A/N: Well, here's the first real chapter! I was trying some new things so I hope it's all right.
There were no words to describe his anger. Sure, replace him with some wannabe bank robber. That's fine with him. But to give him his mask and name? Then bring him to his own escape? His anger only grew as they traveled to the safe house. Hoxton was the first to leave the commandeered FBI car. He had the server slung over his shoulder and he dropped it next to Lady Liberty.
Hoxton opened the fridge and pulled a beer from it, flopping onto the couch. He scowled at the others as they made their way into the room, "So who's idea was that?" He said gesturing to the man in his mask.
"Mine, actually," Dallas answered, sliding the mask off his face.
"Yours?" Hoxton answered, sneering, "Thought we were friends, Nate."
Dallas scoffed, "I feel the same right about now Jim, you just risked the whole crew so you could get some vague information!"
"Well, none of you were going to help if I had casually suggested it!" He rebuked.
The others drifted away as their argument grew, "Of course not! That was practically suicide!"
"If you had gone through half of what I did you would have assaulted the bloody FBI single handed!" Hoxton was on his feet.
Dallas stepped back, "You don't risk the lives of your whole crew for selfish reasons!"
Hoxton hadn't realized what he was doing until Dallas was on the ground, "You think I don't know that?! I sat in prison for two years because of that fucking philosophy!"
Jim turned away and swore, "This fucking leg!" He turned to Chains, "Take a look at this for me, will ya mate?"
"Sure, follow me," The ex-marine lead Hoxton into the bathroom, locking the door behind them. Chains pulled open his bag, "Strip."
Pulling off the jumpsuit, he cringed as it dragged against the hole. Chains spun around and was left in shock at the sight before him. He had treated the man many times before he was arrested but the body before him was almost completely unrecognizable. Most of his left side was covered in burn scars, some from his arrest and some were chemical burns.
Hoxton looked away, the staring wasn't helping his self-esteem much, "Hurry up, fuckwad."
Chains was broken from his stupor and quickly moved to stitch the hole closed and reapply his bandages. When he was finished he called for some spare clothes, tossing them to his patient. Chains gave him some privacy and Hoxton quickly got dressed. The Englishman quickly got dressed and found his was to a spare cot, or what he assumed was a spare cot. No one was laying in it so he took it. It was already past midnight so he didn't have time to worry about possession.
Hoxton's dreams were full of horrors, just like they were every night. He woke with a start, trying to regain his bearings. If he woke his cellmate he'd. Oh. Right.
Drawing back his thin sheet the fugitive made his way to the kitchen. Searching through the cupboards he found what he was looking for: his collectible tea tin. Thank the gods Dallas had kept it for him.
The sound of a creaking floorboard behind him alerted him, quickly grabbing a kitchen knife and spinning around. Wolf quickl raised his hands, "Calm down, Hox," The aforementioned man lowered his knife and went back to preparing his tea, "Couldn't sleep?"
Hoxton shook his head, "How am I supposed to? Every cop in the city must be looking for me at this point," He hid the real reason easily.
"Well, at least I saved your tea for ya," Wolf said. Of course it had been Wolf, not Dallas. The man was practically his best friend, who else would care about his possessions?
"Aye, thanks for that one, mate," He lifted the tea, the hot cup calming his nerves. Wolf seemed to sense that something was wrong. His friend seemed...off.
The Swede looked to the burns on Hoxton's face, "You've been trying to hide your burns since we broke you out. Don't be ashamed of them."
"What are you talking about?" Hoxton asked. Wolf was nowhere near on target, if he knew even half of what had happened...
The fugitive put his empty cup in the sink and Wolf grabbed his hands, "It's okay, James."
Hoxton ripped his hands free, "Don't touch me."
The technician stepped back and the Englishman pushed past him and stepped into the back yard. He pulled out his Zippo and reached down, realizing too late that he hadn't had time to jack a box from one of the others. Hoxton sighed and let his head hit the brick. Of course.
Footsteps roused the fugitive from his light sleep and his eyes locked onto the culprit. The impostor. Houston practically turned around and walked right back inside, but there was something in Hoxton's glare that seemed to beg for help. Dallas always told him his caring side would get him in trouble and he agreed.
Hoxton stood up slowly and Houston leaned against the wall, pulling out a small box of cigarettes. As much as it pained him, he needed to smoke, "Ass clown, can I bum a fag off ya?"
Houston practically punched the scarred man in front of him, "What?!"
Jim smirked, "A cigarette. Sorry, forgot it wasn't such a common word here."
Houston eyed him for a few more seconds, before offering one. Hoxton took it greedily. He pulled his Zippo out and sparked the flame. The ghost glanced over as Hoxton lit his cigarette. The flame cast a shadow over his face, deepening the appearance of his scars.
The fugitive finished lighting his fag and noticed Houston eyeing him, "Problem, dickhead?"
Houston looked away quickly, "No. Nothing."
"Just because I said fag doesn't mean you can check me out, twat," The Englishman dropped the cigarette and stamped it for emphasis, leaving the younger heister alone.
"Why do I try?" He whispered and mimicked Hoxton.
A/N: Did ya like it? I hope you did! Please review!
