listen," Roy growled, winding his leg back for another kick. "What did I say? What did I fucking tell you when we first started?"
Jamie was ready for the second kick -- got his arms up in front of him just in time to intercept Roy's boot. He grunted, a sound too high and reedy to his own ears, and he tried to push aside the reflexive embarrassment at how loud it was, echoing off the walls as Bartlett and his cronies laughed and laughed.
On the third kick, he acted. He caught Roy's boot, wrapping his shivering body around it while the other man cursed. Roy kicked again, and Jamie's freezing hands scrambled for purchase against the leather, his nails digging into the collar.
"Come on," Roy scoffed under his breath, the same way he had when Jamie had held them up at the elevator. He didn't need to look up to know Roy was shaking his head.
Jamie bit his lip against the sudden, fierce wave of emotion building up in his chest.
His grip slackened, and Roy tugged his foot away with a violent grunt. He spat at the ground, missing Jamie by centimeters.
Bartlett tittered. His goons spread easily for Roy, welcoming him into the pack as the hitter rejoined their group. One of them fetched him a beer.
"Feel better then, Royo?"
Jamie closed his eyes; he didn't need to see this. His arms pressed protectively against his stomach. Hopefully they'd forget he was there.
"You don't know the half of it," Roy said, his rough timber carrying easily through the barren warehouse. A bottle fizzed open, followed by an audibly slurpy gulp and a relieved sigh. "The amount of headache's that prick's given me -- you wouldn't believe."
"No respect for their betters, these young ones." There was the tap of glass on glass- a toast. "Well, I've got good news for you. When we're done here, I plan to make a couple phone calls. You ain't the only one with a bone to pick with that little upstart. I know a few names who'd pay good money just to take a turn at him the way you did."
A beat of silence.
"Really?" Roy's voice stayed carefully neutrally, but even an idiot could hear that he was interested.
"What'd I tell you lads? Do I know this man or what?" Bartlett bragged. His men agreed, making all the appropriate noises for a goon chorus.
"So I do all the hard work, and you cash the check?"
Just as easily as flipping off a light, a threatening quiet smothered the warehouse.
Bartlett, the idiot, tried to backtrack fast. "Course I'd cut you in! A finder's fee. Hell, you could watch, if you're into that."
Another beat of silence, and then a low, dark chuckle that sent the hairs on the back of Jamie's neck to standing.
"You know me, don't you?" Roy remarked, sounding like a lion before the pounce. "Relax, Bartlett, I already got what I came for. You have your men wire over a cut of the haul, and that'll be the end of our business. The sooner I see the back of this place, the better."
Bartlett snapped at one of his men to initiate the wire. Roy rattled off the numbers.
When they were done, Bartlett laughed. "Roy Kent. A man of reason."
"Takes one to know one, doesn't it?"
"Yes it does."
Another clink of glasses echoed cheerily in the warehouse. Then-
"Woah, take it easy there, Kent. No need to rush when there's still the cleanup to..."
Bartlett trailed off and the goon chorus piped down. In the shivering silence, the sound of someone chugging a beer echoed disturbingly loud, like some sort of criminal underworld ASMR.
Jamie focused on not tensing his body; he didn't want to draw their attention.
Finally, smacking lips. A content sight. "Thanks for the beer, Bartlett. Would've been a shame for it to go to waste."
"What--"
At the sound of a glass smashing over someone's head, Jamie flexed his grip on the knife he'd snatched out of Roy's boot and sprung to his feet.
Roy had told him to wait for his cue, after all -- and it was his time to shine.
The little prick wouldn't stop grinning.
Roy ignored him. He dumped goon number five into the stolen ambulance.
"Check their pockets. If they've got anything that looks like a burner, Beard wants it back. We've got to make sure to wipe any traces of contact they might've had with Keeley--"
"You like me," Jamie sing-songed.
"It was a bit," Roy said through gritted teeth. "Hand me the body."
Jamie hauled over the unconscious man -- easily twice his size -- like it was nothing. The joys of youth.
With five other deadweights already filling up the vehicle, it was awkward angle to fit in a sixth. Jamie stumbled a bit, and Roy braced him upright. Together they maneuvered the body into the van.
"You can just admit it, you know. I won't ruin your reputation by telling everyone that Roy Kent's a softy."
Prick.
Jamie's usually styled pompadour was a flat mess from the fall in the Thames, and rolling around on the floor of an abandoned warehouse had lint-rolled a questionable layer of gunk onto his stylish clothes. He looked like a twit, leaning against the door of the ambulance while Roy did all the work tying the feet together.
Prick.
With his hair dripping into his eyes and a look of open fascination on his face, he looked like a kid who'd run through a sprinkler. There was far too much delight there for someone who'd been roughed up by a wannabe gangster. Fuck, and they still needed to check his ribs.
"He made us the second we walked in the door," Roy tried to explain again. "I needed to get him to trust me, to make him think I'd switched sides--"
"By making him think you kicked like an octogenarian?" quipped Jamie. "You barely made contact. If I'd been acting any harder, Rebecca would be out a job."
"I can kick you harder next time," Roy bit out, but even he could feel how toothless the words sat in his mouth.
"Sure, Grandad." Jamie beamed, smug and practically bouncing on his toes. "I'd like to see you try."
If Roy had less to deal with on his mind, he might worry about how sure Jamie seemed by the notion Roy wouldn't hit him.
"It wasn't a life or death situation. I knew we'd make it out."
Sure, Bartlett and his men had been armed, but Roy had dealt with worse. If it had been life or death, it'd be different. Roy would do whatever he needed to in those circumstances.
