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Eliot plays at the brew pub on Thursdays and Fridays, and sometimes Sunday mornings, but that’s not a time listed on the small blue poster hanging on the cork board in the atrium. Sometimes there are cancellations because apparently the big banks who are in the black book don’t care that this beautiful man likes to pay guitar quietly on a small platform on Thursdays, Fridays, and sometimes Sunday mornings, and make Leverage international go galivanting about on previously established days that makes the regulars cranky. Old man Phillips comes up to Hardison and he says “young man where is that nice country boy who plays the guitar for us on Thursdays, Fridays, and sometimes Sunday mornings” and Hardison says “he’s in Yemen overthrowing a small team of capitalistic USA militants who have the code to a nuke and are aiming it at a small town full of orphans and nice bakeries.”
No. He doesn’t say that.
But he really wants to.
The brewpub went through a weird week, after Sophie and Nate left. Sure, they never truly left; they still talk on the phone and send messages to each other, and if the couple happen to be in the same city as them on a heist, they will all get brunch together; but the team split up, and that was hard to recover from. Eliot adapted, as he does. Parker wasn’t afraid to tell the boys that she missed them, and that was good; not that she was sad, but that she trusted them enough to tell them. It took Hardison a week or so of falsifying records, creating identities, and organizing the longest, most expensive round world trip to give to them as a gift before he could really come to terms with their departure.
It all seemed up in the air for a second; the moment the swing crests and you feel weightless and floating, but with the knowledge that you will come crashing down at any moment, only for days on end. It wasn’t spoken, but Parker and Hardison knew they held the same fear.
Eliot was going to leave. The other two left, and Eliot had said that he would stay with them, but people lied. The fear festered and gnawed at the back of their minds, underneath their late night conversations and early morning cuddles. Until Eliot, being Eliot, took a big, deep breath and said, “I’m making stew to test for the brew pub, who wants to help.”
It took the other two a few days to figure out what was going on, but they caught on. Eliot, like Parker, thrived on routine. Their routines had involved Nate and Sophie. Now they didn’t. So, they needed a new one that wasn’t just heists and cons. Hardsion smiled, realizing that Eliot was using their resources, the brew pub, to reestablish a norm, a safety net, for the three of them to keep them mentally and emotionally safe, in a way. And everyone said Hardison nested.
It continued like this for a few months. Leverage reached out to some good folk, setting up the tentative net of an international operation. Small, of course, but important. Parker continued to experiment with being a leader, growing into her new role, talking to clients, and practicing listening. Eliot, when not on jobs with the other two, began to spend more and more time in the brew pub kitchen, which Hardison was quite happy with thank you very much.
Predictably, as Eliot’s involvement with the food grew, the brew pub grew. And with the growing success of the brew pub, much to Parker’s confusion and Hardsion’s delight, came more opportunities, like new brewing equipment, and fun menus, and live music nights with local bands. Of course, it quickly became a popular place for music. The atmosphere was good, the musicians were always perfectly chosen to fit the mood, and the paycheck to the performers was suspiciously generous. But they weren’t going to say anything.
But even after five years of working with Eliot, and now four months of basically living with him, as they spent most of their free time at the brew pub, things still surprised Hardison. Such as Eliot, covered in sawdust, sitting in the corner of the brew pub with a stack of two by fours and a set of no-nonsense power tools.
“Eliot, Eliot man what are you doing? Why are you cutting up my bar?” Hardison took in the mess, and absolutely not the sweating man in a tight black t-shirt sitting in front of him holding many very manly tools.
“I’m not cutting it up, Hardison,” Eliot shot back, “I’m making a stage.”
Hardison pursed his lips, “A stage? I did not request a stage.”
Eliot sat up, ripping the protective glasses off. “Nope, but the little band that you hired is coming to play again, aren’t they? And Parker told me that bands play on stages and told me that they need a stage or else they won’t be a band, and also the acoustics in here aren’t great, so we need to level them up to create a better atmosphere and separate them a little from the diners. So yeah, I’m building a stage. Because Parker told me to,” He ended with a frown, clearly perturbed as Hardison began to grin.
“Well, can’t argue with the mastermind, can you. Carry on, carry on,” He waved his hand at the power tools before giggling as Eliot flipped him off. Of course Parker told him to do that; lord knows the girl knew what she wanted. Often what she wanted was the strangest tasks for Eliot to complete that made sense when she explained them. That’s why she would make the big bucks, if any of them actually took a paycheck for anything anymore.
He wandered into the back room, sitting down onto the couch, flipping through the channels. A rope flipped down from the ceiling, followed swiftly by Parker, gracefully lowering herself down onto the couch next to him.
“Hey babe,” he quickly kissed her cheek as she disconnected the harness with smooth practiced motions. “Did you have Eliot build a stage for our music nights?”
She shrugged, “Maybe.”
“Because bands need stages?” he repeated with air quotes, just to let her know he was on to her. Parker rolled her eyes in response.
“Okay, you are just as interested in him using power tools as I am,” Hardison coughed, trying to be surprised, but the thief knew him to well at this point.
“I mean, maybe I just appreciate good craftsmanship- no you right, you right. His muscles girl, his muscles,” Parker giggled before sighing, looking down at the floor.
“Do you think he knows?” She asked quietly, and Hardison shook his head, intertwining their hands.
“No. Even if he did, its Eliot. Do you think he’s really going to confront us about feelings?”
Parker sighed again, the corner of her mouth twisting down in thought.
“You’re thinking about telling him, aren’t you?” Hardison asked. Parker didn’t respond, but that was as much of an answer as anything. “Hey, babe. We talked about this. We take this at your pace. I’m ready to talk whenever. If you have a plan, I’ll follow your lead. I lo-“
“Hardison!” On cue, Eliot burst through the door, empty jar in hand. “Where the hell did my sea-salt go?”
Hardison turned back to the hitter, already knowing which buttons to press, “It’s all in the back man, I had to test the ionization gun on something.”
“Dude this is expensive. It’s from Greece!” Eliot huffed, like it made a difference to Hardison, but there was little malice behind his voice.
“Just ask Sophie to steal you some more next time she’s there,” Parker shrugged, her thoughtful frown quickly replaced with a grin. “Besides, you’re almost out of that special sugar too.”
Eliot frowned, “No, I just bought some the other…Parker did you eat my sugar?” She smiled at him before dashing to the stairs. “At least tell me you ate it with something. Parker? Damn it-Parker.”
Hardison giggled as Eliot pointed a menacing finger at him, “I blame you dude,” before chasing after the thief. That interaction was going to the group chat with Sophie immediately.
It had been a few days since they had built the stage. Despite the dubious reasons Parker had requested it, it was a nice addition to the pub, giving the artists an area to set up, and a designated stuff for the (suspiciously) expensive equipment. When asked about it, Amy, per instruction, just shrugs and says “donation.” Amy is bright; it didn’t take her long to find out that her three bosses were criminals. While the scope of their criminal activity was ambiguous, she knew they were good people at heart and didn’t push, especially after Hardison’s look he gave her after her brief google search on the pub computer. Though it was a judgmental “really? that’s cute” look more than anything else.
The music performances had started strong and continued to bring in a steady crowd, creating the ideal atmosphere of community and entertainment. No matter how annoyed Eliot got at some of the groups, the other two knew he had a soft spot for young musicians, especially ones who excelled at acoustic guitar. No bias. The regular music acts had been going on without a hitch until last Thursday, when Hardison got a call from their band for the night.
“What do you mean someone stole your band van?” Hardison waited on the phone as the 20-something year old explained again that “someone stole our band van and equipment and we can’t get to your gig” means exactly what it sounds like.
“Where was your van parked? No, I know, just give me a street,” Hardison scribbled down the street, as well as the band’s name, and license plate number (which he already had memorized. He’s not an amateur) and tucked the paper into his pocket. “Okay, don’t worry, listen, I’m gonna still forward you the payment, get back to me when they find your van,” he hung up despite their protests of being payed for not playing.
“Good news and bad news,” he said, turning to the other two.
“The bands van was stolen…” Eliot began.
“And we get to steal it back!” Parker ended excitedly, arm slung around the hitter as they shared a sandwich.
“Good news- Parker and I get to steal it back,” Hardison corrected, taking a bite of the now apparently communal sandwich. Eliot’s head shot up in confusion.
“But I’m off tonight-“
“Gooder news, drum roll please, you’re covering for the band! No need to thank me,” Hardison exclaimed happily, and Parker slapped Eliot on the shoulder.
“Yay! Eliot’s the fiddle!”
Eliot sputtered, “What? No! Car thieves are violent-“
“And so are crowds of regulars who have no entertainment for the evening when promised some. Besides, Parked and I are old pros,” Hardison pointed out as Parker nodded sagely.
“Exactly. Remember the race car dude? It’ll take an hour, two tops,” Parker argued, slipping down from the counter she was perched on. “Come on Eliot, please?”
She blinked up at his, biting a lip in excitement and Hardison watched as his defense crumbed in real time.
“Fine. Just this once.”
“Just this once,” to Parker and Hardison, apparently meant two times a week. Eliot grumbled as he plugged the mic in, shifting the strap of his guitar on his shoulder. What was he expecting? Give and inch, take a mile, that’s how it was with these people. Every time. At least it was only going to happen once- not like these folks in Portland were going to appreciate his country singing anyways.
“Folk, Eliot, the style you are singing is folk and they love that shit,” Hardison explained to Eliot, sifting through the notes left on the brew pub’s social media accounts and comment box that was in the atrium. Ever since the first performance two weeks ago, Eliot had become almost as popular as his chili special and Hardison’s new stout. In Amy’s words, “At this point it’s more surprising when he’s not good at something.” Parker had to agree.
Eliot sighed, “I’m not your monkey, Hardison. I don’t sing and dance for you.”
“You’re not doing it for Hardison. You’re doing it for you,” Parker stated, glaring at him. Eliot simply stared at her until she sighed and continued, “When you sing you get happy.”
Eliot didn’t respond, so Parker new she was right. It’s almost creepy the way she could to that, Hardison reflected. Like she took all of the skills most people have in reading others on the day to day, and hyper focused it down to just read the two of them. Not that he would complain, especially when it made Eliot sit in stunned grumpy silence at a realization that he wasn’t as subtle as he thought.
So it continued; they decided upon Thursday and Fridays as his regular days and Amy printed up a small blue poster to go in the atrium next to the weekly rotating schedules of other artists. He would go up on stage around 8 with his acoustic guitar and stupidly smooth drawl and sing nice songs about long walks and cars. It was late enough that the pub was filled and active, but still quiet enough that it fit the environment. He only actually sang for a few minutes, most of his limited forty-minute set dedicated to playing and humming. He didn’t beg to be listened to like some of the younger bands, didn’t assume he was what everyone was there for, like the older performers that didn’t last long. No, the thing that drew people to him, was that every time he got up on that stage, he really just played and sang for himself. Even though Parker was still sometimes figuring out what her feelings meant, even she knew what emotion she was having when he got up on stage. Often Hardison and Parker would sit in the back of the bar, content to just listen to their hitter sing into the mic.
Eliot knew what people thought. He wasn’t stupid. As a hitter, he had spent years cultivating a skill in looking nonthreatening and enigmatic, if he did say so himself. He knew that Parker planned this, and Hardison was an accomplice. Oh sure, the van getting stolen was real. But everything after that? Please. But he had to admit, he really didn’t mind. It was actually kind of nice, being able to quietly strum the guitar and sit and think for once. For so long the only time he got to think for himself was when he was training, zoning out as he fired a gun at a target or hit a punching bag. Now he was able to do something he genuinely enjoyed doing and get rewarded for it. It helped that it seemed to make Parker and Hardison calm down to, perched in the back of the bar, eyes unwavering, watching him.
He hated how much he liked when they watched him. It made him feel safe…wanted.
It stayed like this for a while. Eliot would play Thursdays, Fridays, and sometimes Sunday mornings, and play the requests of Miss Peirce and the greasy 16-year-old who just bought a guitar and wanted to be like Eliot, which made Hardison crack up. He would play the guitar and try to ignore Parker and Hardison watching him, making himself realize that they didn’t want him. He was just their friend. Them watching him didn’t mean anything.
Until it did.
Because good old Miss Peirce and her girlfriend, on the night of their anniversary, requested Eliot play their song, because they like his voice so much, and he agreed because unlike what Hardison says, he has genuine respect for relationships and love. He just doesn’t have any in his own life. So, he played their song. And Parker and Hardison were there.
And Jack requested the next song. And Jack was in the Marines, and Eliot and he got along, so of course Eliot wasn’t going to not play his song. And Parker, with Hardison, was there.
And now Thursday nights, but not Friday nights, were request night, and Eliot played any and every song under the sun, because it made the other two smile. No matter what song, from goopy love ballads to classic rock songs to protest tunes, Parker and Hardison were there. Watching. Listening.
He wasn’t playing for himself anymore. Sure was taking requests from the patrons. But he was playing for Parker and Hardison. And suddenly changed into to something…more.
“Is Eliot okay?” Parker asked one day, ducking comfortable under Hardison arm. He continued typing one handed on his keyboard, graphics and codes flashing across the monitor.
“I don’t know babe. Do you think something is wrong?”
“I…Something changed. With the singing,” Parker scrunched her nose, keeping her fingers interlocked with Hardison’s, pulling gently. She didn’t want to ask for undivided attention; she wasn’t sure she could, really, but Hardison understood the cue, quickly finishing what was on his screen with a few confident lines of code, before turning to her.
“I’d be lying if I said I had noticed anything, but why don’t you talk me through it.” Hardison smiled up at her, once again passively realizing how silly it was that he loved this woman as much as he did.
“Okay well, when this all started, he seemed like, very inside. And happy. And so I thought that if he kept doing it, he’d think things through, and maybe think about how he felt about us,” Hardison nodded. It had been the next step in her master plan of talking to Eliot about how they all felt. While he preferred direct communication, dealing with not one but two damaged hearts and nuanced communication, he was willing to follow Parker's lead.
“So, he started seeming happier, and started being like, open? And then we started watching him, and he always seemed happier, when we’d do that. But the last couple of days we’ve done that, he looks sad. Did we do something different?”
Hardison wracked his brain, “I don’t know babe. I really don’t.”
Parkers eyes flashed quickly turning to concern, “Alec did we mess up?
“Parker, I love this whole testing the waters thing. But I really think we gotta talk to him, girl,” Hardison placed a gentle hand atop hers.
“What if he only likes one of us? What if I miscalculated? What if I-“
“Parker,” Hardison softly stopped her brain from spinning out with the sheer number of possibilities, “Don’t freak yourself out. You’re approaching him like a mark. Eliot isn’t a mark. He’s our friend. We want him to be our boyfriend. I know emotions are weird girl but lets just trust in him. In us. Lets talk to him okay?” She nods, and Hardison can’t stop himself from pressing a chaste kiss against her lips. “Besides, I’m running out of suggestions of romantic songs to ask Ms. James to request on Thursdays, so we have got to wrap this up.”
It was a Friday, so Eliot was in the corner, strumming at a new set of strings as the regular patrons listened on hopefully and a few new faces looked on nervously. He couldn’t blame them; he didn’t look like the ideal dinner accompaniment. He didn’t have a mic at his throat today, just in front of his hands as they began strumming well-worn rhythms. He wanted to think. It was ironic; some of the only times he could think through his feelings alone were right here in front of twenty people and the two individuals who made him turn thought after thought over and over again in his head.
Parker and Hardison stood in the back as the were want to do, hand in hand. He didn’t need to look at them to know. "They don’t love you like you love them" rushed through his head and brushed the thought away with an ‘e’ chord. He didn’t know that. Be realistic.
He worried sometimes, that he was mistaken. That really, he was just physically attracted to Parker, but thought he was attracted to Hardiosn because they were a package deal. Or that he wanted to be with Hardison but the heterosexuality beaten into him starting at age ten wouldn’t let him believe that. But it had been a month of playing guitar and staring at them, and five months of working at the brew pub together, and six years of trusting each other with their lives. He didn’t want one of the other. He didn’t want to break up that relationship. He wanted…he wanted what he had. Was that not so fucking selfish?
Wrong chord. Shit.
Maybe it was. But he knew they kept watching him. Did they know? Did they suspect? Did they hate him for it? Eliot couldn’t bear that. Of all the tortures he’d undergone and survived, knowing they hated him or wanted him gone would be one he couldn’t walk away from.
He took a deep breathe, switching seamlessly into another song, calming himself. He wasn’t going to let himself think like that.
But what else was he supposed to think, with them staring at him like that? They had been for weeks now. Holding hands. Taunting him. Reminding him, he was separate. The three of them were a unit, but they were also a pair. It stung so goddamn bad that Eliot had to press a little firmer with his fingers to bring himself back into focus.
He needed to talk to them.
“We need to talk,” Hardison said, gently pulling Eliot towards the back room. It was around 2 a.m. After playing, Eliot quietly went back to work in the kitchen, helping chop vegetables and pour drinks. Hardison and Parker waited, small talk with the regulars, checking in with some past or potential clients. Never a dull moment. But now it was 2 a.m. and the staff was gone and the patrons were gone and Hardison was guiding Eliot into the back room and the hitters heart was sinking because all he could think was that it was over. He had looked at them one too many times. Had played those love songs with too much fucking pining. Had hugged Hardison too long, had kissed Parker's cheek, had-
“El!” Hardison shook him and the hitter reflexively batted his hand away.
“Yeah fine man, can I go home now?” Eliot pursed his lips, but the other two could see his worry. Hardison turned to Parker.
“You still want to do this babe?” Parker nodded. They had decided that she would breach the initial confrontation, as she and Eliot had a way with words that Hardison didn’t. And by way he meant communicating absolutely without them because them being, well, them.
“Eliot. Are you mad that we are in a relationship with each other?” Parker stated bluntly and Eliot stared in shock as Hardison lowered his head to his hand. That was on him, they should have written up a script.
“I…What?” Eliot stuttered, heart flying up to is throat. Parker looked upset. Hardison looked upset. He made them upset. Shit.
“Do you want to come between us?” Parker asked again, watching Eliot’s expression closely.
“No. No!” Parker took a breath glancing at Hardison. She must have phrased something wrong. Eliot looked angry. No, not angry, Parker corrected in her brain. He looked frightened. Why did he look frightened. Hardison stepped forward, hand on her back in reassurance as he rephrased the question.
“That um…that didn’t come out right. She’s asking if you wanted to come in between us like together. At the same time. The three of us.” Hardion worried at his lip, waiting for either Eliot or Parker to bolt. But they stayed.
Eliot watched both of them incredulously until a quiet, “I…what?”
“We both like you. You like both of us,” Parker stated so obviously that once again Eliot’s brain had to rush to catch up with his heart already in his throat.
“You…I…You both…Why?”
Hardison placed a hand at his elbow. A peace offering, of sorts. “Because man. You’re with us till the end. We haven’t been a couple for a long time. You’ve always been in the equation. When you came back to the brew pub, when you stayed with us, with the brew pub. We knew it wasn’t just the two of us. And…everything you do. It sounds ridiculous but…it feels like it’s been for us.”
“I knew I was being too fucking obvious. Parker is this why you wanted me to play the goddamn guitar?”
Parker shrugged, “Hey, we like looking at you. And listening to you. And we thought maybe we could, you know, get you to figure it out.”
“Of-course that’s how your wonderful stupid brains would work,” he sighed once again, but there was no anger behind it. It spoke of contentment, and familiarity. He thought for a moment, before resting a calloused hand atop their joined hands.
“So?” Parker asked, excitement glittering in her eyes.
“So?” Eliot asked back. Hardison rolled his eyes.
“Don’t be like that. We just told you we liked you. You gonna kiss us or what?”
Eliot barked out a laughed, bringing Hardison into a gentle kiss and oh. That’s what he was missing. Hardison gasped, eyes fluttering closed as the older man’s chapped lips met his, a warm, strong hand wrapping around his waist. His heart fluttered as he felt Parker's hand meet Eliot’s on his back, and they tangled their fingers together against him. He smiled as they parted, eyes meeting.
“That was really good,” Hardison breathed out and Eliot had the audacity to blush at the compliment.
“Aint my first rodeo,” He mumbled before turning to Parker, arms outstretched. “Well?”
She grinned that special Parker grin, reserved for tricky locks opening and complex climbing equipment, and launched herself into him, tangling her hands up into his hair. Hardison watched in awe at the two of them for a moment, melding so perfectly into each other, waiting with baited breath for jealously to climb up his throat…but when only warmth and pleasant stunned fuzziness blooms in his chest, he leaned forward, wrapping his arms around them. They parted, faces flushed and eyes sparkling as they turned to him.
“So, we good?” He asked, eyes glancing back and forth.
“So good,” Parker nodded. Hardison dropped a chaste kiss on her cheek in response. Their sites shifted to their hitter, a smile lighting up his face as he watched them.
“Eliot?” Alec ran a hand along his arm. “We good?” he repeated, and he swore the other two could hear his heart fluttering against his ribs.
Eliot nodded, looking them both in the eyes as he shifted forward, “It’s going to take effort. Not just because its me, okay? Three people can be a lot. You know that, right? You two have got to work on communication, okay? I’m getting old and can’t survive being on the receiving end of your schemes,” He continued to explain as they waited with bated breath, nodding and agreeing until Eliot gives them a sigh and a grin, pulling them into a hug.
They laugh, adrenaline fading away into giddy contentedness, pulling and pushing each other into a tangle of limbs. They would have time to talk and plan and set boundaries and figure out what this them was. But for right now, the three of them simply reveled in the excitement of being with each other. Hardison ran his long dexterous fingers over their arms and shoulders, strong and sure from years of fighting and climbing. Parker curled her fingers into Eliot’s long soft hair like she had been waiting to do for months. And Eliot stared unabashedly at them. And pulled them both into a kiss when they stared back.
On Thursdays, Fridays, and sometimes Sunday mornings, Parker and Hardison park themselves behind the bar, watching and smiling as Eliot plays the regular’s requests, somehow always making it a message to them. And when Leverage International goes galivanting about, they come back and old man Phillips comes up to Hardison and he says “young man, where was that nice country boy who plays the guitar for us on Thursdays, Fridays, and sometimes Sunday mornings” and Hardison says “My partners and I had some business out of town” and he grins as Parker nods, grabbing his hands to pull him back to the kitchen. They stumble back in and Eliot pecks them both on the cheek, feeding them whatever he’s come up with now before they can steal it, and they kiss the bruises on his cheek and shoulder in return.
And when his hand heals from the barbed wire incident from the Scottish cow job, Eliot continues to play at the brew pub on Thursdays and Fridays, and sometimes Sunday mornings, even though it’s still not a time listed on the small blue poster hanging on the cork board in the atrium. Of course, neither are the late Tuesday nights when he sings to Parker and plays with her hair as she rests against his chest to hear the deep vibrations of his singing. Or the early Monday mornings when he practices guitar quietly in the office Hardison runs one more bug test on the new ear buds for Leverage International. And there are still Sunday morning cancellations because his partners need breakfast in bed on Sunday mornings. Because after what they did to him last night, they deserve chocolate chip pancakes and fresh fruit and espressos. And Hardison wakes up with a smile and Parker bounces excitedly and Eliot grumbles about crumbs in the bed sheets. It had only been a few weeks since their talk, even though it felt like years. Although, if you think about it, Hardison argues, they had been in a relationship for years, and it was only the last few weeks kissing was an option.
Maybe that’s why, when Eliot goes up the mic on a Friday at 7:58, he glances up at their beaming faces, and has no hesitation in leaning into the microphone and murmuring, “This is for the loves of my life.” And as Hardison and Parker watch from the back, hands intertwined, he starts to play.