Vengeance is Sweet
Written for the prompt : Author's Choice, Author's Choice, Naked except for red stilettos.
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Vengeance is Sweet
Roque started it as was so often the case in the ongoing Jensen and Roque love-hate fest of pranking and ridiculous quantities of CAPE and threats to have Jensen hit with a Section 8. The rest of the team had learnt their lesson early on, 'don't piss off the hacker and he won't hack into your records and inform the medical facility you're a woman or that you want a vasectomy or have a particularly virulent STD' or whatever Jensen had thought up this time in some sort of Pixie-Stix fuelled vendetta.
This time, there was no sympathy for Roque, whatever judgement Jensen saw fit would be more than deserving. Getting the hacker drunk was easy enough normally, without anyone needing to resort to spiking his drink and leaving him incapable. Follow that up with the fact that Roque had dumped him outside a middle of nowhere biker bar dressed in a mini-skirt and heels and some sort of corset top was plain cruel. Pooch had been the first to voice the opinion that Roque deserved whatever he got, Cougar and Clay had pretty much agreed although they'd been cautious enough to not say anything that could be deemed encouraging in any way in front of Jensen.
Roque stirred slowly, head pounding, eyes resisting the sunlight by remaining glued gummily shut. His stomach roiled and he knew he had to open his eyes and get to the bathroom before he started to puke. For fuck's sake, what had he drunk last night. He remembered . . . not much actually he realized.
Eyes finally squinting open and reality dawned, wherever he was . . . was not 'home' or any familiar version of a barracks or mission related hide-out. He was at the side of a road . As he started to move, he felt the crunch of paper in his hand and lifted it up to peer blearily at the words written there and try to figure out what they meant. "Naked except for a pair of red stilettoes! Vengeance is mine!"
He paused for a moment trying to figure out what that could possibly mean, before it dawned on him that he knew the chicken scratch writing –Jensen! Fuck! No! He wouldn't! The little s.o.b. wouldn't dare!
Struggling to sit up, Roque did a quick pat down of his body and realized that while not exactly dressed, he was at least in boxers and a t-shirt, but that all his usual knives were missing, but there strapped one to each of the lower half of his legs was a pair of bright red stiletto knives.
Drunken stupor banished by the sudden panicked rush of adrenaline, Roque began to wonder whether baiting Jensen was really worth it anymore. Now he was faced with the need to get back on base without I.D. or proper attire and the little shit would be sat there gloating and knowing that this time he'd got the upper hand by being a sneaky little shit and not doing the expected.