Chapter Text
It's precisely because Parker's crazy that she gets away with half the shit she does.
Eliot's reading a book in the early-morning quiet when Parker shuffles sleepily into the living room. She's got Bunny in one hand and a bowl in the other, so Eliot turns the television on to her favorite Saturday-morning cartoons and moves his feet to make room for her.
She drops down on the other end of the couch with absolutely no regard for the milk in the bowl, arranges Bunny so he can see the tv, then grabs the ratty cuffs of Eliot's jeans, drops his feet on her lap, and tucks the bowl between his ankles.
Eliot calmly looks over his reading glasses at her, glad that he's learned not to violently react to unexpected invasions of his personal space when he's in the apartment. He raises an eyebrow, but she's already completely engrossed in the cartoons: grinning at the television through a mouth full of cereal as though using Eliot's bare feet to hold her breakfast is an everyday occurrence.
Eliot realizes that not only does he have no idea how to finish a conversation that starts with you should ask before putting food on other people's feet, he also intends to live the rest of his life without ever having to say those words. There's something wrong with you has a fifty percent chance of ending up in the middle of the exact same conversation that he is never, ever going to have, so Eliot rolls his eyes and goes back to his book. It wasn't like he was planning on getting up any time soon, anyway.
Parker's the kind of person who just can't sit still: she absently picks locks during briefings or flips a pen over her knuckles in the back of the van or runs her fingers over yards of rope to check for weaknesses while they watch movies. So, although it shouldn't be a surprise, it's entirely due to a lifetime of iron-willed self-control that he doesn't kick her in the ribs when she starts playing with his toes. He grits his teeth and glares at her, but she's still staring raptly at the bright colors on the screen, shoveling marshmallows into her mouth without ever looking at the bowl.
It's just her mindless fiddling, but those are his toes, goddammit. He doesn't feel like cleaning soggy cereal out of the couch, so he leaves his feet in her lap, huffs out an irritated breath, and goes back to his book. He's good at blocking out distractions.
- right up until she sits her empty bowl on the side table, grabs his ankle, and digs her knuckles straight into the bottom of his foot. Eliot shoots straight past surprised, bypasses pissed entirely, and ends up sucking in a breath while his eyes flutter closed in plain and simple pleasure. He wants to yank his feet away and ask her what the hell she thinks she's doing, wants to say you're supposed to ask before making someone feel so good that they can't think straight, but that's a conversation he's just not capable of having right now.
The irony isn't lost on him.
Eliot drops the book and white-knuckles the couch cushions instead; lets his hair hide his eyes while her hands dig out every ounce of stress he never knew he kept in his feet. She even manages to loosen the muscles in the ankle that's been broken twice and always lets him know when rain is coming, which is kind of a bitch in Portland.
His breathing is ragged by the time she switches feet: he's a little embarrassed, but if she doesn't want to stop, he sure as hell isn't going to make her.
Parker's fingers are sure and strong as they apply just the right amount of pressure to make him exhale in drawn-out sighs. She runs her fingers lightly over over the tops of his feet and slides them in between his toes; uses the heel of her hand to soften his arch before digging her thumb in hard and making him choke on the sounds he refuses make.
Eliot's a mess when she's done. His aching hands loosen their grip on the cushions incrementally as his breathing slows, his feet are so relaxed he doesn't think he could stand up even if he tried, and the rest of him is trembling through an unexpected adrenaline rush. He doesn't look up; knows what he must look like and doesn't want her to see his face.
She saves him by patting his feet and saying, "Sophie says I need to work on my grifting skills, so I said yes when she asked me to go shopping with her and I'm going to pretend to enjoy myself the whole time. Oooh! There's a Scooby-Doo marathon on all morning; you should watch that." Then she slides carefully out from under his feet and heads out, leaving Eliot staring bemusedly at a vaguely creepy stuffed rabbit and wondering what the hell just happened.