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Some You Lose

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Summary: Para Liaison Summers, meet the Losers. Crossover with the 2010 movie. Drabble-verse.

Categories Author Rating Chapters Words Recs Reviews Hits Published Updated Complete
Movies > Losers, The(Past Moderator)FaithUnbreakableFR152445,8033830159,63716 Oct 106 Oct 13No


A/N: So I already did the flailing and squeeing over on my lj, but thank you everyone who voted for me at teh COAs. You're amazing. Also, thank you for the reviews on this baby. Have fun!




In which movie night does not quite go as planned.


Clay sneezed and then cursed just because he could. That, and he felt like shit. He would have glared at Snake again, but he kind of felt sorry for the man, since the entire team was glowering at him like he’d cancelled Christmas.

He deserved it, though. They’d told him not to go running around in penguin-weather without a hat on. Had he listened? No. Instead he’d brought home a spectacular case of the cold and dragged them all down with them. Out of the five of them, not a one was healthy. The level of sickness ranged from a case of the sniffles (Summers) to sick as a dog (Snake, who no-one had any sympathy for), with the rest of them somewhere in-between.

And because giving away your position by sneezing during an operation was not advisable, they were stuck here until they were healthy again. Only Clay was fairly certain that Romanian winters did not lend themselves to people getting better from a cold. Dying of it, maybe.

He cursed again and leaned back in the sofa he’d commandeered. He was the boss and if he was going to suffer, he was going to do it on the only comfortable piece of furniture in the place. Texas and Snake were sitting on the lumpy bed of the hotel room they were in, sharing a box of Kleenex between them like girls at a slumber party. Roque, who was too scary for even bacteria to really attempt messing with him, was screwing around with the laptop that held the team’s collective entertainment.

Summers on the other hand, was flitting around like a bee: busy, busy. The team’s standard MO for cases like this (which happened more often than Clay liked because they were constantly sitting on top of each other during ops), was to find some hard liquor to climb into and then retire to bed for the next twenty-four hours with a gallon of water or so.

Mom (and no, he was not calling her that out loud, even if he could see why Snake thought it was a fitting name at times like this) had taken one look at the booze and thrown it out, bitching at them that bringing their immune system down further wasn’t going to help. Then she had recruited (a by then only slightly sniffling) Roque and dragged him all over town to get meds and everything they needed for tea. She drugged them all up to the gills and somehow, mugs of tea kept popping up wherever Clay looked.

He wasn’t going to admit it, but her way didn’t feel half as shitty as his did.

But now their superhuman was coming down with the cold, too, so she was finally slowing down. She was currently dumping a pile of blankets and pillow she’d fetched from her own room in front of Clay’s sofa.

Simpsons?” Roque asked, plugging the laptop into the surprisingly modern TV.

Collective groans followed and Clay shook his head. “No way. I’m pulling rank on this. I’ve seen enough Simpsons to last me a fucking lifetime, Roque.”

The big man shrugged and double clicked on a movie before straightening and looking around. The bed was taken. The sofa was taken. Summers patted the floor next to her and Roque sank down with a grunt, stuffing a pile of pillows under his ass.

“Hey! Mine!” she protested the pillow-abuse.

“Find something else to lie on,” he shot right back, not moving a muscle.

For a moment Clay thought they’d have yet another fight on their hands. But then Summers got that glint in her eye that meant Roque was about to get flustered and pulled a blanket over herself before lying down. With her head straight in Roque’s lap.

He jerked up his arms, looking down at her like she was spreading cooties on him. “What the fuck you think you’re doing?”

“Finding something else,” she informed him, sounding vaguely more nasal than usual. Then she punched his thigh like she would a pillow and settled down. Roque kept his arms in the air for another minute, glaring. The rest of the team watched, biting their lips to avoid laughing out loud. Five foot nothing completely unhinging six foot four always made them crack up.

Then Roque accepted defeat and gingerly settled one of his hands on the back of Summers’s head, fingers digging into her hair.

Clay snort-swallowed a laugh and then ordered, “Run it.”


“You know,” Summers drawled, “If that were a real fight, that dude would have lost about three hands and his head by now.”

“Dude,” Snake protested with a cough, “He’s immortal! Jack can’t touch him.”

“Does immortality extend to severed limbs?” Texas threw in, then sneezed.

“Forget the limbs,” Roque rumbled. “Why is he waiting for the fucker to get back on his feet? He should stab him right there. Pin the son of a bitch and blow him up, or something.”

“It’s called honor, Roque.”

“Shut it, Mom. I ain’t watching this crap no more.” With that, Roque dislodged the blonde from his lap and went to change the move. Apparently, he had enough of pirates.


“Dude,” Snake piped up as soon as the first images of Independence Day flickered across the screen. “No way. A computer virus? Seriously? They’re this super advanced race that travels thousands of light years to enslave the Earth and they don’t have a fuckin’-“ sneeze, “-firewall? I coulda done better than that at twelve. Change that shit.”


Texas grunted disgustedly in the middle of the first firefight of the next movie, throwing a wad of used Kleenex at the screen. It fell short and landed on Clay, who threw it back, followed by the remote. Unlike the sniper, he hit.

“Ow, fuck,” the Texan howled, holding his nose. “I dan’t bweathe anyway, Cway, you fuck’r.”

“Don’t throw your shit at me, Corporal,” Clay shot back.

“The movie’s cwap!”

“No it’s not,” Roque barked, trying to keep his attention on the screen.

Texas stopped prodding at his nose long enough to say, “Yes it is. Who the fuck uses Desert Eagles? They’re big. They’re flashy. And they don’t hold more than nine rounds. That’s shitty.”

“So they’re modified, shut up.”

“Ain’t no modifying a Desert Eagle, you dumb prick. And how many shot does the guy have anyway? We’re going on thirty. He hasn’t changed his magazine!”


“Right. An explosion this size? The guy should be a smear on the pavement. And look at…”

“Roque!” Clay yelled, way beyond fed up with his team bitching at every. Single. Movie. They. Had. “Shut up, damn it!”

“What? It’s not realistic!”

Clay closed his eyes. He took a very deep breath. He paused to cough and took another, more shallow breath. Then he exhaled.

“Put on the fucking Simpsons, Roque.”


And the fun apart about this? I'm sick as a dog, too. Yay!
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