It took Rusty about three minutes to figure out he was attracted to Harry Potter (for the third time).

It took him substantially longer to puzzle out that, yes, not only had they met, but that they had also had sex. Rather hot, fiery bathroom sex, some alleyway bump and grind with some contorted Twister hotel bed fucking to even it all out.

Really, he didn't know how he could have forgotten it all.

Though to be fair he had remembered most of it, just couldn't quite recall who it was exactly that helped him get his rocks off. He cherished that time over the footboard for a particularly long time.

And the whiskey may have factored in a bit.

Rusty had always been a proficient drinker, but there was enough alcohol that night to out a fairly fat panda to sleep. Errr... Maybe that was off. Enough to fill a bathtub at least. (Which explained why he peed so much that morning after, a tidbit he had hmmed and hawwed over a bit. He just didn't think his bladder was quite that big.) Quite simply, a man's brain was not built to handle that much fermented beverage, something had to give. Which was, apparently, the face of Harry Potter. The man he put his cock in.

Really, he thought, it wasn't fair that that was what got tossed. If he had lost, say, what the grain of the wood the bar was built of or the pattern of mildew spots that looked like Jackie Chan's face in the shower (both facts he recalled distressingly clearly), then he would have been a much happier, much busier and far less idiotic man during the Bellagio heist.

But he didn't remember, didn't follow up, so he didn't get laid and instead just sort of stared like a middle school boy peeping in the girl's showers. Or the guy's showers, you know, if he swung that way.

Hindsight's always nasty business. Actions that seem perfectly logical at the time, then looking back... Well, fuck. That was dumb. Which just about summed up everything Rusty felt when he came to the realization that he had fucked Harry Potter sideways. (And upside down, which was really nice, but mostly a byproduct of falling most of the way of the bed and being to drunk to do anything but finish and fall down.)

Now, a couple weeks after leaving Vegas to move back to LA, there was nothing to do but sit around and think of something to buy with his money. (Usually snobby wine and snobby clothes.)

And call himself an idiot, which happened quite frequently.

And think about Harry. (Which usually led up to calling himself an idiot.)

He knew Basher talked to him on a semi-regular basis.

Danny, well Danny had his own ex-wife related problems, so he and Rusty hadn't gossiped recently. (They didn't gossip, they were men, they conversed and shared very vital information.)

But Linus was on the East Coast, last he heard, helping Harry with the Warhol Self-portrait that was all the rage at that last art auction in New York. Linus. Kid was, well, a kid. Surely not as worthy as Rusty was.

Pfft. Amateur.

Christ, he needed a drink. Time for that snobby wine to come into play.

It was near four am in California time, he wasn't sure how that translated over to Where-Ever-the-Fuck, Europe, but that was when the phone rang, his cell lighting up the room through the fabric of his pocket. It was probably some unholy time over there, too.

Rusty's head hurt, like someone had given him to much wine. Oh, wait, that was me.

Either way that ringtone was like the devil's doorbell, impaling his brain with it's shill little notes. He considered going back to sleep, but dismissed it as impossible, highly unlikely and probably painful.

Rusty delved into his pocket, fishing through gum wrappers and receipts to grab the cellphone from the Realm of Mother-in-laws and All Things Evil. And promptly blinded himself with the glowing little screen.

Flipping it open, "Who the fuck is this?" He wanted it to be angry and loud, but against his will the words emerged hoarse, quiet and laced with a sharp whine.

"Harry Potter. Is this a bad time, Mr. Ryan?"

There it was, that English accent from the hotel room. Boom, sober Rusty. (Well not sober, but at least awake and aware.)

"Uh, no, no. I was just getting up. Exercise in the mornings to get the blood flowing and all that."

Rusty blamed his stupidity on the lingering hangover and not at all on the nonexistant need to prove himself a worthy candidate for someone who clearly already thought he was hot and shit.

"In that case, Mr. Ryan, I was wondering if you had anything scheduled for today, tomorrow?"

Yes, sober Rusty moves in for the kill. Casual, keep it casual, remember he wants you more than you want him. You got this in the bag, stud.

"No, not that I can think of," he said leisurely, trying to keep his headache out of his voice, "Why do you ask?"

"Really? I was under the impression you had a flight today," the British man said.

And really all that Rusty could manage (again he blamed the hangover) was, "Huh?"

Smooth, Ryan.

Harry continued as if he hadn't spoken. "It's a shame really, because I was rather hoping that since you would be in the country you would be available for a job, but I guess if you aren't I can find someone else suitable..."

"No! I mean, well, I must have forgotten my planner somewhere. What's the job?"

"The Storm on the Sea of Galilee, are you familiar with it?"

"Isn't that that painting that was stolen back in 1990? I thought it's been missing for ten years?"

"Well, I found it, are you interested?"

I'd be in if you were stealing the Pope's toothbrush, good take is just a bonus. A really cool bonus.

"Yes... When exactly did you say my flight was? I must have lost the information."

"Today, flight 467, Seaflight Air, LAX. Five thirty."

"Five thirty? That's in," Rusty sat up and jerked to the side, looking at the glowing red numbers at his bedside, "an hour! Jesus, I'm never going to make that!"

"Ah, I didn't calculate transportation into the ticket. My apologies, Rusty. Though if you want to catch that flight, I suggest you run."

As Rusty grabbed a pair of shoes (no socks) and his wallet, it didn't occur to him that Harry Potter clearly bought the tickets and he could call back to demand a new one. He didn't even think to buy himself a flight with the obscene mound of currency that he was so indecisive about the day before. Hell, Rusty didn't even take his suitcase.

He just ran.

Fin.

Fun stuff. I might do a sequel or a one shot in this vein. But for now I'm finishing Man in Fangorn. Then we'll see. I've already got some one shots in a couple different fandoms bouncing around, a couple Legend of Zelda, another HP/Lord of the Rings (oneshot) and half a dozen Twilight ideas bouncing around. Which is ridiculous, because I despise Twilight, but something about it makes me want to poke.

As per usual, tell me what you think about Ocean's Extra, my ideas, what you'd like to see, whatever.

If you love it or hate it, either way, let me know. Or maybe you think my writing's so mediocre you can't even bother to care enough either way, tell me.