Work Text:
There are rope burns on Eliot's hands.
He noticed they'd been blown just as Parker jumped off the roof - that someone, somewhere, found out what they were up to and had sabotaged Parker's equipment while The Team was doing their last perimeter check. Someone sneaky and clever and willing to kill to protect their client. Eliot already had a list of possible active mercs that fit a stealth infil profile scrolling through his head even as he dived for the rapidly unrolling cord.
Knowing he didn't have time to grab gloves. Knowing what it would do to his already damaged hands. The tightly braided metal fiber was far worse than woven rope, slicing through his palms with slick precision, but he wasn't gonna fucking let go of Parker. His strangled yell over the comms had even Sophie stuttering in her grift, and he grunted out a quick summary of the situation between heaving breaths as Parker's descent jolted to a halt - the end of the cable mere inches from slipping through his bleeding fingers.
Parker's trip back up the side of the building had been even worse. Eliot shut down what parts of his brain he could, trying his best to blank out on the pain, as he continued pulling hand over hand along the cable. She'd yelled at him to stop, that she could free climb from there, but it still hadn't stopped raining and the concrete was slick and there was no way in hell Eliot was gonna take that chance.
Hardison found them another route down a back stairwell. it would never have led them to their goal for the con, but it would get them to the back alley easily enough. He was waiting for them by Lucille when they came tumbling out - Parker wild-eyed and anxious, Eliot blank-faced and disassociating as much as he could safely allow and still be able to respond if a new threat reared its head.
Hardison couldn't help the low "oh my god," that slipped from his lips when he finally saw Eliot's hands, fingers curled unnaturally and clutched tight to his chest, bright red still running through them. He ignored Eliot's raspy "they're fine, just get us out of here before the Mark knows we know we're blown," to gingerly take his wrists and peel them away from his shirt. Eliot's mangled hands were shaking, fingers wracked with spasms, palms sliced damn near clean through, and twitching muscle visibly-
"Alec!" Eliot bit out, tone urgent, but didn't pull away. It snapped Hardison's attention back to the situation at hand, but he still couldn't bring himself move until Parker slipped his hands away and slid into place in his stead.
"I got him," she murmured quietly, and Eliot ducked his head, and Hardison could get back in the driver's seat knowing Parker was handling it.
He realized Nate was still yelling in their ears.
"Guys? Guys, talk to me! What's happening?"
"It's alright, sorry," Hardison managed to choke out as he turned onto the street and points Lucille towards home. "We're out, putting some distance between us now. No confirmation yet on how we got busted, and Eliot... Parker's got him covered."
And she did - but only so much as what she could use from the basic kits stocked in the van.
But there are rope burns on Eliot's hands, and they're still bleeding.
The the of them make it back to the brewpub. Nate and Sophie are on their way - there's still no way to know whether it was only Parker and Eliot's side of the con that got blown, or if everybody's busted, so they found a way out that was quick but could still work with the grift just in case - but there's still about an hour before they arrive and can start working on Plan J.
Eliot tries to head off on his own, thinking that the rudimentary first aid Parker applied in the back of Lucille would be enough to appease Hardison's worry. It's not. His teammates bundle him upstairs, to less complaining than they anticipated, and usher him down on the left side of the sofa.
Eliot's mostly quiet as Hardison sits on the coffee table opposite him, pulling his damaged hands close. He doesn't watch the unraveling of the quick bandages Parker applied, doesn't flinch at the hydrogen peroxide and antibiotic cream. Just twitches his fingers a bit here, takes a sharp breath in there, and mostly keeps an eye on Parker. Still more worried about her state than his own.
Parker is still trembling where she's curled up on the right side of the sofa. She's safe, nothing more than some bruising around her rig where it wasn't supposed to take her weight at that particular angle, but she's shaking. The kind of nervous shake of someone coming down off of adrenaline. Eliot wants to reach out to her, offer one of the comforting touches they've been working on, but his hands are currently in Hardison’s lap. So he stretches one leg out across the couch and shoves Parker's ankle with his foot. She uncoils a little to tap back with her own toes.
Hardison keeps his touch gentle as he cleans, disinfects, rewraps those hands. The hands that protect him. Protect Parker... The hands he's never really gotten to examine this much. That he only really gets to see when they've either caused violence or had violence done to them.
'It's not fair,' he thinks, 'that these hands never get to touch without violence involved.' He's surprised by the longing behind the thought, by the want. By how it's not just for Eliot's sake that these hands deserved to be touched gently, but also by how much he wants to touch. For his own sake.
He watches Eliot watch Parker for a few minutes while his thumbs run over the last edges of the bandages. Watches Eliot clock her need for assurance. Watches her respond in kind. Mutual understanding passing between them in a language Hardison’s still not quite able to speak. And he realizes he's okay with that.
Actually, he's more than okay with that. He likes it. To know that Parker has a second safety net stretched across a different axis than the one Hardison provides, just in case she falls in a direction he can't catch... but what does Eliot have? He takes the hits for them. Tears up his hands, from palm to knuckle for them. Catches ropes even when they slice him up, and then reassures them when it should be him receiving comfort for it. What does he get in return for it?
'Us.' The thought dawns so simply in the back of his brain as Parker slowly unfurls, playful shoves slowing to a stop and her leg just resting alongside Eliot's across the center of the couch. Casual. Comfortable. Easy. 'He has us.'
"All set?" Hardison jumps a little as Eliot's voice breaks the silence Hardison hadn't even realized was drawing on so long.
"Almost," he replies, gently turning the bandaged hands over. Testing a theory, he let's his thumb glide along warm wrists as he guides Eliot's right palm around. He locks eyes with Parker and lightly, deliberately, presses a soft kiss to the center of it.. While Eliot splutters and stammers, Hardison takes the left hand - carefully coaxing it open side up - and holds it out to Parker. His girl picks up what he's putting down and the shakey smile she'd been nursing since they got safe turns into a delighted grin. She follows his lead and places a kiss of her own in Eliot's other palm. They break their gaze to look at the man between them, who's staring wide-eyed and red faced, pupils blown with pain, lingering adrenaline, and something else.
"We should touch more," Parker supplies, blunt and straightforward as usual. "When you're not hurt. Stop getting hurt."
"I-... I can't just... Parker, that's not-"
"You know mama, I think you're right," Hardison hums. Eliot's right hand is still in the grip of his left. With his own right, Hardison slowly trails his fingers up the inside of Eliot's arm from wrist to inner elbow. The over-sensitive limb - raw and buzzing from the physical pain at one end and the palpable longing from the man attached at the other - trembles beneath his touch. "The thing is, that's not just a You And Me decision, is it?"
He's responding to Parker, but he keeps his tone pointed and eyes on Eliot - making sure the man knows the question is his to answer.
If he wants to.
Eliot's fingers twitch again, but he doesn't pull away.
From either of them.