Chapter Text
“Alright, fess up,” said the hulking man as he made his way in the living room. Not surprised to find his host once again trying his best to disappear into his poufy couch. “Hattie said you’re holding out on me.”
When all he got was a level, ‘you’re going to have to be more specific’ look for it, Hobbs crossed his arms over his chest in a way he knew made his upper body look even more impressive. In the hopes it also gave the illusion of him sounding more authoritative.
“Says you’ve got prescription pain medication around here somewhere. We think it’s about time you shared with the class.”
There followed a stare down that Hobbs wasn’t completely confident he’d be winning, the compulsion to look away from that unwavering, unblinking pair of eyes becoming almost overwhelming when the contact passed the minute mark.
Finally though, right when Hobbs was readying himself for a tactical retreat so he could think up a better plan of action, the world renowned assassin gave one of the most put-upon eye rolls the international bounty hunter had ever seen and spoke.
“Cistern. En-suite bath.”
“Uh... English?” Hobbs asked when the guy didn’t elaborate on his own.
“It’s floatin’ around in the water tank back of the shitter in my loo,” said the guy with less tact to his name than pretty much any other human the American knew.
“...Okay. Do I want to know why it’s there, of all-“
“You asked,” said the Brit with the stubborn expression welded to his face.
“Can’t argue there,” Hobbs said with a well placed shake of the head.
“Yeah, well don’t come cryin’ to me when you don’t like the master bath’s postmodernist decor,” said Shaw with a vaguely threatening squint.
“Don’t worry, I will,” Hobbs assured, turning for the appropriate bathroom as he did. Pausing before he’d actually moved though when a question came to him.
“And who calls a toilet a ‘shitter’ anyhow?”
Receiving a rude hand gesture for his troubles, the American held back a chuckle and began what he hoped wasn’t some sort of wild goose chase orchestrated solely for the Brit’s amusement. After all, while he’d willingly enough get made the butt of a harmless prank, he would much rather get his hands on those meds. Considering that if he did, his frenemy might just stop it with the sullen emo crap and start it with the being a decent host part of Hobbs’ stay.
Right, Hobbs thought with a quiet snort, as if Deck would ever be giving up the sullen emo crap.
With a shake of his head, the American gave the Brit’s door a push, had a quick glance around the now perfectly uncluttered bedroom, then sauntered his way right on over and into the 'en-suite'.
Lo and behold, the bathroom Hobbs hadn’t until then mustered the courage to step foot into did in fact have a shitter. Just like any old bathroom should. Pretty nice one too.
So, not one to postpone the inevitable, he walked up to the fixture in question and eyed the tank attached to the back, taking a moment to mentally prepare for the very real possibility of their being some sort of jury rigged ‘snoop deterrent’ waiting for him inside.
Hm. Then again, the detective thought with a preparatory crouch, why in God’s name would Shaw have something like that set up in the first place? Did he expect people to go snooping around in his ‘en-suite cistern’?
No, if he did, it would make a lot more sense to bolt the thing shut. So he was probably in the clear on that front.
And so, braced for the worst, but hoping for better, the Angelino fitted his fingers around the thick underside edge of the sturdy toilet tank lid and lifted. Slowly. Pleased when the telltale snickt of a wire being tripped didn’t sound.
“There you are,” Hobbs said as he peered down into the throne’s hidden compartment and spied the illusive third orange pill bottle, floating around safe and sound in a well sealed, fully inflated plastic sandwich baggie.
With only a small cringe at having to reach inside a strange toilet tank, the man from across the pond plucked the baggie from its sad, neglected existence. Then, quarry in no longer sanitary hand, the semi-retired bounty hunter replaced the porcelain lid, and gave a sigh of relief at the realization that there was also a perfectly good sink in there.
One which Hobbs took great pleasure in leaning over to give both his hands as well as the toilet water steeped baggie a good, sudsy scrub. Before removing and summarily disposing of said baggie in a surprisingly not overflowing bathroom trash receptacle.
Then, no longer feeling disgusting, he took his winnings and made for the living room, cutting straight through to the kitchen when a glance at his host reminded him that the guy didn’t have anything to drink.
Short seconds later had the American returning to the living space with the popped pill bottle in one hand and the remainder of the Brit’s barely touched dinner of protein rich meal replacement drink in the other.
At the obstinate look on the other man’s face though, Hobbs lifted the pre-opened drink high enough above his head that he could drip a taste of it into his own mouth. Just to prove he hadn’t laced it with extra strength laxatives. Or anything equally ridiculous.
He tried not to feel put out when it didn’t cause the Brit to change his expression. But, definitely not willing to let the guy’s attitude get in the way of his own health, the detective stepped just close enough to the couch for relatively polite conversation and started in with the sales pitch.
“Ah, nothing like a little nutritional shake to regulate the blood sugar,” Hobbs said, hoping against hope that it would actually help his case.
“Already had a balanced breakfast,” said the moody Brit, eyes narrowing accusingly.
“Then think of this as a post breakfast treat,” Hobbs offered with a winning smile.
“Too many sweets’ll give you cavities,” argued the ever contrary Shaw.
“I know, but you don’t have any bottled water or any kind of purifier and you obviously have something against orange juice, so I figured this would have to do,” said Hobbs, sure to keep the accompanying house wide gesticulation on the genial side of exasperated.
“A real man drinks straight from the tap,” said Shaw, even as he began a more than begrudging lean forward, good hand stretching out to accept the proffered, pre-pop-topped bottle of peach flavored protein product. Surprising his guest when he took a fair sized swig of it, handed it straight back in exchange for the other bottle, and tossed back what Hobbs was pretty sure was half the prescribed dose without further complaint.
“Really? You read that off a bathroom wall or something?” Asked an amused and slightly relieved American, accepting the pill bottle before moving back just enough that his frenemy wouldn’t have any right to feel crowded.
“Naw. Just grew up broke enough that it was that or go thirsty,” the spy said with a shrug.
“Wait, ‘broke’?” Hobbs asked, not sure he’d heard quite right but going on at the ‘Did I stutter?’ look he got for it. “But weren’t your parents both con artists? I mean, I’ve seen your mom’s work, so if your dad was anywhere near her level then they had to have had, like, twelve mansions apiece, right?”
“Right, that’s why the five of us lived out of an old, drafty, three bedroom, third story flat in the skeeviest part of any town those two moved us.”
“Oh,” Hobbs said. Not sure what else to say to that.
“Mum might’ve been good at what she did, but it’s like I said: she wasn’t around enough to really understand the way her husband was running his affairs,” said the spy with the ‘oh well’ set to his brow.
“But your mom’s always full on dripping in designer clothes and-“
“And designer clothes cost a heap sterling,” Deck cut in. "Besides, the old man was a tad… old-fashioned. Liked his woman in finery, his kids obedient, and his name on the checks. Never could stand the thought of anyone else paying his way."
“Not even his own wife?” Asked the perplexed American.
“Especially not his own wife,” the Brit informed, face configured into a scowl that positively screamed ‘Duh’.
“Right, so I’m gonna take it the toxic masculinity was strong with that one?”
“Call it what you want, the man was an arse," Shaw informed, expression unchanged.
“Uh-huh. Right. So lemme get this straight," Hobbs began with a well hooked, dubious brow, "you don’t believe in filtered water… because your dad was an ‘arse’?”
“Whatever,” said a very unimpressed Shaw, for some reason choosing to ignore his guest’s jab in favor of shoving his good hand deep down into the space between his poufy couch cushions. Surprising the onlooker when he came back up from the ancient leathery depths with what appeared to be a tv remote.
“Uh-“
“Hatt said telly’s back on the menu,” the Brit cut the American off before he could properly protest the clicking of the power button.
“I’m watchin’ the horses run. Don’t know ‘bout you, but I think it’s about time your ugly mug made your return flight home,” he added with a dismissive hand wave in his visitor's direction.
“Oh, I got time to kill, don’t you worry ‘bout my schedule,” Hobbs chided, scooting for the kitchen when he realized he was holding two very spill-able open bottles. “I’ll just put these away and join you.”
“Don’t care,” came the plenty distracted reply. The sound of channels being flipped nearly drowning it out altogether as Hobbs hurried to put the super important bottles away.
“Don’t start without me!” He called back as he slipped the orange bottle into its new hiding space, nestled in with its brother and sister at the bottom of the raisin flakes box.
“It’s live, so you’re either here or it starts without you,” came the now rather irritated call from the sitting room.
“Hold yer horses, I’mma comin’!” The visitor insisted as he made his way back out to the living space, glad when the southern accent he’d affected had the Brit’s face scrunched in distaste.
“Mind if I-“
“You can plant yer keister so long as you shut yer trap: Tygress's runnin’ today and I ain’t missin’ it on account of your blabberin’,” insisted a Shaw who didn’t even bother looking sidelong at the behemoth taking a perch all the way to one side of the sofa.
“You don’t have money riding on this ‘Tigress’, do you?” Asked a Hobbs who wasn’t quite certain where all the sudden and rather intense interest was coming from.
“Even if I did, wouldn’t be any of your business. Now zip it.”
And those just so happened to be the last words either of the pair said until the first commercial break broke up the program's stuffy introduction. At which point, an ad for the world’s finest tile cleaner was muted soon as it started blaring. Reminding Hobbs of something very important.
“You know, that ‘en-suite’ bathroom had the least ‘post’ I’ve ever seen in a modernist decor. In my life,” the man said, watching the side of the other man’s face. For telltale signs of annoyance.
“Know it all.”
“Nope. Not all. I just happen to know my interior design,” Hobbs informed, the smirk in his voice doing its job of irritating his host exactly as it was intended to.
“Know what? I think it’s quiet time again.”
"Mm, nope. Not until the TV stops trying to sell us... I honestly have no idea what this one's about," Hobbs admitted with a bewildered tilt of his head.
"Laundry detergent. Clearly." Shaw informed with a perfunctory gesture towards the screen.
"...Yeah, I'm not seeing it," the American insisted with a put upon shrug.
"Not my fault your pea brain can't parse a simple marketing scheme," groused the Britt who seemed almost affronted on the commercial's behalf.
"Deck, might need to have your eyes checked: there's nothing simple about this piece of work! I mean, what's a dude in a fuzzy, slouchy, bright pink unicorn costume got to do with laundry detergent anyhow?" Demanded the disconcerted foreigner.
"It's called a 'kigurumi' and clearly, the high brow English story telling is too advanced for your low brow, American sensibilities," groused the one not so subtly hiding the remote control out of reach of his couch mate.
"Now he's dancing? And singing? Nope. High brow my ass," contended the guy with the well and truly disturbed look on his face.
"You wouldn't get it," countered the guy with the well and truly condescending look on his face.
"Uh-huh. Okay, you know what, fine. Must be some kind of inside joke you need to be British to understand," the American capitulated. Graciously.
"Right. If it'll help you sleep at night," allowed the Brit. Ungraciously. Leaning forward to focus once again as the commercial ended and the screen switched back to being covered in an old but well maintained racetrack and a bunch of long-limbed race horses being led around by tiny men in garish, shiny jackets.
Deciding that he ought to at least give the races a shot, Hobbs put the last of his attention forward and glued his own eyes to the screen. Halfway surprised when he found himself decently entertained. Especially so when he caught the man on the other side of the couch aborting the odd fist pump with a glance the American's way. Seeming to have momentarily forgotten Hobbs was there.
Apparently, eventually, forgetting about Hobbs entirely. So engrossed in his program that the odd, "Yes! Go Tigress," had his frenemy doing his best to hide his smile behind his best 'concentrating' face.
With a sneaky, sidelong glance at the man he hadn't figured even watched tv, Hobbs decided he wouldn't mind sitting there in companionable, inconspicuous silence right up until his buns went numb. Not if he got to sit in the same room as a practically happy Shaw. Arguably enjoying watching 'telly'.
Together.