things I have forgotten yet
Disclaimer: These boys are mine, I am both proud and ashamed. Rating: probably R-ish for foul language Notes: credit to Lauren Hill for the section headers. Not beta'd, so all errors, as always, are my own.
“Boy you know you better watch out, some guys, some guys are only about that thing”
"So what's the plan then?" Charlie adjusts his grip on the rope and carabiner currently keeping him steady against the side of the building like some comic book superhero. Next to him, Sam shrugs casually, as if they're not braced on either side of an office window about to commit grand larceny. Sam bends his knees and leans slightly to the left, getting a better look at the layout of the room through the glass.
'Keep it simple,' he says, shrugs again, ' pop the window, grab the files and then walk out the front door.' There's a flash of white and Sam's grinning at him across the window and Charlie thinks, not for the first time, that he's going to die at a very young age and it will be all Sam's fault. The bastard. Taking a bracing breath and sending out a prayer to whatever Saint takes pity on the idiots of the world(he thinks it's Jude, but he can't be certain) Charlie exhales noisily and Sam, still grinning, takes his cue and levers the window open. There is a pause, eight or ten heartbeats while the two of them wait for sirens, a house alarm, or in Charlie's case; ninja's to fall from the ceiling and end his existence with well aimed throwing stars. Thankfully, they are met with silence. Clearly the owner of the office felt that occupying the 23rd floor of the building was safeguard enough against window burglaries. Sam looks over briefly before slipping through the window like a shadow. He's wearing his Game Face, Charlie notes with trepidation as he follows Sam through the window. This will surely end in explosions and possibly nudity. Awesome. This cannot be what a normal retirement feels like; stopping professional thievery was supposed to increase his life expectancy. Charlie unleashes himself from the rope and can't help but feel like he's made a wrong turn somewhere. He works the solitary desk over quickly while Sam pokes through the bookshelf in the corner. In the second to last drawer of the filing cabinet, Charlie finds the file, but before he can read through its contents Sam's hand has taken it from his grasp and stuffed it unceremoniously into the pack over his shoulder. Charlie gestures out a conciliatory 'what the fuck' and Sam answers in typically fashion, grinning again and shooting a double thumbs up. Lamenting his existence and his poor life choices Charlie does a quick scan to make sure that the office is back in order. They pull their ropes in out from the ledge and close the window after them. Twenty-three flights down the stairs and they're walking out the underground parking lot exit ramp.
"I want to see those pictures Sam." Charlie taps a hand on the pack still over Sam's shoulder.
'No freaking way Charlie, what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.' And Sam's grip on the shoulder strap tightens. Charlie raises his hands to the heavens, shakes them a little for emphasis because his grandmother was Jewish and his people like to gesture, and accepts defeat.
"Fine, you poncy bastard, but I want pancakes." Sam just grins at him again.
'Nothings open Charlie, it's the middle of the night.' Charlie glares.
"I know that! You think I don't know it's oh-dark-thirty out here. You," and here he points a be-gloved finger into the centre of Sams’ chest, "You are going to make me pancakes; as payment for being such as awesome friend. Albeit one with questionable decision making skills, but an awesome friend none the less." Sam rubs his hand over the spot where Charlie jabbed him and huffs out a laugh.
'Alright princess, I'll make you pancakes.' Charlie whoops in victory. 'But they will be healthy pancakes, with whole grains and none of the processed syrup.' Charlie rubs a hand roughly over his face as he falls in step again with Sam.
"I hate you." Sam’s smiling again, the asshole, Charlie can practically hear it.
'No you don't.' He says, all confident and sure of himself and Charlie can only elbow him not so gently in the side and keep walking. Fuck his life, seriously.
'No I don't.'
“Don’t be a hard rock when you really are a gem”
They have pancakes. With real syrup, thank you very much. Charlie is dozing on the couch in Sams' living room, riding the pleasant wave of adrenaline leaving his system in favour of complex carbohydrates and overly refined sugar when he smells something burning. Weighing the pros and cons, Charlie decides that potential survival follows the path of moving off the couch, possibly, before the house goes up in flames and he's left trying to explain to the authorities what exactly Sam was doing with the industrial grade blow torch. Charlie levers himself out of his semi supine state and moves toward the source of destruction- Sam is in the kitchen. He's standing next to the sink, which has flames curling out of it. So, not a blow torch, Charlie realizes, just run of the mill pyromania.
"Um,” He interrupts intelligently, "what the fuck?' Sam turns around and nods at him before dropping another lit match into the sink.
'Gotta destroy the evidence Charlie. ‘ Eyebrows raised like this obvious, 'Be a shame to have had you miss your beauty sleep only for this to fall into the wrong hands.' Charlie walks up to stand next to Sam at the sink, patent disbelief in every line of his face.
“‘The wrong hands?’ Really Sam? ’The wrong hands!'" Charlie motions to the mostly charred remains of the file in the sink. "This is not a matter of national security! This is evidence of a drunken weekend in Vegas!" Sam makes a see-saw motion with his upper body, like a nonverbal 'potaytoe, potahtoe'. Charlie feels a rage black out coming on. "You are literally not sane." Sam waits for the last of the file to curl up and go black before turning the faucet on and dousing the little campfire into a soppy mess of failed papier-mâché paste.
'Have a good nap?' He asks, like this is a bed and breakfast or something. Charlie suspects that feeling in his head is the vessels in his brain exploding.
"I am retired Sam." Charlie says the words slowly "I am thirty goddamn years old; I am too old to steal shit for kicks.” Considering the matter settled, Charlie turns to walk back into the living room. “Now, I am going to go back to sleep,” he pauses in the doorway and shoots a look over his shoulder, it is his most intimidating one and he cuts his eye toward Sam who’s still standing at the sink and is now ostensibly holding a tea towel, “do not wake me, you freak of nature." His arm is a physical exclamation point. He can feel Sams' grin on the back of his head when he calls after him,
'You’re twenty-nine dude.' Charlie doesn’t even bother to swear, just drops himself onto the cushions of the couch while he flips Sam the bird; lets the roll of Sam’s laughter carry him into the blissful ignorance of sleep.