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Somewhere, far away, he’s being tortured.
It isn’t particularly effective, no more annoying than one of Hardison’s long-winded explanations...fine, so maybe a little more annoying than that, but Eliot’s not about to admit it over the comms.
Anyway, he’s just doing what he does.
If these assholes were good at doing what they do, or further along in the process, he wouldn’t be able to drift this far, leave his body in the tiny, freezing room of blaring noise for this quieter, warmer place. It barely pings against his awareness, those discomforts. If the team needs him, they’ll yell and he'll rouse, as he always does. They’re good at yelling. Currently though it’s a waiting game. He’s good at waiting.
“Same. Least I used to be,” comes a cynical drawl.
He wasn’t expecting her to join him, can’t help but respond, “In which lifetime? ‘Cause the Aimee I know…” he half-smiles. She hasn’t turned up in a while, his Aimee, but the company, such as it is, is welcome.
“You really wanna talk past lives?” She sits cross-legged facing him, her fingers rapidly pulling a strand of her hair into a small, tight braid. It’s a habit she’d picked up in school, something to do during boring classes when she’d prefer to be cleaning tack, or working horses, anywhere but the small, stuffy classroom. In those days, his own hair too short for braids, he’d watched her out of the corner of his eye, jealous of her having a task to set restless fingers to. Neither of them were much good at sitting still, staying out of trouble.
In the meantime, he’s mastered at least one of those skills.
There’s a trick to this, the drifting. He isn’t floating away, he’s just anchoring himself somewhere else, giving his brain something to do that doesn’t involve cold, loud cells. Sometimes he thinks up recipes to try. Sometimes he reviews his catalog of minutiae.
Sometimes she stops by for a chat - usually when he’s in worse hellholes than this basement run by sadistic students.
“Nah. Don’t know why you even bothered show up for this.” It’s not like he’s particularly concerned about this job. It’s gonna suck, but if he judged any job by physical comfort, most of them sucked. That wasn’t the point. Never had been.
“You tell me. It’s your head.”
“Guess I’m bored.” Not something he’d complain to the crew. His shit wasn’t boring. Hardison’s shit was boring. But him and Aimee had spent plenty of time being bored together so admitting it to her didn’t lose him anything.
Her fingers stopped twisting the braid for a moment to give him a Look. “Whumpa-tink, whumpa-tink -- that was back in Belgrade right? Got your operation hijacked by CIA--”
“Idiots got half my team killed. Didn’t give a shit.” For a moment he’s back there, screaming a warning seconds too late too late if he’d turned a moment sooner--
“Assholes.” It’s one word, said with enough disdain and dismissal that he’s tempted to laugh long and hard, ensuing questions about his sanity be damned. Instead he starts his own braid, waggling his eyebrows at Aimee to make her laugh in his stead. He’d learned to braid on horses, their rough manes tamed into neat, complex plaits under his fingers, Aimee rushing around in her usual last minute panic before a show. The horses would take their cue from him, stand patiently as he worked, flicking their ears between his voice and the sounds of Aimee puking in a bucket in the next stall. She’d emerge, lean against his back for a moment as he worked, low voice murmuring to her as much as the horse.
She does that now, leans her back against his, both taking support and giving it.
“Thanks.” Eliot forms the word silently, letting it flex his throat before sitting on his tongue unsaid. So much unsaid, between him and Aimee. Still, she feels warm and solid behind him, which is a good indication that what he has done, in this quiet, private place, is gone and invented his own type of crazy.
She thunks her head against his. “If I’m keeping you company, least you can do is give me a proper hello.”
“Proper greetin’ huh?” He winks at her, not that she can see it, or needs to, for a figment of his imagination to take the hint.
“Semper fi, huh?” she returns, with a solid spike of bitterness to the words. Aimee’s never been a very cooperative figment. Part of her charm. She twists the ring on her finger.
He always imagines her with that ring - the promise he’d kept intending to keep. It comes with its own spike of regret. If I was known for keepin’ my promises then I wouldn’t need this hallucination, now would I?
******
“Well, that guy’s an idiot. Not like he’s going to break you.” She scuffs a foot on the floor, and he can’t help notice her words ring hollow. Not a good sign. He likes having Aimee around, but only as her. No version of Aimee, including the one in his head, is comfortable with all the ways Eliot is currently imagining breaking the Interrogator. Depends on the torture. Depends on the man.
“I mean, hell, if screaming and hitting a table were all it took, your old man-”
“Gonna get some sleep now, Aimes,” he interrupts her, dropping out of his drift into the aching cold of the cell.
“Remember the standpipe?” Her voice follows down after him, just like the all the other times he'd walked off and she'd stormed after, intent on continuing whatever argument they'd been in the middle of. Aimee's not the type to let things go.
And yeah, he remembers. How the irrigation guy would drop his long pole down the bottom of the vertical pipe, to twist the acme screw, loosening the cover and letting the water bubble out. It would rise out of the pipe, flood the yards, convince grass to grow where grass had no interest in growing, and a couple hours later, he’d come back around to tighten it down again. Except, one day he didn’t come back. (Now, thirty years later, Eliot suddenly thinks to wonder why.) The water kept spilling out of that pipe, until his pa, grumbling under his breath, summoned him.
“How long you think you kin hold yer breath for?” he’d asked the 6 year old Eliot, pulled from a game of hide n’ seek, where hopefully Aimee got the hint that he wasn’t coming to look for her.
“Long time, probl’y.”
“Which way’s an acme tighten?”
“Right.”
“C’mon then.” He’d sat Eliot on the edge of the pipe, and over his pa’s shoulder he could see Aimee, splashing towards them, rage at being abandoned fading to confusion in her small face. “Deep breath now,” he heard, and Pa grabbed his ankles and tipped him head first down into the dark, narrow, flooded pipe. There wasn’t enough light to see by, and Eliot was suddenly intensely aware of the closeness of the walls. Of the fact that if his father dropped him, he wouldn’t be able to maneuver himself out. His heart thudded loud in his chest, and the lungful of air seemed pitiful now, nowhere near enough. His fingers brushed the screw. They seemed pitifully small as well, but the screw was accustomed to movement, and large enough to get a grip on the bent end where the pole usually hooked, and his pa believed he could do this. So he did it. And then he was back up in the sunlight, wet, and gasping, and proud.
“Don’t think they’re planning on water torture, Aimes,” he mutters. Why else would she bring that up?
She doesn’t answer.
*****
“You’re back.” Her eyes track down to the taser burns hidden beneath his shirt. “Talking to other people sucked that much, huh?”
“Apparently there’s a policy against it,” he groans, taking stock. His whole body aches from the electric current, but he’s satisfied. “They want us isolated. ‘Cause that ain’t a problem for vets already.”
Aimee gives him another Look, which means there’s some Words on their way.
He lets the noise back in, wondering if that will drive her off, half-hoping it won’t. Okay, so maybe more than half.
“I WONDER WHAT HAPPENED TO BENNY!?” Aimee screams over the blaring racket someone, somewhere thinks is music. Damn, he’d forgotten about Benny. Or hadn’t, apparently.
“Probl’y got run out of town by Old Lady Hamilton for pounding those drums all hours of the night. Hope so, anyway.” He doesn’t yell. Technically, there’s no reason for Aimee to, but try telling Aimee not to bother, and see how far that gets ya.
“Oh please, you hated that woman. She used to throw rocks at that mutt of yours.”
“Nah, for his sake. That town never fit with Benny.”
“Or you.”
“Hey now, I ain't the only one that high-tailed it.”
“High-tailed. Hah. Anyway, there was work for Dad in Kentucky. Not quite the same thing.”
“You’d’ve preferred sticking around?”
“Not after the divorce, no.”
This is a new track. They’ve had this conversation plenty of times. There’s a familiarity to it, retracing why he left, why she stayed. But she hasn’t visited him, not like this, since he’d seen her last. Seen her for real. It’s a reminder that this isn’t real. Aimee’s not really leaning against the opposite wall, keeping him company. She’s down in Kentucky, training horses, like she’d always intended they do together. It’s him that had other plans. Him that had to get out, had to summon up memories of her to keep from going crazy in shitholes across the world. Yeah. Cause hallucinating your childhood sweetheart is a great way to keep off the crazy, Spencer.
“I don’t mind.”
“Don’t mind what?”
“Being your hallucination. Just. Well, you have other people to talk to now.” She jerked her head vaguely in his direction. “That thing in your ear.”
“This is...tradition, I s’ppose. And they don’t need me distractin’ them. This is my job.”
“Your job’s pretty shitty.”
“High likelihood of gettin’ to punch these bastards later.”
“And that’s what’s motivating you?”
“When I do get out - this ends. For good. Nate'll see to that.”
“I get that. Doesn’t mean you have to spend the meantime alone.”
“I...I like talkin’ to you. Spoolin’ out memories of home.”
“Yeah, well then why don’t you ever pick up a damn phone, Eliot?”
He lets the music pound at him for a bit, instead of replying. She usually brings that up. And he always promises her - and himself - that he will, when this is done. It’s a promise he’s never quite managed to keep.
“That why, huh.”
“Didn’t say nothin.”
“Well, subconscious Aimee’s getting real tired of your horseshit, El.”
“You’re the one spending her life muckin” stalls.”
“Which makes me an expert, I’d say. You like talking to me because you’re selfish. Oh, not the way other people are selfish, no - you’ll give and give and give of yourself till there’s nothing but a bruised and bloody mess. You’re the horse that runs til his heart bursts, and some people think that’s courage. I think that’s a horse I have to bury.”
This isn’t right at all. Aimee yells at him sometimes. Calls him stupid, and foolhardy, and tells him not to get his worthless ass killed, but not like this.
“Would it kill you to tell someone you’re lonely? To have a conversation about shit you've lived through that isn’t about bragging rights? You think the people in your head that aren’t your invention wouldn’t care?”
“That’s not how it works.”
“You tried to get Nate to talk, very first job. Why?”
“He calls the shots. He was also drownin’ in grief and scotch, which doesn’t exactly lead to good decisions. Needed to get a read on him.”
She nods, slides down to sit cross-legged on the floor. “Well, you have some experience in that, I’ll grant you.”
“That’s why, Aimes. You know about...that shit.”
“Others would to. If you told them.”
*****
“Well. That was some telling.”
“They shouldn’t have heard that.”
“Yes, by all means, try to keep up the illusion that their hitter is a big cuddly teddy bear. Oh wait, no, you haven’t let them in on that secret have you? You should. If only so Hardison can send me pictures.”
“Dammit, Aimes! There’s a difference! All that stuff - they don’t need to be thinking of that. I do what I do, and they do what they do, and that’s why the team works.”
“Congratulations. You’ve graduated from horseshit to bullshit with that cowpie.”
“It’s called-”
“Compartmentalization, I know.” She tilted her head. “We took psych together, remember? Did you reach the part in the textbook where it explained how it’s a coping strategy and not all that healthy before throwing it across the room?”
“We’re only having this conversation ‘cause I’m on a campus and listening to Hardison and Nate’s con talk.”
“And you just overshared with an interrogator in a CIA funded experiment for how to trigger PTSD in vets through sleep deprivation and isolation.”
“I told him exactly what I intended to.”
“Right. My bad. It’s your team you overshared with. And me.”
“I can’t overshare with you.”
“So why are we having this conversation, again?”
“'Cause you won't leave me the fuck alone.”
“There's rules to this, remember?”
“I don’t have to remember shit. You’re a figment of my imagination.”
“Look, jackass, if you wanted a figment that only said what you wanted to hear, why the fuck did you summon me?”
“I- fair point.” He groaned. “Rules, huh?”
*****
“You know what this reminds me of?”
“You’re gonna tell me, regardless.”
“That time your daddy’s truck broke down, out in the backwoods, middle of December.” She folds her arms loosely, an odd contrast to his, tucked tight across his chest, fingers burrowing into his armpits. “For a guy who hates being cold, you sure get yourself into plenty of freezing situations, Eliot Spencer.”
“This ain’t that bad. Truck was worse.”
“One window stuck down, and temperature dropping, and you insist on being stupid and gallant, and giving me your jacket.”
“You were shiverin’,” he argues, and regrets it, the silent words setting his teeth to chattering.
“What's that noise? ” Oh now Hardison’s bothering to listen, not like before when he was telling him about CIA choppers.
“That's my teeth chattering. It's 20 degrees in here, but at least there's no music. Don't worry about me, Hardison. You got rush week to deal with,” he snaps aloud, to guilt him into shutting up.
“I had a coat already and you nearly got pneumonia, but sure, justify that bit of stupidity for me again.” That’s the thing about Aimee. He can’t shut her up. But she’d gotten him long underwear as a gag gift for every christmas after, and he’d worn it, to call her bluff, he’d insisted. He wouldn’t say no to a pair right now though, listening to the rush of cold air whistling out of an air vent. Too small for Parker, a newer reflex of his brain notes. Conjuring up Aimee to keep him company in these situations, that’s an old habit. Looking for ways Parker might come in feels almost as natural, despite it only being four years.
“This worth it?” She hasn’t moved from her position by the opposite wall. Aimee’s rarely still, always brisk and focused forward, on getting this done and moving on to the next thing.
“Yeah.” He doesn’t need to explain why. The times he'd felt that need - those were the times he'd later realized it wasn’t. This job - this one’s worth it.
She nods, accepting his answer. She only debates when he explains. Rules.
It’s not quite sleep, what he manages when Aimee falls silent. He’s thinking about the standpipe again, descending through the dark water, walls closing in. A flash of pale skin moves in the murk in front of him, and he follows, lungs aching, until he surfaces to the sound of Aimee’s echoing laughter. Oh. Different memory then. This is the cave from a few summers later. She’d found it, God knows how; the only entrance a slit several feet below the water level. Eliot had followed her through the narrow passage in the rocks, aware that, like the standpipe, there was no room to maneuver. Only thing to do was trust her. No question there. On the other side was space enough for two kids - almost teens - to sit side by side on a boulder above the water level, his skin warming even where she wasn’t leaning against him.
Warm. He’s-- he blinks to find Parker there, tucking a coat around him firmly. Warm.
“Look at you, accepting a coat,” Aimee teases after Parker’s gone. He vaguely wishes she was wearing the bathing suit from the last memory.
“Part of the plan,” he mutters defensively.
“Was it? Finding people who look out for you?”
“That’s not - it’s the other way around!”
“Riiight. Of course. Cause Eliot Spencer doesn’t need anyone.”
He squirms inside Parker’s coat. “Go back to the cave, Aimes,” he says, rather than dignify that with a response, and lets himself drift away.
*****
The job’s done. He’s played his part, putting the fear of God into that second-rate interrogator who dared think he could touch one of Eliot’s crew. The CIA fucker’s torture theory proven, if not wrong, then extremely bruised, Nate’s fucking game theory proven right, and Sophie’s girlfriend tying up loose ends on locking these assholes away.
He escapes the bar, where Hardison's inflating the number of guys that attacked him again, mumbling something about getting a quiet night’s sleep in a reasonably heated room. It’s horseshit, or bullshit, or whatever shit Aimee’s ready to accuse him of now. He doesn’t get to use the memory of the dead without them haunting him, not for at least the next week. But the rest of the team keeps sliding looks full of questions his way. Questions they don't ask. If they asked, he'd tell them. It's better this way. Rules.
There’s a woman leaning against a streetlight, her honey blonde hair hanging forward around her face as she taps at her phone. For a moment, just the space of a breath, he thinks it’s her. Then she glances up, wary, gauging the threat he poses. He forces himself to relax, features smoothing into a non-threatening smile, shoulders rounding slightly as he gives her a brief, polite nod and moves on, trying to forget the moment of hope that washed through him.
Then why don’t you ever pick up a damn phone, Eliot?
He dials her number before his brain can register what a bad idea this must be.
“Eliot? Is something wrong?” It’s late and Aimee sounds both worried and annoyed; exactly as he’d imagined and far more real.
“Nah, nothin’s wrong. I just- I just wanted to talk.”