A/N: I have been seriously missing Strike Back recently. This one's based off a really old post (that I'm too lazy to find/link) in which Scott and Tasha get up to all sorts of shenanigans when the FBI and Section 20 team up. Stonebridge, being the only responsible one, is of course forced to (try to) save them from themselves.

Somehow, Stonebridge managed to stay calm the entire time he was talking with the cops at the front desk. He offered his passport for identification, explained his current work situation in the States, and after a few minutes of waiting, he was led back past the booking area to the cells. He wasn't surprised to see most of them were full—it was a Friday night, after all, and he was in the heart of downtown New York City. It was three AM; the drunks would be pouring in until sunrise.

He followed the duty officer back to a cell at the very end of the hall, lifting a hand to guard his nose against the smell as he walked. He tried not to think about just how many people had vomited in this place, or about how poorly it'd been cleaned up. The remnants of piss and shit and the sharp sting of industrial cleaner surrounded him almost to the point of engulfing him.

"There's my savior!"

Stonebridge sighed as Scott's drunken voice echoed down the concrete hallway.

"There's my favorite uptight Englishman! God, finally. Took you long enough, Mikey."

Stonebridge came up to the cell, glaring at Scott through the gap between the bars that held him. "You do realize we're guests here, don't you?"

"In what, prison?" Scott snorted, getting to his feet. "God, I'd hope so. You're here to spring us, right?" He glanced at the guard at Stonebridge's side with a grin. "I see you found a lady cop and put that British charm to work, huh? Good man."

Stonebridge ignored him. "Guests in America, I meant."

"Guests? Don't be stupid, this is my country. You're a guest."

"Yeah, and you're not being a very good host. We've been here three days and you're already behind bars?"

"Don't blame me for how I choose to celebrate coming home, Mikey. To each their own."

Stonebridge shook his head, then finally nodded to the guard, who unlocked the cell with a numerical passcode. No matter how much he'd like to leave his partner here to rot for a few more hours (or days), he knew doing so would only humiliate their position here in America further. And no matter how much he'd like to get kicked out of the U.S. and go home for a couple days, he knew such a rash action would bring nothing but grief on both Section 20 and the American FBI. They were here on a mission of international cooperation, to meet a common goal by neutralizing a common threat, and it couldn't be jeopardized by something so simple as Scott's inability to keep his pants on in public.

Stonebridge led the way back to the booking area, not bothering to hold his nose now as he walked past the other cells. He moved quickly, so fast that he was already through the main door when Scott called out to him from far behind.

"Hey! Where you going, Mikey? We need to pick her up, too."

"Her?" Stonebridge repeated, coming to a surprised stop while simultaneously wondering why he hadn't seen this coming. Nine-point-nine times out of ten, there was always a "her" involved when it came to Scott being in trouble.

His partner tipped his head down the hall, presumably in the direction of the women's cells. "Let's go. Can't leave the lady waiting. I made the call for both of us, you know."

Stonebridge sighed, but knowing the woman likely deserved to be rescued—from prison as well as from Scott—he gave in and followed the guard back down another cement hallway. This one smelled just as bad as the other, and was unfortunately even more rowdy. The men had been too straight—or too drunk—to accost him as he'd been walking to pick up Scott; the women in these cells has no such reservations.

Still, he took a good look at each of them, wondering which was the one Scott had been arrested with. A good lot of them were clearly prostitutes or drug addicts—likely both—but here and there, there were pockets of what approached normalcy. But none of them seemed to be familiar with Scott. Stonebridge was just about to give up searching when the guard came to a stop outside of one of the cells and waved one of the women inside forward.

To his shock, Stonebridge realized he recognized her. She was one of the FBI agents they were teamed up with, one of Special Agent Weller's people. Natasha, he remembered reading in her file as they'd flown over from London. But she went by—

"Tash!"

She smirked at Scott's boisterous welcome, coming forward when the guard called, and stepping through the gate once it was opened. Stonebridge had to bite back a sigh at the sight of her. He thought she was smarter than this—than Scott—but obviously not. In her defense, he supposed it wasn't really her fault; save for the stray terrorist here and there, Scott usually—incredibly—managed to attract intelligent women. Special Agent Zapata was no exception, it seemed, and Stonebridge pitied her for it. She'd be just another soon-to-be-forgotten name in Scott's long, long list of women he'd fucked once and never thought about twice.

Stonebridge led the way back to the booking room, not wanting to have to witness whatever those two were going to do now that there weren't bars separating them. After going over paperwork with the desk sergeant and paying the fines, they were all free to go, and this time, Tasha beat him to be the first out the door. Stonebridge moved to follow after her, but Scott held him back.

"What?" Stonebridge snapped, shaking him off, tired already of this errand and wanting it over with and done. "What now?"

Scott didn't even bother looking at him. He was focusing on the Bureau agent, now about a hundred feet in front of them. Stonebridge didn't even have to follow Scott's eyes to know they were glued to her ass. He shook his head and started walking after her again. Now that he was responsible for both of them, he couldn't let one wander off without the other.

Scott caught up a few paces later, bumping into Stonebridge. "Hey," he said, tipping his head forward to the woman a half-block in front of them. "Be honest with me a second. You think she'd fuck me?"

Stonebridge blinked in surprise. With a glance at Tasha in front of them, he lowered his voice, whispering, "What are you talking about? You mean you haven't already?"

"Would I be asking your opinion if I had?"

"But—You were arrested for indecent exposure!"

"Yeah, 'cause I was pissing, Mikey! We weren't fucking!"

"Why not?" He glanced at Tasha ahead of them, swaying as badly as Scott beside him. "You two had to have been drinking together for hours to get like this."

"Well, yeah, but… She wasn't exactly approachable on that front." Scott frowned, thinking. "Hey. You think she's into chicks?"

Stonebridge rolled his eyes. "Scott, for the thousandth time, just because a woman doesn't want to have sex with you, that doesn't mean she's a lesbian."

"In my experience, it does. Lesbianism is the only understandable reason why a woman wouldn't want to sleep with me."

"You're a moron. That's why women don't want to sleep with you."

"I bet I can get the one with the tattoos to sleep with me."

"Ha!" Stonebridge laughed out loud. "Careful," he warned with a grin. "I think you might be treading on somebody else's land there, mate."

Scott snorted. "Right, like that actually matters, Mikey."

"Maybe not to you, but definitely to everyone else involved. That boyfriend of hers wouldn't be happy."

"What, the fed?" Scott rolled his eyes. "Please. I could take him. The man wears suits to work, for Christ's sake. And he's never even seen combat!"

"Hm, and yet something tells me he'd be able to rise to the occasion," Stonebridge commented. He caught Scott's disgruntled eye and laughed again, spreading his arms in open invitation. "Hey, but by all means, go ahead, Scott. Pick a fight. I would love to watch someone take you down a few pegs. Especially here."

Scott rolled his eyes, muttering a curse under his breath, but Stonebridge could see the determination hadn't quite left him. It always amused him, how Scott couldn't bother to look twice at some women, and yet could fixate on others for weeks.

"Why are you so interested in her anyway?" he wondered aloud. "You two don't have a single thing in common."

"So? Since when do people have to have anything in common to fuck? I just wanna see how far those tattoos go."

Stonebridge sighed. "You're just trying to see how many women you can bag before we leave the States again, aren't you? That's what this is all about, right? You're having a competition?"

"A competition? What, with you?" Scott threw his head back and laughed. "Please. I'd win by default. You haven't gotten laid since, what, 2014?"

Stonebridge raised his voice. "Actually—"

"I mean, you fucked up everything with Martinez—I don't know how, the woman was literally in love with you—and now she's off screwing drug lords in Colombia—"

"Imprisoning them, you mean."

Scott grinned. "Yeah, between her legs."

Stonebridge rolled his eyes. "You're such an imbecile."

"At least I know how to go after what I want. I don't just let it run away."

"Can we change the subject, please? Maybe return to work—you know, the only reason we're here?"

"Yes, back to the tattooed chick!"

"She does have a name, if you care to remember."

"I don't, really."

"You should. We're supposed to be here cementing international ties—"

Scott grinned, grabbing at his crotch. "Yeah, and how better to do it?"

"You're an animal."

"Thank you. And hey—it doesn't have to be all about me. I'm a team player. You score with the blonde yet?"

Stonebridge blinked, thrown off-track. "What?"

"Dude. Don't be an idiot. She's into you."

"She's not into me."

"Don't be modest; of course she's into you. All the chicks are into you here. I hate being in America with you, you know that? It's like you open your mouth and all the panties immediately start dropping."

"Oh, you only notice that when it happens in America?"

"Fuck you," Scott snapped, while Stonebridge laughed.

"It's unbelievable. You'd think they'd never heard a British accent before." Scott shook his head. "And you know what the worst part is?" he demanded of his partner. "It's that you don't even take advantage of the gift you're being given. You could've worked your way through half the twelfth floor by now, but instead you're pissing your chances away left and right. Women are literally throwing themselves at you." He mimicked a female's high-pitched voice. "'Oh, Sergeant Stonebridge, I brought you those files you asked for.' 'Oh, Sergeant Stonebridge, here's a glass of water.' 'Oh, Sergeant Stonebridge, here are my legs, would you like to fuck what's in between them?"

Stonebridge rolled his eyes. "Don't be an ass," he muttered. "None of them act like that."

But he couldn't get Scott's mention of the blonde special agent out of his mind. He knew exactly which one Scott was talking about—not only because there were so few blondes on the twelfth floor, but because there was one in particular that stood out from the rest. Special Agent Patterson.

She was smart, and funny, and pretty. She was really damn pretty.

But he hadn't spoken more than ten sentences to her since they'd arrived.

"I don't even know her first name," Stonebridge confessed finally.

"What, the blonde?" Scott grinned. "Well, perfect!" He slapped Stonebridge on the back. "There's a conversation starter. I'll use it too—you start with the blonde and I'll tackle the tattooed one. Then we can trade."

"You're disgusting."

"Maybe, but at least I get results."

PS – For those of you that don't watch Strike Back, Sullivan Stapleton plays what is basically the antithesis of Kurt Weller: Damien Scott. Because my mind still cannot reconcile the fact that this one actor plays these two vastly different people (ya killin' it, Sully), I love meshing them into the same universe and imagining how they'd interact. Hope you enjoyed this! Please leave your thoughts if you have some. :)