Author's Notes: This was supposed to be about a bunny rabbit and kitty cat, but it became my first alcohol related fiction so far.
Warning: This chapter involves swearing, alcohol use, violence and innuendo. Caution!
Theme: Teammates
With Friends Like This...
They took me out to drink. It figures that Turks would find something so simple to be the answer to all of life's problems, even one as basic as death. For an hour I had watched Rude drinking Reno under the table and Tseng sipping at designer coffee. Somehow it actually helps to ease some of the pain. Or… Maybe it's the vodka. Yeah, definitely the vodka.
"Reeve," the graceful Wutain finally says, nudging me in the ribs. The action almost causes me to fall over. At the moment I am wrapped up in Reno and Rude playing a Turk endurance game… Namely, who can drink the most without having to stop for a bathroom break.
"Yehh?" I ask, finally noting that my words were starting to slur.
"Maybe you've had enough…"
"Like hell he has," Reno shouted, shoving one of his beers across the table towards me.
"Cheater," Rude said, grabbing the pint and pushing it back towards Reno.
Even with sunglasses in the way I could sense the glares exchanged between the two partners. It was almost as if they were about to pull out their guns on each other. Although which type of gun was up to the imagination…
Giggles escaped my lips, a good way to show the coffee-wedded Wutain that I was paying him absolutely ZERO attention right now.
"Reeve!" he barked, as he often did to get the attention of an 'injured' Reno.
Flinch. Okay. That has my attention. Green eyes, doing their best to look innocent and like a mournful husband. I just couldn't do it. Too much vodka in my system. On an impulse I reached out to lay my hand upon the thigh of the Wutain beauty. A strong, though delicate looking hand grasped my wrist before I could react, and then the sharp pain and sudden urge to scream told me all I needed to know about the current situation.
There was an expression of shock from both Reno and Rude as their attention returned to us, Tseng looking quite guilty, and me whimpering with the broken wrist cradled in my lap. I must say, whimpering does not suit me very well when I'm in an expensive suit drinking the finest vodka and surrounded by Turks. Especially not two nights after my wife's funeral.
"Shit Tseng," Reno spoke up, "You gotta get him to the hospital. I mean, I know you're like a total sadistic bastard and all, and you've broken guys' arms for a lot less, but shesh! Just a drunk widower feelin' you up, ya know?"
As Tseng rose and helped me to my drunken feet I could have sworn I could see Rude smirking in amusement. Well fuck him then.
You know, one evening with the Turks, watching them talk like this makes you realize what how well they work together as a team out in the field. But I'll be damned if you really want to know them as friends or enemies.
How did that old saying go? With friends like Tseng who can break your wrist without trying, who needs assassins to try and blow your brains out? Or something like that at least.
Oh, what is this? Hello Mister Floor!
Somewhere in the back of my mind I store away the final conscious image of the night. Three Turks, two horny and drunk off their asses, the other looking distinctly red, lift me onto the stretcher as if I was merely a feather. Amazing what three Turks can do when they put their minds to it right? Like getting a mourning executive so drunk that they can break his wrist…