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"Really, Roger," Jason said, striding heroically to his car, "was it completely necessary to karate kick my date in the crotch?"
"Absolutely," St. Hammond said. He scowled at Clarkson's back. "She was a spy."
"Yes, yes, I know that," Clarkson said, be-gloved hands waving irritably. "Obviously she was a spy. But you could have at least waited until I was finished." He swung his giant body into the Jensen and gunned the engine. "Toodle-oooooo."
St. Hammond frowned and watched as Clarkson drove recklessly into the sunset.
"Don't worry, Rog," James said quietly.
St. Hammond about died. "Christ, Steed, don't sneak up on me. I nearly killed you with my mortal karate-chopping skills."
"Ah," Steed said, pushing his glasses up his nose and tactfully refraining from mentioning that St. Hammond hadn’t actually made any karate-type moves. He had a smudge of soot on one cheek, Roger noticed.
"In any case, I'm not worried," Roger said. "He's an utter pillock."
"It's just..." Steed trailed off, toying with the antenna of his remote bomb detonator.
"Just what?" Richard asked, turning to look at him. James's eyes darted up from the RBD to meet his own. The moment seemed to stretch, and Richard felt himself leaning forward as if by magic...
By magic? Now really, that's just stupid.
Okay, yeah, so. Richa- Roger is looking at Steed, okay, right. But he's... yeah! He's actually just studying him, like he's a...
Oh sod it. Roger's looking at Steed when suddenly- !
When suddenly, out of nowhere, something like sixteen ninjas jumped out of the bushes! Yes, this is more like it!
Instantly, St. Hammond's battle-honed reflexes kicked in and he karate-chopped the nearest ninja in the throat: instant kill. Steed, meanwhile, had pulled out his handgun and was busy rapidly and excessively shooting a ninja in the chest at very close range.
Roger's vision want red as his chopped and kicked and hacked his way through the ninjas. His fists and feet were a deadly blur, teeth bared, moustache bristling.
A rasping whisper brought him up short. "Roger," Steed gasped. St. Hammond looked up from a particularly violent foot-to-chin smash and froze.
It was Alex von Wilman, and he had a gun jabbed into the soft flesh under James' jaw. The remaining ninjas took advantage of Roger's distraction to seize him by the arms.
"So, Interceptors," von Wilman said, evilly, "ve meet again."
"You'll never get away with this, von Wilman," Steed choked out.
"Shut ur mouf, Steed," von Wilman hissed. "So, St. Hammond, yu haf a choice tu make. Gif me one million dollars, or watch yur pretty leetle partner DIE!"
Cackling, von Wilman clocked James in the side of the head with his gun and scuttled away, dragging James with him. The ninjas released St. Hammond and disappeared, leaving Roger panting and desperate.
"Right," Roger said, gritting his teeth. "Time to get down to business."
[ Some time later... ]
"Done!" St. Hammond cried, flinging his spanner aside. He leapt to his feet and started towards the door, only to be brought up abruptly by the sight of his own reflection. He'd taken off his crushed-velvet sportscoat in deference to the heat, but he was still sweating like a pig surrounded by pineapples at Easter (to quote Jason). His hair stood up in sweaty clumps; his sunglasses were fogged up and kept sliding down his nose; even his dashing moustache was wilting.
"Sod it," he said, baring his gleaming teeth. "I've a date with von Wilman, and it's not right to keep a lady waiting."
Pithy catch-phrase uttered, Roger slipped into his sportscoat, smoothed his moustache, and swung into the driver's seat of his Interceptor. Grinning, he hit the gas and blasted out of the garage, sending bits of door flying.
[ Meanwhile... ]
"So, Steed," Alex von Wilman gloated, stroking his absurd goatee, "yur time is almost up." He strutted around the table he had Steed restrained spread-eagled on.
"Roger will come for me," Steed said, eyes steely blue behind his glasses.
"Oh, I vould not be so sure," von Wilman said. He stepped closer to Steed, eyes full of dangerous intent. "Do yu really luf him, Steed?"
"Luf him?" Steed asked, wrinkling his nose.
Von Wilman gestured wildly at a minion ninja, who held up a sign that read, 'Love him.'
"Love him?" James repeated. "I-"
"Be carefull how yu answur zat," Alex said lowly. "Be very carefull indeed... For instance, can yur beloved Roger do zis?"
He mercilessly pinched Steed's nipple, wrenching a groan from the other man. Relenting, he stroked his thumb gently over the tender skin (because oh yeah, James is naked. Oh yes. Yes. UM! Right: von Wilman is being a bastard!). Steed whimpered.
"I du not sink he culd," von Wilman murmured in Steed's ear. "I sink he wuld rahzer do zis to Clarkson, don't yu?"
"I- no!" James said, twisting his head away. "Roger is- Roger would never-"
"Oh no?" von Wilman arched an eyebrow. "Why du yu sink he is always... "cock-blocking" Jason, hmm? Yu sink he does it for fun? You sink he did zis “cock-blocking” earlier wis ze gurlfriend becuz he is so concerned wis the team’s safety?"
James trembled and manfully refused to answer. Alex grinned and slide his hand down Steed's chest, fingertips dipping just below the metal restraining bar that conveniently covered his wedding tackle.
"I sink he does it out of JEALOUSY!" von Wilman shouted, and roughly squeezed. James bit his moustache to stifle his cry of pain.
"I sink yu've got it wrong," Roger said. Von Wilman whipped around to see St. Hammond standing on a pile of mostly-dead ninjas, his moustache gleaming in the industrial lighting. A ninja gave a muffled groan and St. Hammond aimed a nonchalant kick to the man's head, killing him instantly.
"How did yu get in here?" von Wilman demanded, drawing his gun.
"I modified my Interceptor into a tank so it could burst through your concrete bunker," Roger told him.
"Zat doesn't even make sense," von Wilman shouted.
Ignoring him, St. Hammond stared at Steed. "All right, James?"
"Carry on, Rog," James said.
"Right," St. Hammond said. "Alex von Wilman, I have a package here for you. It's called, my fists."
"WAT DOES ZAT EVEN MEAN," von Wilman bellowed, but it was too late.
Roger was flying through the air, sportscoat blowing back to reveal his manly turtleneck, moustache gleaming like a shampoo commercial where the shampoo was actually for very manly moustaches. One foot was tucked up, the other aimed squarely at von Wilman's rumpled face.
His trainer landed solidly, and von Wilman staggered back.
Roger kicked the fez off of von Wilman’s head, ignoring his muffled cry of shattered evilness, and hauled him bodily over to a pole, to which St. Hammond cuffed him. “Take that, crim,” he said with finality, and finally, finally, turned to Steed.
Taking two long and manly strides, St. Hammond crossed to the table-thing where Steed was being helplessly held prisoner. Moustache bristling, he wrenched open the metal restraints and helped Steed into a sitting position. Groaning, James leaned heavily against him.
“I’m sorry for what that dingleberry did to you,” Roger said, sweeping his sunglasses off his face.
“Thank you for saving me,” James said, a little breathlessly.
Richard stroked a hand through James’ hair.
“Anytime, mate.” He let the word say everything he couldn’t. The helpless rage he felt, knowing James was in von Wilman’s evil clutches, and the burning jealousy in his gut at the sight of the madman’s hand on James’ plums. The way Richard would try so desperately hard to make James laugh, to crack his stony concentration and let the goose-honk giggle wash over him like a cool stream or something else that was soothing but also sexy. The nights he spent desperately wanking to the smell of motor oil and tea bags. The way that the briefest look from James was enough to undo him.
James’ eyes snapped to his, and something rather like an electric shock sizzled along Richard’s nerves.
“James,” he said, quietly.
“Richard,” James said, eyes so damn blue behind his glasses. The evil lair seemed to recede somewhere far, far away, until it was just the two of them: the karate expert and the technician, Hamster and Slow, Richard and James.
Well, that looks like there were six but it was just him and James and they were about to have sex. Or kiss, in the very least.
“Uhm, Hammond,” Wilman said from the floor.
Richard ignored him, licking his lips and leaning towards James. Christ, this was finally going to happen.
“Hammond,” Wilman said again.
James’ hair was soft under his hand, his stubble rough against his-
“HAMMOND!” Wilman bellowed, and Richard fell off the couch.
“Oh for fuck’s sakes, Andy,” Richard moaned, flinging away the mouldy pillow he’d been clutching.
“Pardon me, your lordship, but you’re needed in the hangar. If you can tear yourself away from Monsieur Couchon for five minutes,” Wilman said, slamming out the door.
“Couchon is pig, you stupid twat!” Richard shouted after him, standing angrily on tiptoe.
Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair. “Next time, Steed. Next time.”