A/N: written for Trope Bingo Round 9: Hurt/Comfort. The title is a play on 'Three Men and a Little Lady'.
"Easy, H," Chato murmured, grunting as he, Fusco, and Mac, lowered Luke onto the couch. He'd forgotten just how hard it was to move a two hundred and thirty pound man who was also wearing at least seventy pounds of tactical gear. "We'll get you cleaned up."
His memories of the past hour were a blur. He could remember Toretto, coming down that hill, and the ambush, but gut instinct said that wasn't all that occurred. "What happened?"
"The usual," Mac said, fetching the first aid kit. As bad as his own injuries were, getting the open wound on his shoulder stitched shut and forcing Hobbs to rest before his rib cracked any further was the priority. "You need to sit up, let us fix that bullet wound."
Luke looked at Chato and raised an eyebrow. It had to be all that adrenaline in his body, and his increased tolerance. Damned if he could feel any pain from a bullet wound but he'd take their word for it. Right now he just wanted to relax and watch some cooking shows, and call up his wife and daughter to see how Sam's soccer game went.
"They had grenades, boss, semi-automatics, and Toretto got away." Fusco fetched them all a round of beer and left the bottles on the coffee table, moreso to put something icy cold against their foreheads than drink. He loathed the smell and taste of alcohol, even if the side effects of its consumption were somewhat pleasant.
Hobbs sat up further, groaning into his chest when he felt his rib move. Oh yeah, there it was. Taking a quick look at his team, he noted the mass of cuts and burns on their arms and faces. There was also a hole in Fusco's left leg, one which could've killed him if it'd been one inch to the right. "Fix Fusco first."
"Mac gave me a dose of morphine, I'll be good for a while."
Of course he had. They were all stubborn, himself included. Luke supposed that was what became of five men when you shoved them on a team together and left them to survive everything from Armenians to the Russian Mob and even the damn Taliban on their own. Too stubborn to die, too reluctant to ask for medical attention when they needed it. "You're bleeding on my floor."
"Way to change the subject," Chato muttered. "If Mac cleans him up, will you sit down long enough for me to get that bullet out?"
"Get yourself cleaned up first." Luke braced himself for a retort, but the towel Fusco hurled at his face was the only reply. "What, am I sweating on your couch?"
"Yeah, I paid good money for this couch, boss. I'd rather it smell like lavender than your ass," Fusco called out as Mac herded him towards the bathroom.
"My ass smells like goddamn roses and don't you forget it."
They'd nearly lost Fusco twice in Russia. Mac found himself captured in the Hindu Kush leaving the four of them to rescue him alone and without the aid of SEAL Team Six. Chato, well, he had to live with them, and Wilkes reminded them all that waterproofing everything the second they brought a purchase home was critical.
"Where's Wilkes?" Luke asked, reaching up to undo the rib and shoulder straps of his vest. He pulled it loose and dumped it on the floor along with his revolver. He'd seen three of four and that wasn't a good thing, not in his mind anyway. Hobbs peeled his shirt off, revealing his bloody right shoulder. He didn't know why, but his tatau miraculously never got hit. His bull tattoo on the other hand had been re-inked several times. "Is he—"
"He's in the other bathroom. The pain meds left him green," Chato explained, dipping the tweezers into boiling water. "You really had us scared for a minute, Luke, you know that?"
"We're alive, Chato." Hobbs reached up to squeeze his bicep reassuringly. No one on God's green Earth could ever take them down permanently, not even the hierarchy. Whether they were on American soil, locked up in some backwards ass prison and struggling to survive, or lazing about on the beach of a private Caribbean island, they'd always be alive, and together.
In one bathroom, Mac hummed Black Sabbath under his breath while he cleaned up Fusco's injuries, and in the other, Wilkes leaned on the sink basin, sweaty and nauseous.
He passed the needle to Fusco momentarily while he cleaned the exterior of the wound again with alcohol wipes. "Better you than me."
"You just wait till I'm healed up," Fusco muttered, lightly punching Mac in the shoulder. There was a tired look in all their eyes, one that screamed exhaustion. That said so long as they could stand and move, the job would be finished. "Next time it's gonna be you on the back seat of that car."