Fic: Dublin

[ticktockgrin]

((OOC: A long overdue fic for Methy! Prompt: Frank and Dwayne, Dublin. If it's terrible, it's all my fault.))



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Dublin
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Ten years ago, Dwayne would have said it couldn't happen, but it was almost common now, a quiet night made comfortable and mellow by the warm, dark ambiance of a good pub, a couple of beers, and if not exactly good friends, then at least, familiar enemies.

Well, in Dwayne's case, a couple of beers before he switched to tonic and lime, but that was just as common and just as comfortable, because it was as much about the atmosphere as anything else.

"You know," Frank mused, looking sideways. "You never did tell me what you were doing in Dublin in the first place."

Dwayne raised coppery eyebrows, toying with his straw. "I thought we had an agreement. About not ever talking about Dublin."

Frank snorted. "And Dubai. And Vancouver. And Moscow."

Dwayne pointed a finger at the other man. "We have good reasons for not talking about Moscow. Nothing good has ever come out of Moscow. Dubai, however, was not my fault and if it makes you feel better to hold a grudge, go right ahead but I'm not taking responsibility because you couldn't catch the damn boat."

Frank huffed, and took a long drink of his beer. Honestly, in his line of work it was kind of a wonder he didn't drink more. "You keep telling yourself that, and that the first pick of those paintings had absolutely nothing to do with it."

"Just like Chicago, right? Not that you would ever do that." He made a face. Dangling from a harness twenty-three stories above the street was not one of his better memories. Getting down had been...an adventure, especially with security scouring the inside of the building.

"At least I left the truck. It was a team job, and I needed a distraction. You were a good distraction."

Dwayne just hunched over, big shoulders hunched up in a sulk, and took another sip of his drink. Okay, so the second getaway vehicle had been there as promised. "I had rope burns for a week. You don't want to know where."

Sulky silence reigned for a few minutes, then Frank nudged the big redhead. "So? What was in the suitcase?"

Dublin had been a nightmare of epic proportions. In just three short days, it seemed like they had managed to piss off every power player in the city, and to this day Dwayne still wasn't exactly sure how they'd managed. Or more specifically, how Frank had managed, because he still firmly maintained that he had jut been doing a quick, easy job until McCabe had brought the wolves down on him.

All Dwayne had really wanted out of his trip to Ireland was a quick run, and then a nice Guinness on tap and some fish and chips before heading on his way. He was good at his job, it was just that he seemed to be a magnet for...Complications.

Complications like Frank McCabe. And he would have skipped the layover if he knew that one was going to happen.

"You know you never did tell me. I think we can call the personal statute of limitations over with."

"Professional integrity," Dwayne replies solemnly, squaring his shoulders.

Frank just gave him a look. "Or you figure it's something I'll punch you for."

"You did punch me in the face in Madrid. Nearly broke my nose." Dwayne put on his best mournful look, the one that he knew damn well that no one who knew him would actually buy.

"You had it coming in Madrid." Frank took a long drink of his beer. Funny how he tends to go through so much more alcohol with Dwayne around.

Dwayne gives him a sideways look. Then sits up, resigned, and scrubs at his beard with the back of his hand, committed to the tale. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

"Oh boo hoo. Are you going to tell the damn story, Shakespeare, or do you want a spotlight and curtain, too?"

Dwayne snorted. The jibe was enough to shake off any further misgivings, and he leaned back on his stool. "Well, this guy and his girlfriend have a falling out, and he wants the gifts he gave her back." He cleared his throat. "The problem is, she's a gunrunner, too, and really, really likes the diamond-studded negligee he had some fancy English boutique make for her. So...well..." He gave a sheepish grin and shrugged. The safe had not been easy, but the job had been straightforward. He just hadn't counted on how enthusiastic the opposition had been. Or how well-armed. For a man that had been divorced twice at the time, he probably should have known better that to take a job even vaguely related to a breakup but, well, lesson learned.

"Wait a second." Frank raised a hand. "So you're telling me all that time, everything we went through, you were carrying around sexy jammies?"

"Hundred-thousand-dollar, diamond-studded sexy jammies. With matching kimono robe." He'd held onto that damn briefcase through being shot at, run down, and nearly set on fire because he took his job seriously. Four days of chaos and trying to get out of the damn city and he sure as hell had tacked on a bonus for that one. "All I had to deal with was the crazy ex, which I had under control. You were the one that brought the party and turned a simple job into a tour of the best car trunks and sewers of the city."

Frank rubbed his maimed hand over his face. And no, he hasn't forgotten about that one, either, Dwayne.

"On second thought, we were better off not talking about Dublin," Frank conceded, after a long, long moment. Professionalism was one thing, but other things there were just no words for.

"Told you." The big ginger gave Frank a sly sideways look and exactly half a beat before he added, "At least I didn't have to model them."

The older man started to cough on his beer. "Don't even joke about that. There's not enough whiskey in all of Ireland."

Dwayne smirked over the rim of his glass. "Never ask about Miami, then."