Work Text:
Lieutenant Craig Garrison groaned and stretched his aching neck from one side to the other several times as he fumbled for his room key. It had been one hell of a long afternoon which had extended into a long night, one annoyance after another, mostly due to the sheer stubborness, the blasted pig-headedness of some of the senior officers. Particularly Colonel Kaplan. The man had basically ambushed Garrison as he was heading into a debriefing with Major Kingston, one of Garrison's least favorite Handlers, determined to push his way in, succeeding in turning what was supposed to be a final couple of hours before he could join the guys on a much needed 24 hour leave into an extended game of verbal cat and mouse, with Garrison playing the part of the reluctant mouse.
Well, not JOIN his guys, so much; they all had plans and he didn't intend to horn in on their well-deserved and much anticipated down time. But still, that didn't mean he was thrilled that, instead of heading back to enjoy his own downtime by mid-afternoon, here it was nearly 10 o'clock in the evening and he was just now parking his vehicle in the lot behind the hotel.
He sat there for a couple of minutes, wearily looking up at the windows above. He thought he maybe had enough energy left to get out, climb the stairs to the floor where Henri Marchant, owner and manager, had promised to keep a room set aside for him. He hoped so, as the elevator would have been shut down by now; otherwise he'd be spending the night either in the car or in the stairwell, neither of which sounded in the least bit tempting.
Entering the darkened room, he had only a moment's warning before the assailant struck, weapon already in motion, aimed squarely at Garrison's stomach, then at his chest, with the clear intent of making his head the next target.
Garrison clumsily took the first blow, reeling backwards; then, working sheerly on instinct and memory, he lunged for a chance at his own weapon, ready to counter the unexpected ambush.
"I'd say a nice shower, but I doubt Henri is going to much appreciate our stopping up 'is drains with all this muck," Goniff admitted, stretched out on the bed, aimlessly and fruitlessly picking at the drying mess covering him, Craig, and the sheets. At least most of the feathers that hadn't landed on either of them, gotten stuck there, had fallen far enough away from the bed and should be easy enough to sweep up. He took another look around the room, lit only by the small bedside lamp, and winced. Okay, so maybe not so much easy as less difficult? Nah, couldn't rightly say that neither. In fact, no matter how you looked at it, this was one blooming mess, and the two of them maybe the messiest of all.
Craig snorted, moving lazily in place for a few moments, an activity that seemed to fascinate Goniff, or at least the pickpocket's eyes had swiftly been drawn back by the sensuous motion, then never left that swaying form for even a second, not until he got distracted by Craig's rising interest, so to speak.
Soon the mess was forgotten, or if not forgotten, at least dismissed as not being of immediate importance, not with so much else to attend to. That was for later, much later, tomorrow maybe.
Later did come, along with the sunrise. As he contemplated the enormous and not very tempting task of getting up and then getting cleaned up, Craig Garrison drowsily considered the possibilities. That was what he did, after all, what he was known for, actually, evaluating a situation, considering the possibilities, then making a solid decision as to what action to take.
Right now, one possibility outweighed all the rest - ambushing Goniff in retaliation for HIS attack with that feather pillow, a little tit for tat retribution, then another nice long nap. After all, they coudn't get any messier, any more glued together than they already were, and the pillows were already a total loss; they might have a few blows left in them, but they would never again serve their intended purpose for anyone, not with almost all of their feathers now scattered hither and yon, at least the ones not liberally stuck (hopefully not permanently) to his and Goniff's skin. He plucked at one small clump of those feathers seemingly glued to his chest hair and chuckled as he considered the commercial possibilities for that strong adhesive, starting out hot and liquidy, but turning to something with more holding ability than any office glue he had ever used. Would another application or two of that same glue increase the damage all that much? Probably not, and he was willing to take the risk - more than willing, in fact.
Actually, they might as well conserve water for now and make one cleanup do the job instead of doing one washing up now and another one later. Maybe one later, possibly two; maybe they could spend the rest of their leave ambushing each other, then spend some quality time in the shower doing a thorough wash/rinse/repeat session. Now that was a plan he could get behind!
"Perhaps you might want this, Lieutenant? As a souvenir perhaps?" Henri Marchant suggested, steadfastly maintaining his professional hotelier face no matter how he wanted to laugh. And yes, he DID want to laugh, along with shed a tear or two at the condition of the room.
He was already mentally re-assigning both Carrie and Joan for the whole of the morning to cleaning this room; it was going to take at least that long, and heaven knows what all those feathers would do to the Hoover. One more thing to potentially add onto the lieutenant's final bill, and from the looks of things, that bill was going to be sizeable. Somehow, though, that same look around told him Garrison probably wouldn't begrudge the cost, although he might if the residue filming the shower drain and the lingering puddle of water there turned out to be as significant as he feared it might. Plumbers didn't come cheap, after all.
Garrison turned red as he accepted the glued together clump of feathers Henri was holding out to him, something the hotel owner had just now peeled off the back of the young officer's neck. How they'd both missed that, Garrison didn't know, and wasn't about to ask now.
"Thanks, Henri. You're a real pal," he growled insincerely, giving the man a narrowed side-eye, all the while purposefully ignoring the chortling Goniff standing beside him.
Actor stood at the front desk and stared at the slip of paper in his hand and frowned, puzzled both at the number of line items, far more than usual, and the rather large total for their stay.
Usually he paid only a rudamentary notice to the bills, at least from here; just a fast glance to be sure everyone's tab was included before he dispersed the funds Garrison had handed to him before they left the Mansion. It was unlike Hotel Marchant to make an error of such magnitude, and yet it was Henri Marchant himself who had signed the invoice.
"Additional Charges? Per Hour Cleaning? Damages? What damages would possibly come to such a sum? At least for the lieutenant's room. If it were for one of you, I could understand," giving the deeply hung-over Casino a particularly stern look, "but for the lieutenant?"
He reread the items listed under that particular room number and, no matter how he tried to pull it all together into a comprehensive picture, it simply did not compute.
Oh, the basic room charge, yes, that was what he expected. It was, after all, the same as what each of their own bills showed for that; their leader did not splurge on a higher grade of room than what his men were given. Even the Room Service tab made sense, although from the looks of it, Garrison had entertained a guest (perhaps two?) for at least a couple of those meals.
But the rest of what was included was a mystery to him. Three hours of labor posted under 'Cleaning'. Two maids for three hours? To clean one small bedchamber and ensuite?
And of the other items, most posted under 'Damages' {"Damages? Craig? Again, if it had been one of the others, yes, I can see that, but Craig??"}, where did 'Replacement of two Hoovers', 'Replacement of three feather pillows', 'Replacement of three ripped cotton pillow cases', come in? As for the charge for a plumber for clearing of a stopped drain, that was equally a mystery. Problems with the plumbing were surely the hotel's responsibility, not that of a guest.
But it seemed he was not going to have his curiosity satisfied. Garrison may have flushed as he brushed off Actor's questions, but showed no sign of being willing to discuss the chain of events that led to that surprising total.
Even the other guys were getting in on the action, at least Casino was, teasing the officer to "come on, Warden, spill. Inquiring minds want to know. What the hell went on in there?" had any effect.
And while no one expected Chief to make a full push, usually Goniff could pinpoint what buttons to push and when in order to get a response out of their leader, would normally rush in to add to the interrogation. But not this time. There was only that knowing smirk, the "that's right, Lieutenant. 'Ow about you tell us all about it, eh?" and a few other mild pokes at the officer's avoiding of the entire subject.
In fact, it seemed the pickpocket wasn't even making a real effort at ferreting out the details, and Garrison didn't even seem to be upset at the small jabs coming at him from that direction.
Vaguely Actor wondered if Goniff already knew what Garrison was hiding, had somehow been bribed, coerced, or in some other way manipulated to hide whatever it was the lieutenant was so determined to keep from them. But that was hardly likely, not as much as Goniff liked to chatter.
And surely Garrison would know better than to even try to control Goniff's wayward tongue. It would hardly be judicious to rely on the Cockney's sense of discretion, not that Actor thought the man really possessed any such a thing, or on any promises to keep a secret, not once the pickpocket joined in the interrogation. His intentions might be good, but his enthusiasm frequently outran any of those that might exist, often left them whimpering in the dust.
Garrison sipped at the surprisingly good whiskey Goniff had scrounged for them from someplace probably best left unquestioned, and smiled serenely. A smile that seemed oddly familiar to the Italian con man.
{"Now, where have I . . ."} and almost choked on his own drink as he remembered where he'd seen a very similar smile, although on a different face, a smile hinting at so many secrets, yet hiding just as much. Well, once you had spend a full hour gazing at the Mona Lisa, as he had on more than one occasion, pondering what mysteries lay hidden there, you wouldn't be likely to forget that smile. The resemblance was disturbing, to say the least.
That thought distracted him enough that Garrison was able to make his escape, his secrets still intact. {"At least there's no one waiting to ambush me and force me to talk,"} he silently congratulated himself as he proceeded down the hall to head to his next meeting.
{"Or at least I hope not. Of course, I didn't get any warning yesterday either. At least this time I'm meeting Kevin Richards and he's never been one for such nonsense, at least not after that first mission together."}
And that was the case. The trip to HQ was uneventful, his reaching Richards' office without incident, certainly no ambush or trap waiting to snare him or put him through an inquisition.
And that was a good thing. He wasn't a fan of being ambushed, being caught off guard like that.
Then he reached for his wallet and stopped, his fingers touching that small messy clump of glued-together feathers, and couldn't help grinning.
So, alright. Maybe being ambushed in his own bedroom, having to grab his own weapon to fight off an unexpected attacker wasn't all that bad, not really. Especially when the weapon of choice was a feather pillow at close quarters, wielded by one smirking blue eyed devil as payback for being several hours late to their rendezvous. Expensive payback, perhaps, when you totalled it all up, but even now, his wallet quite a bit slimmer, he considered it all well worth it.
In fact, all of a sudden, he had half a mind to return the favor later that evening, especially since he'd managed to wrangle another leave for him and his guys from Major Richards, this one a full 48 hours starting immediately.
Actually, it had been Richards' idea in the first place, at least Garrison's inclusion. He'd not exactly made it an order, but it was, at the least, a very strong suggestion. As he put it, "Yes, I agree your men need a break, Lieutenant, but in my opinion, you do as well. You are under the heaviest pressure, bear the greatest responsibility. You really do need to learn to relax on occasion, let yourself enjoy what is available when the opportunity arises. What is that saying, 'all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy' and all of that? Use the next two days to their best advantage, Lieutenant Garrison; I believe you will find it far more beneficial than you might think."
Well, an order was an order, even if it was couched in less than direct terms, and Garrison could hardly ignore that, especially coming from a respected senior officer like Major Richards. (That he'd ignored many orders from senior officers when the circumstances demanded, that he dismissed as being irrelevant, especially when this new order was all in his favor.)
{"Relax and enjoy. That doesn't sound so bad, come to think of it. And I WOULD hate to consider myself a 'dull boy', after all."}
And Garrison was sure he could manage it easily enough; Goniff wouldn't quarrel with that plan, not that Garrison intended to brief him ahead of time, other than with their usual signal; wouldn't give him any more warning than Garrison had been given. And it wasn't like his other guys couldn't find plenty to occupy themselves in London for awhile longer.
{"But no more pillow fights. The extra charge for the maids was one thing, but adding in the plumber's charges and those two vacuum cleaners, that I can't afford again, not on my salary. I wonder, what about confetti? No, that would still probably cost a bundle to get rid of afterwards. Maybe a few water balloons? Lynn and I used to have fun with those on hot summer days when our parents were going to be gone for a few hours. Messy, but once everything dries out, it shouldn't cause any real damage; it didn't back then, and no one ever caught on. Maybe Henri knows where I could get a few of those."}
Henri Marchant gingerly opened the door to the room Lieutenant Garrison had just checked out of, NOT the same one he had occupied the night before, and sighed heavily.
"At least it is better, although we will need to move Lieutenant Garrison to a different room for the duration of his stay," he remarked to his nephew Paul, a budding hotelier in training, noting the absense of any stray debris, but also taking in the snarled and clearly damp bedcovers. Stepping farther into the room, he winced at the squishy feel of the carpet beneath his feet. That would take awhile to dry, he was sure, making another mental note, this one involving several rotating fans and opened windows.
"Better, perhaps, Uncle Henri, but do we really need his business so badly as to put up with the extra work? Perhaps we should suggest he and his men find another place to stay when they are in London?"
Henri eyed his nephew sternly. "Perhaps with another guest that would be the case, Paul, and I would not hesitate to do so; however, not in this instance. Lieutenant Garrison and his men are, well, 'connected' to the co-owner of the hotel, and I have no doubt the reaction would not be pleasant should I do such a thing."
"Your silent partner? But surely they would agree it would be better . . ."
"No, Paul, I can assure you they would NOT agree. You will learn, as a hotelier, that no matter the trouble certain guests might cause, the trouble caused by denying them would be even greater. This is one of those instances. And I expect you to follow my lead. Whether I am here or not, Lieutenant Garrison and his men are to be given every consideration possible. Any bill will be paid, I can assure you of that, in one way or another."
And if young Paul Marchant didn't understand exactly, he didn't question, either. He was there to learn from an expert, not argue with him. Although it would be interesting to one day meet that silent partner his uncle was so obviously leary about offending, and finally discovering what that link was that made the American lieutenant and his team such favored guests. It was bound to be interesting, he was sure of that. Almost as interesting as it would be to know how one man, an officer at that, could cause that much damage to one bedroom in one single night. Actually, two bedrooms over a span of two nights, with the reservation indicating at least one more night to look forward to. He idly wondered what the tab would be when the whole thing was totaled; it would be substantial, he was quite sure. He only hoped the lieutenant felt the expenditure was worth it.