Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Eliot. My dear, dear Eliot. It’s so good to see you.”

The voice came out of the darkness like it always did in Eliot’s dreams, slicking over his skin like blood. It was always the same—Eliot was alone, walking home from the brewpub or one of the others’ apartments, searching for his car in the parking garage, locking up after the last shift. Always just him and the shadows and the voice, pinning him with fear the way Eliot used to do to others.

Eliot said the same thing he always said in his dreams. 

“You’re not here. You’re in jail in San Lorenzo, and you’re never getting out.”

“Did you learn that in therapy?” Moreau chuckled. He took a step out of the shadows, just enough for the hazy streetlights to illuminate his face.

“You’re not here,” Eliot repeated.

A satisfied grin curled at the corners of Moreau’s mouth. “At least you haven’t forgotten me. I wondered when I didn’t get any letters. Not even a postcard.”

This wasn’t possible. Moreau’s incarceration was permanent—was supposed to be permanent. It was over. This had to be another dream. But Eliot was no stranger to nightmares, and he’d learned years ago how to wake himself up when a dream turned dark.

And he wasn’t waking up.

“What do you want?” Eliot said. His voice came out solid and even, but if anyone could detect the hint of a tremor in his words, it would be Moreau.

“I’m here to offer you a job. And before you say no,” Moreau said, cutting off Eliot’s compulsive refusal. “You really ought to hear what it is.”

“What?” Eliot whispered.

The figure before him grinned and spread his hands wide. “Certainly you didn’t expect to get away with your little stunt consequence-free, did you? I know you like to play the fool, my dear Eliot, but you’re much smarter than that. I let you go once before because I figured you’d come back eventually. You know that saying—if you love something, let it go and it will return? I always figured you’d return. But now... now an example must be made. So. The job is to kill your family, your friends, anyone with whom you’ve made the tiniest connection, down to the little old lady you chat with in line at the grocery store. Anyone you have stained with your filthy presence—starting with Nathan Ford and the rest of your little crusaders. Their lives will be your punishment.”

The air inside Eliot’s lungs went cold, seeping into his blood, his brain. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Professional courtesy,” Moreau shrugged. “For old time’s sake. I did like you once, Eliot.”

“I’m not going to—”

“Well, that’s certainly your choice,” Moreau interrupted. “But the job doesn’t go away simply because you refuse it. Either way, anyone with the least connection to you is going to die. I just thought you might want some control over how they died.” 

“You listen to me, Moreau,” Eliot snarled. He surged into the alley, but Moreau stepped back until he was swallowed by shadows once more. Eliot followed, twisting to find the threat like he had thousands of times before, but there was nothing. The alley was empty.

“You have three days, Eliot,” said Moreau’s voice, filling the space like fog. “Then I hire someone else.”

“Moreau!” 

The faint echo of laughter bounced around the alley, but everything else was still. Moreau was gone. Eliot was alone again.

Eliot’s knees hit the pavement before he realized they’d collapsed. He waited to wake up, waited for the chill in his bones to fade, but he stayed there in the damp alley as the minutes ticked by. Three days. He had three days to protect every person he’d ever had any kind of relationship with. He had three days to contact anyone he knew who might take a job from Moreau and beg them to steer clear.

Or he had three days to hunt down Moreau and take care of the problem once and for all.

Chapter Text

He started with Quinn.

A text first, to ensure Quinn would pick up the phone when Eliot called.

Need a favor.

You still owe me from the last one, came the immediate reply.

Eliot dialed. The phone rang once, and then Quinn’s voice drawled in his ear. “Am I allowed to shoot people this time?”

“Yes,” Eliot said. 

A long pause. 

“Okay. I’m listening.”

Eliot cleared his throat. “What do you know about Damien Moreau?”

“Haven’t heard much about him lately.”

“You know I used to work for him?”

Quinn’s voice was carefully bland. “I did my research when Sterling hired me to take you out. His name came up with yours.”

“You know his reputation?” Eliot asked.

“I do.”

One more breath, one more moment of peace, and then—

“He offered me a job.”

Silence. Waiting. Eliot answered its invitation.

“It’s my team.”

“What do you need?” Quinn asked.

“He gave me three days,” Eliot said. “How soon can you get here?”

“Tonight.”

Eliot let out a relieved breath. “If things go as planned, this’ll be a nice vacation for you. If not... if I can’t get to Moreau before the deadline...”

“I’m the last line of defense?”

Eliot’s throat went dry. It sounded so much worse out loud.

“What does Nate think?” Quinn asked.

“He doesn’t know.”

“You sure that’s a good idea? He seemed to have a pretty good head for things like this.”

“He’ll tell the others,” Eliot said. “They won’t understand. They’ll try to stop me.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing.”

Eliot tried to swallow, tried not to choke on his words. His voice came out raw, but even. “This is my job. Protecting them, taking care of threats. It’s my fault Moreau is after them, and I can’t... We tried it Nate’s way. We put him in jail, and he got out. He’ll keep getting out. If I don’t stop him now, my team dies. This is the only way.”

“I could go,” Quinn offered, and an unexpected surge of warmth mixed with the fear welling in Eliot’s chest. “You may have gone straight, but I still do things the easy way. If you hesitate at the wrong moment, it could go sideways fast.”

“I won’t hesitate,” Eliot said.

His voice was dark enough to end the discussion.

After that, there wasn’t much to prepare. He didn’t travel with luggage, and he didn’t need to bring his own weapons—he’d get what he needed once he found Moreau.

Then it was just the goodbyes.

He left them in his apartment, which had started to feel less like a home and more like a place he kept supplies between jobs. For Hardison, the collection of recipes and meal-and-beer pairings he’d been creating for the brewpub, typed into an email scheduled to send in four days. For Parker, a list of his bank accounts and passwords, enclosed in a small, folded note with her name on the front. For Nate, a summary of the best argument he could think of to convince Quinn to take his place on the team, and an inadequate line of thanks.

That left only one more. On a burner phone, he called a florist across town who advertised discreet deliveries. He gave them Sophie’s name for the card and dictated his final message via flower arrangement.

White bellflower. 

Gratitude.

White lily.

Farewell.

White butterfly weed.

Let me go.

Chapter Text

It took two days to find Moreau.

More specifically, it took two days to find him without Hardison’s help.

Eliot knew the kinds of places Moreau liked to hole up—lavish hotels, country clubs, scenic mansions. He knew how to follow the trail of drugs and girls and bloody noses until it lead to one of Moreau’s men, who would in turn lead him back to his target. But that was only under normal circumstances, and things were anything but normal. Moreau wasn’t biding his time until his money diverted the attention of local law enforcement. He was out for revenge, and Eliot had only been on the other side of Moreau’s fury—wielding it, directing it, controlling it.

He wasn’t sure he’d be able to defend against it.

No, this time he had to change his approach. Their work in San Lorenzo had made international headlines, and if Moreau was going to put out a job as big as the one he’d proposed to Eliot, he would need a fortress to hide in. He would have to lay lower than he was used to.

Literally.

Eliot scowled at the impenetrable doors built into the side of a small hill—the grassed-over top of a retired missile silo, now the only visible part of a converted bunker sunk 200 feet into the earth. It hadn’t been hard to find, when he focused on the facts:

1. Moreau had come to him in person, which meant he was staying near Portland.

2. Moreau would prioritize a long-term base of operations, which would allow him to manipulate from a safe distance.

3. Moreau was used to a certain level of comfort.

4. The kind of comfort and control Moreau needed would require massive amounts of power.

5. Eliot was no Hardison, but he’d spent five years watching Hardison work. He’d picked up more than enough to recognize and track a power drain that large.

Which had led him here. Several hours outside Portland, hidden in a rural expanse of forest and field, surrounded by barbed wire and security cameras. The first had been easy to overcome—the second didn’t matter.

Moreau already knew he was coming.

The hum of a nearby wind turbine filled the air as Eliot waited. He’d already glowered into the camera mounted over the doors, and if his estimates were right, Moreau would be sending up a welcoming committee in just a few—

A metallic clang as steel bolts withdrew, a grind of concrete on concrete, and the doors grated open.

Five men were waiting inside. Four were generic ex-military turned personal guards—shoes, haircuts, stances, all very distinctive—Moreau’s usual reserves of muscle without brains. The fifth, though. He was average height, with short black hair and a smug expression. He wore a three-piece suit without a jacket, showing off the Korth NRX .44 Magnum in his shoulder holster and a $40,000 IWC field watch on his wrist.

Eliot had smashed an identical watch when he left.

He stood without moving, his hands in his jacket pockets, and gave the man a long, slow look. “You’re Chapman’s replacement?”

“Seamus Barrett,” the man said, smirking. “Mr. Moreau is waiting for you.”

Eliot followed the man through the doors—armored steel and concrete, by the looks and sounds of them—and inhaled as they closed behind him. He held his breath for a heartbeat, forcing a sense of calm through his tensing muscles, and let it out.

He was ready.

Barrett checked him for weapons, then led the way into an elevator and pressed the button for the fifth level. The doors slid shut, and they descended in silence while Eliot tracked the time in his head. Twelve hours and thirty-three minutes until Moreau opened the job up to other applicants. Twelve hours and thirty-three minutes to convince him to change his mind. 

The elevator stopped. Twelve hours and thirty-two minutes.

The doors opened, and Barrett nudged Eliot out ahead of him. They walked into what looked like an office building, all cream-colored walls and modern art, complete with digital windows to mimic the view outside. They passed rooms with desks and bookshelves, phones and computers.

Twelve hours and thirty-one minutes.

Barrett stopped in front of a closed door and knocked once, then stepped aside and motioned for Eliot to go in. He did so, taking in the plush red carpet, the huge ebony desk, the wet bar built into the north wall.

“Mr. Moreau is in a meeting,” Barrett said. His goons filed inside, and Barrett closed the door with a self-satisfied grin. “I’m to entertain you in his absence.”

“That so?” Eliot let his arms hang loose, waiting.

Twelve hours and twenty-nine minutes.

The first one telegraphed his punch, and Eliot blocked easily. That put him into range of the second’s swing, but Eliot sidestepped and met the third mid-lunge, twisting to pull him into the second’s path. They collided, and Eliot withdrew to dodge the fourth man’s rush. They were sloppy, trusting in their numbers to overpower him, but unused to fighting in close quarters. It wasn’t hard to use the space against them, putting them in each other’s way while he watched Barrett from the corner of his eye.

“You the local talent?” Eliot asked finally, slamming his fist into the second man’s jaw. He dropped at Eliot’s feet and laid still.

“The talent,” Barrett answered. “Not local.”

Eliot took out another man with an elbow to his face. “Who did you piss off to get stuck on bunker duty?”

“This?” Barrett let out an unpleasant chuckle as Eliot threw the third goon into the bar. “I’m here because I’m the best. There’s no one Mr. Moreau trusts more.”

The final man lunged, and Eliot grabbed his arm and pulled it toward his hip. A jerk upwards—knee met chin—the man went limp. “Really scraping the bottom of the barrel, isn’t he?” Eliot said. “At least Chapman had credentials. Seems Moreau is just trying to fill a vacancy with you.”

“He said you could get mouthy,” Barrett said.

“He knows me.” Eliot took a step toward the center of the room, putting himself before the desk and folding his arms, waiting. “And he’s obviously struggling to replace me.”

Barrett’s blue eyes flashed. “You think so?”

Eliot nodded at the man’s suit. “That costs, what, two grand? But you go without the jacket just so you can show off something no professional would need. Walnut grips? DLC finish? On a .44 Magnum, really? You know what we call that where I come from?” He grinned, playing up his natural drawl. “Overcompensation.”

“That mouth is gonna get you in trouble,” Barrett hissed.

“You’re riding on Moreau’s reputation,” Eliot said. “Hiding behind it and flaunting your status. Looks like Moreau gave up on finding lieutenants with brains and settled for the dog with the loudest bark.”

Barrett swung. Eliot took the punch on his cheek, rolling with the strike, testing its strength.

It hurt.

“You’re going to regret that,” Barrett said, stepping inside Eliot’s guard and following with a second hit. He lifted an arm to block it, but Barrett swerved and hit him in the ribs instead. “You may have been useful to Moreau once, but you’re nothing now. You’re dead already—you just don’t know it.”

Eliot caught the next jab in his left hand and answered with a cross, holding back his speed, giving Barrett room to dodge. He let Barrett rush him, let him drive them both against the desk, let out a grunt when the impact forced the air from his lungs. He steadied himself with one hand on the edge of the desk before reaching his arms over Barrett’s shoulders, locking him in a hold with his head against his side. 

Twelve hours and twenty-two minutes.

“That’s enough,” said a voice at the door.

Eliot looked up, blowing hair out of his eyes as Barrett clawed at his ribs. "Moreau."

“Eliot. Isn’t this a surprise?”

Barrett stilled, leaning as far back as he could in Eliot’s grip, and Moreau chuckled.

“Let him go. You’ve made your point.”

Eliot released his hold, shoving Barrett away as he straightened against the desk. Barrett scrambled upright, his face contorted in anger, but he stayed silent as he backed out of the way.

That was fine—Eliot was done playing. “I’m here to offer you a deal, Moreau.”

“Is that so?” Moreau moved past Barrett without glancing at him, stepping over the man Eliot had thrown into the bar, and poured himself a glass of cognac. “What could you possibly have to bargain with?”

“Me.”

Moreau raised an eyebrow. “The return of the prodigal son?”

“As long as you agree to leave my people alone.”

“The good old days are never quite what we remember,” Moreau said.

“It’ll be better,” Eliot said. “I won’t question you like I used to. I’ll be your retrieval expert, your soldier, your—your assassin. Whatever you want.”

“Eliot Spencer without reservations.” Moreau raised the glass to his lips, his expression thoughtful. “Forever?”

He supressed a shudder. “Forever.”

“Hmm.” A slow sip, holding out the moment, making Eliot wait while Barrett glared at him from the corner. Then he swallowed, set down his glass, and stepped toward him. “Very well. Shake on it?”

Alarms went off in his head, but Eliot extended his hand to take Moreau’s. “Just like that?”

“Of course,” Moreau said, smiling. “That was the plan all along.”

“You knew I’d make a deal?”

“Oh, my dear, dear Eliot.” Moreau’s grip tightened, crushing Eliot’s fingers. “You’ve become predictable. It’s your friends, you know—your connections. They bog you down, become liabilities. Make you easy to manipulate.”

Eliot gritted his teeth against the pain in his fingers. Twelve hours and nineteen minutes. “Fine. You got what you wanted—just make sure you hold to your promise.”

“With provisions, of course,” Moreau smiled. “If anything happens to me, our deal is off. I have messages set to go out in the event of my untimely death, offering my entire fortune to the intrepid individual who takes down your team. Just so you don’t get any ideas about using your new-old position for nefarious purposes.”

Eliot scowled, drawing a laugh from Moreau.

“You see, Eliot, there’s still so much I can teach you. They say to keep your friends close and your enemies closer, don’t they? You’ve enjoyed the benefits of being the first. Let me show you what will happen if you become the latter.”

He jerked Eliot’s hand up and against his chest, wrenching to put pressure against Eliot’s wrist.

“This is what I’ll do to your hacker friend if you betray me,” Moreau said in a low voice. “Right before I break every bone in his hands.”

He drew back his left fist and drove it into Eliot’s stomach, holding him up by his twisted arm when he doubled over.

“This is for your thief. See how well she likes vents when she has to crawl through them with internal bleeding.”

Eliot sucked in a ragged breath as Moreau nodded to Barrett.

“And we can’t forget our beloved first lady. I’ll let Seamus put a bullet through her heart—a real one. We’ll see who shows up to her funeral this time.”

He released Eliot’s hand and smiled as he staggered into the desk.

“And this,” he said, bending to look up into Eliot’s face. “This is for Nathan Ford.”

He threw an uppercut, putting his hips into the movement just like Eliot had taught him. His fist snapped Eliot’s chin back—his knees buckled—his head hit the desk on the way down, and everything went black.

Chapter Text

“Hey, Nate,” said Eliot in the voicemail. “Hold on—no, darlin’, I know, I just gotta call my boss. Nate, listen, I’m gonna need a few days off. Me and this pretty little redhead are hittin’ it off, but she’s only in town til Tuesday. Gonna cash in some vacation time, if you know what I mean. Wait a minute—yeah, I’m almost done. Go ‘head, I’ll meet you outside. Okay, Nate, thanks. See ya in a few days.”

The message ended, and Nate hit the play button again.

“Hey, Nate. Hold on—no, darlin’, I know, I just gotta call my boss.”

“What’s wrong?” Sophie asked, perching on the end of the counter, her robe hanging loose on her shoulders. She held a steaming mug of coffee in one hand, and she looked down at him with sleepy, content eyes that would have given him ideas on a different morning.

“Okay, Nate, thanks. See ya in a few days.”

Unfortunately, he had a mystery to solve.

“Listen to this,” Nate said, restarting the message and putting it on speaker. “Do you hear anyone else’s voice?”

Sophie tilted her head, smiling at Eliot’s description of his date. “Ah, the redhead. I saw her a few nights ago, and she definitely had her eye on Eliot. Good for him.”

“But do you hear her voice?”

“I can’t hear anything,” Sophie said. “It sounds like he called from brewpub. What’s the problem?”

Nate tried to tune out Eliot's words, tried to pick out a woman's voice next to him, but all he heard was a crowd in the background. “He’s talking like she’s right there, but I can’t hear her. Wouldn’t we be able to hear her?”

“You worry too much.” Sophie slipped from the counter and stood behind his spot on the couch, bending to lay her free hand on his shoulder. “Eliot deserves some time off, don’t you think? He hardly ever asks for it.”

“That’s what bothers me,” Nate said. “It’s been two days since he checked in. What if we had a job?”

“We don’t.”

“But if we did.” He stood, running his hand through his hair and shoving his phone into his pocket. “It’s not like him to go this long without contact.”

Sophie shrugged and sipped at her coffee. “Give him a call if you’re so worried.”

“I did. It went to voicemail.”

“Then have Hardison track his phone.”

“It’s in his apartment.”

“Then there’s nothing to worry about,” Sophie laughed. “Eliot will call when he’s ready. Let the poor man have his vacation.”

Nate shook his head, trying to ignore the gnawing feeling that something wasn’t right. He heard Sophie set her mug on the coffee table, and then she was standing behind him, her hands running over his chest. “Maybe we should take our own vacation,” she purred. “We could—”

A heavy footfall in the hallway gave Sophie enough warning to drop her arms, and she sighed as the door opened to reveal Hardison with a vase of white flowers. “Hey,” he said, kicking the door closed behind him. “I was just down in the brewpub, and this delivery kid was asking for you, Sophie. He said they got the dates wrong or something and he was delivering your order early. Figured you wouldn’t mind.”

“My order?” Sophie said, wrinkling her nose. “I didn’t order this. What is that, milkweed? Who puts milkweed in a flower arrangement?”

Hardison set the vase on the table. “There’s no return name,” he said, lifting a card from the white petals. “Just Sophie.”

“Well, then I have a secret admirer with horrible taste.”

Nate held out his hand, and Hardison gave him the card. “There’s nothing else? You didn’t recognize the delivery boy?”

Hardison shook his head, and Sophie tossed her hair and made her way back to the couch. “Hardison,” Nate said. “I want you to try Eliot’s cell again. Call it, track it, see if he’s moved at all.”

“Uh, well...” Hardison scratched the back of his head, shrugging one shoulder. “I kind of already called him this morning. I was hoping we could go over the seasonal menu.”

“Did he answer?”

“Straight to voicemail.”

“Then call Parker,” Nate said. “Sophie, get dressed. We’re going to go crash Eliot’s vacation.”

Twenty minutes later, Hardison pounded on Eliot’s door—a courtesy he rarely afforded Nate. “Yo, E,” he yelled, punctuating the shout with another knock. “You have thirty seconds to get yourself decent before we come in.”

He rattled the knob, then shook his head and stepped back. “Locked. Parker?”

“Are you sure?” She pulled a pick out of her back pocket and kneeled before the knob, inserting the tiny tool into the lock without waiting for an answer. “Eliot doesn’t like it when we invade his privacy. He made me promise not to break into his apartment anymore.”

“We’re just checking on him,” Nate said. “If he’s here, we’ll leave him be.”

“And if he’s not here?” Hardison asked quietly.

Nate kept his eyes on Parker. “That depends on what we find inside.”

The lock clicked, and Parker pushed the door open with her hand over her eyes. “Eliot!” she called. “I’m not looking! Can we come in?”

No answer. Nate eased around her, forcing down the dread rising in his throat. “Eliot?”

The room was empty, so he stepped into the livingroom and peered down the hallway, where he could get a clear view of the open bedroom door and the unoccupied bed within.

“Okay,” Hardison said, and Nate turned to watch him pick Eliot's phone off the coffee table. “Now I’m starting to worry.”

Sophie headed down the hall to search the rest of the apartment, but Nate already knew what she would find.

Something had definitely happened.

“There’s nothing on his phone,” Hardison said. “And I mean nothing. Someone did a factory reset: no call history, no messages, no contacts—everything's gone.”

Parker had made her way into the kitchen, and she waved from where she stood at the counter. “Look at this.”

Nate joined her, studying the folded piece of paper in her hands. She held it up to reveal her name across the front and slid another envelope toward him. “This one’s for you.”

His stomach sank. 

With nerveless fingers, he lifted the flap and removed the letter inside. He skimmed over the short paragraphs, searching for immediate answers, but every line he read only made him feel sicker.

Quinn will make the best replacement. 

Have Hardison transfer my aliases.

You saved my life, Nate. I can never repay that, but I’m sure as hell going to try.

Take care of them.

He looked up and found Parker staring at him, her note laid open in her hands, her eyes wide and wet.

Sophie reappeared from the hallway, shaking her head. “I don’t understand. His bed is made, his laundry’s done, there’s no hint that anyone’s been here for days. It’s like he disappeared.” She caught Nate’s gaze and tilted her head. “What’s that?”

“It’s...” He cleared his throat, feeling the weight of their attention, their confusion, their anxiety. “Quinn’s contact information. Eliot says to use him as a replacement.”

Hardison frowned. “A replacement for what?”

“For him,” Parker said in a small voice. “He left.”

“No.” The conviction in Hardison’s voice made Nate’s chest ache. “He wouldn’t do that, not without telling us. Not without saying goodbye.”

Sophie gasped, her hands flying to her mouth as she fixed a horrified took on Nate. “White lilies. You see them at funerals, or... or when someone leaves for a new job. A departure. And it wasn’t milkweed, it was butterfly weed, which means—” She broke off, her hands trembling. “He’s not just saying goodbye. He’s saying, Don’t look for me.”

“No,” Hardison repeated. “He would have said something to me, okay? So unless there’s another letter there on the counter, I’m not—”

“Check your email,” Nate said.

Hardison glared at him. “I been checking my email all day, Nate, there’s nothing.”

“Then check his email. Sophie’s flowers were delivered early, and my voicemail said he’d be busy until Tuesday. We’re interrupting his timeline.”

“I’ll check his...” Hardison muttered, tapping at Eliot’s phone. “Man has the easiest password on the planet. Lucille1701, come on. You think I ain’t gonna figure that one out? Look, nothing sent, and in drafts...” He stopped, pressing his lips together as his eyes scanned the screen. “Oh, hell.”

“What do we do?” Sophie asked.

Do? There was nothing to do. Eliot was an expert—if he didn’t want them to follow, there would be no finding him. Nate read back over the letter, slower this time, analyzing every word, every hesitation of pen against paper. He was missing something. Something big. Something bad.

“Did he leave anything else?” Hardison asked.

Quinn will want to be paid, at first. Use my accounts. Parker has the passwords.

“He may still be nearby,” Sophie said. “If we can catch up to him...”

Eventually, the money won’t matter anymore. He respects you. He appreciates a good plan. You can get him to stay, like you did the rest of us. Show him how to be more than he is.

“Nate,” Parker whispered.

Take care of them.

A knock at the door made them all go silent. Hardison was closest, and at a nod from Nate, he peered through the peek hole. “It’s Quinn,” he said, surprised, opening the door and stepping back to let him in.

The hitter stood in the doorway, his gaze skipping past Hardison and the others to settle on Nate. “You’re ahead of schedule. Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“What schedule?” Hardison asked. “Did Eliot talk to you? You know what’s going on?”

“Even better,” Quinn said, without taking his eyes off Nate. “I know where to find him.”

Chapter Text

“Tell me everything,” Nate said.

No-nonsense, to the point—Quinn liked that about him. He returned the favor by giving Nate the facts: the phone call, the job and the deadline, all exactly as Eliot had told him. “Moreau is here in Oregon,” he said, folding his arms. “Eliot found him. Yesterday, I followed him to a bunker a few hundred miles from here. He went inside, and as far as I know, he’s still there. But...”

Nate’s eyes burned, his expression set in a blank mask that somehow still exuded pent-up emotion. “But?”

“Call went out this morning,” Quinn said. “No target, no details, just notice of a job. Applicants are to report to a Seamus Barrett. Word is that he’s Moreau’s man.”

Nate said nothing, and Quinn let him think, certain he would arrive at the same conclusion he had. The three-day deadline was up. If Eliot had gone to kill Moreau and the job had still gone out, that meant Eliot had either been captured, or...

Well. That’s why he was here.

“I can go in,” Quinn said. “Say I’m interested in the job. See if I can find out what happened.”

“You’ve worked with us before,” Sophie said. “Won’t that be suspicious?”

Quinn hitched a shoulder. “I’ve worked against you, too.”

“But will that be enough?” Sophie pressed. “If Moreau is angry enough to put out a job on us, what will he do to you if he thinks you’re there to help Eliot?”

“Eliot’s crossed paths with just about everyone worth knowing in our business,” Quinn said. “Moreau’s options are limited. Not a lot of people are good enough to pull off a job like this, so he can’t afford to be picky. I show up with my timetable and my record? That’ll outweigh the one job I worked with you.”

“And then what?” Hardison asked in a small voice.

Quinn looked back to Nate. It had been a hard decision to come here, to ask for help rather than going in after Eliot himself. But he knew enough about Moreau to know he wouldn’t be able to take him on his own, and after Nate’s work on Dubenich…

If anyone could square off against Moreau, it would be Ford.

“It could be bad,” Quinn said, pitching his voice low. “Eliot made contingency plans. I don’t know that he was expecting to walk out of there.”

“All the more reason to go in after his stupid, self-sacrificing ass,” Hardison muttered.

Nate hadn’t broken eye contact, but Quinn got the feeling he was looking at something none of them could see. There was still more emotion on his face than Quinn would have liked, but he supposed he couldn’t fault that—Eliot had grown on him, after all, and they barely knew each other. What must it be like for the people who truly cared about him?

“All right.” A blink, a clenched jaw—determination chased the worry out of Nathan Ford’s eyes. “Quinn, you’ll follow my lead?”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

Nate folded the piece of paper he’d been holding and slid it into an envelope on the counter. “Hardison, get Quinn an extra earbud. Sophie, Parker, you’re with me. Let’s go steal a self-sacrificing ass.”

***

Six hours later, Quinn stood outside Moreau’s bunker, waiting for the impressively solid doors to open. He’d called Barrett using the number accompanying the job announcement, and had pushed for a same-day meeting with a claim that he had other offers and wanted to compare before deciding. His name was enough to get him in the door—his reputation would get him to Moreau.

He just hoped it would be enough to save Eliot.

The minutes dragged on, and Quinn tapped his foot on the concrete to show his impatience. He would play this like any other job, and he wasn’t in the habit of pandering to potential employers. They could take him or leave him—always plenty of work to go around. There was nothing special about this meeting, he told himself. Get in, get the details, see what he could find out about Eliot, and decide what to do from there.

“You gotta stop that damn tapping, man,” said Hardison’s voice in his ear. “You’re making me anxious.”

Quinn didn’t answer. He’d used comms before, but they had always been treated like professional tools, utilized only when necessary. Eliot’s team seemed to think they were tin can-and-string phones at a sleepover.

“Don’t ignore me,” Hardison snapped.

“Leave him alone,” Nate said. “Let him focus.”

It’d mostly been the two of them, alternating between incessant complaints and obsessive calculations. Occassionally, Sophie would offer up a suggestion for how to react to something Moreau might say, as if he was playing a character and needed stage directions. Parker said nothing. Quinn appreciated her silence.

Finally—finally—the doors scraped open, and Quinn let his irritation show on his face. “I don’t like being kept waiting.”

“Apologies,” said the man he assumed to be Seamus Barrett. He was short, with dark hair and sullen black eyes, both of which were sporting new bruises over what appeared to be a recently broken nose.

Atta boy, Eliot.

Barrett offered no excuse, just turned and led the way into the bunker. “Mr. Moreau will meet you in the lobby,” he said, directing Quinn toward an elevator in the center of the concrete interior. “His office is being cleaned at the moment.”

“See if you can get him to give anything away,” Nate said. 

Quinn folded his hands before him as the elevator started down. “Your job listing was a little short on details.”

“Mr. Moreau will tell you everything you need to know.”

“How many other applicants are there?”

Barrett gave him a side glance. “You’re the first.”

Which meant he was also the closest. As long as things went according to plan, he could take care of things before the offer went out to anyone else.

After all, the best defense was a good offense.

The elevator chimed, and the doors slid open. Quinn’s eyebrows rose in appreciation as he stepped into what looked like an office lobby, with angular furniture and potted plants and every appearance of a nice, clean business.

“Not your typical underground bunker,” he said.

“Do you like it?”

Quinn turned his head, taking in his first look at the man Eliot Spencer feared. He wore a suit and a smile Quinn’s grandfather would have called “smarmy”, and the rest of his guard went up.

The smarmy smile broadened. “Mr. Quinn, I presume.”

“Moreau.”

He left off the honorific, noting the faint amusement on Moreau’s face and the displeasure on Barrett’s. False pleasantries as a front, then. Some men flaunted their power, their violence, but Moreau presented a persona of respectable authority. 

Quinn had always had a bit of a problem with authority figures. 

“It used to be a missile silo,” Moreau said, waving around the circular room. “Now it’s an unbreachable fortress, the perfect base of operations. Would you like a tour?”

“Thought you wanted to talk business?” Quinn said.

Moreau kept his hand out, inviting Quinn to join him. “All in good time. I’d like to get to know you a little better before we make anything official.”

“Go with him,” Nate said. “Get an idea of what we’re working with.”

Quinn shrugged and gestured for Moreau to lead the way. “All right. Why’d you pick an office buried underground?”

“It’s a lot more than an office.” Moreau turned, leading the way around the collection of desks and rooms until he reached another elevator, this one fashioned with glass doors. “The first floor hosts the recreational facilities: the pool, a greenhouse garden, even a rock wall. Second and third floors are maintenance and food storage, fourth is a medical bay, and here on the fifth floor you see my offices.” He tapped a button, and the transparent doors opened with a gentle swish. “Floors six through eleven are living quarters—luxury condos featuring stainless steel appliances, high speed internet, and all the channels you could ever hope to surf.”

“I don’t watch a lot of TV,” Quinn said.

Moreau chuckled as the elevator started downward. Each floor passed in a casual blur of decadence, highlighting more money in a single level than most people made in their lifetimes. “The twelfth floor has a bar and a cinema,” Moreau continued as they descended through the apartments. “The thirteenth is a gym, fourteenth is storage, and finally…”

The elevator eased to a stop, and Moreau spread his hands as the doors opened. “The fifteenth floor.”

“This your dungeon?” Quinn asked, and heard someone’s startled gasp in his ear.

Dungeon wasn’t far off. They’d left the indulgent splendors behind and returned to bleak concrete, which wrapped around the elevator in a depressing ring of fluorescent lights. Tiny cells set behind doors with iron bars broke up the monotony of the empty walls, which Quinn studied in glances as Moreau led the way down the cold hall.

“This where I conduct my less pleasant business,” Moreau said.

“That supposed to be some kind of threat?”

Another chuckle, which was beginning to grate on Quinn’s nerves. “Oh no, just a continuation of the tour. Though I do have another reason in bringing you here, Mr. Quinn. This is a special job. I need to make sure I have a special candidate.”

“Then this is a test?” Quinn asked.

They walked on, passing more empty cells and buzzing lights. “In a manner of speaking,” Moreau said. “I looked into your credentials when Seamus gave me your name, and I have no doubt of your abilities. It’s rather your connection to your potential target. You have worked for Nathan Ford before?”

“Sure,” Quinn said easily. “He’s a cold bastard, but the pay was good. Why, who’d he piss off this time?”

Moreau flashed an unpleasant smile. “Me.”

“Ah.”

Quinn waited a moment, rolling his shoulders as the chill bled through his jacket. “Look,” he said at last. “Ford is good, but I could find a way to surprise him. He’s not the problem. He’s got Eliot Spencer running hitter for his team, and that’s enough to make me steer clear. He kicked my ass a few years ago, and I ain’t eager for a rematch.”

“Spencer is out of the equation,” Barrett growled from behind him, and Quinn could hear the horrified silence through his earbud.

He kept his voice level. “Dead?”

“Not yet,” Moreau said.

Hardison’s “Oh, thank God,” whooshed in his ear, followed by a string of nonsensical ramblings Quinn promptly tuned out.

“And if he proves himself,” Moreau went on. “Not by my hand. Your position would be less a contract and more a matter of insurance.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Moreau stopped as the curving hall revealed four armed guards with their back to a cell. “It means I am not a forgiving man,” he said, suddenly serious. “Spencer is no longer working for Ford, but we have a few things to sort out before he returns to my good graces. If he proves himself, then I shall pay you for your time and send you on your merry way. If he does not...”

“I go after Ford,” Quinn finished.

Moreau grinned. “Precisely.”

“Then why bring me here?” Quinn asked. “You couldn’t have told me the terms over the phone?”

“I’m afraid Spencer is not the only one with something to prove,” Moreau said. He nodded to the guards, who lifted their guns and stepped aside without comment. “Given your past connection, I need to verify whose side you’re on.”

A sinking sensation pulled at Quinn’s stomach. “I’m on the side of whoever pays me.”

“Wonderful.” Moreau flashed a wolfish smile over his shoulder and reached for a number pad in the wall next to the cell. “But I’m afraid I need to see for myself. Spencer went rogue and tarnished my reputation. He helped an enemy put me in prison, and, worst of all, he betrayed the trust I have only given a handful of others. Before we can rebuild that trust, he must be broken down and reshaped into something I can use.”

Nate swore. Hardison filled his ear with panicked questions, and he thought he heard Sophie whisper something that sounded like “No.” He pushed them all aside, focusing his full attention on the number pad.

A green light blinked over the lock, and the door clicked open. Moreau turned and gestured for Quinn to enter.

“I’d like you to help me break him.”

Chapter Text

Eliot woke to the feeling of hands in his hair. A punch of adrenaline went through him, and he jerked his arm up to knock away the unwanted contact. Cold metal dug into his wrist, stopping his movement short. He snapped his eyes open.

“He’s not wearing a wire,” Barrett said into a walkie-talkie, bending over Eliot as he continued to feel along his shirt collar. At Eliot’s movement, Barrett grinned and grabbed his jaw, turning his head sharply to the side. “No earbud, either. He’s clean.”

Eliot threw himself forward, slamming his forehead into Barrett’s nose.

“Son of a—” Barrett staggered back, slapping his free hand to his bleeding nose, and then followed up with a fist to Eliot’s face. “Try that again, Spencer, and I’ll break your neck and tell Moreau it was an accident.”

This time, when Eliot lifted his hands, his brain put a name to the metallic pinch holding them in place.

Handcuffs.

He strained against them, his eyes darting around the room as the restraints bit into his skin. It looked like a jail cell, complete with iron bars, a prison toilet, and a canvas cot. He sat on a metal chair, his wrists cuffed to the armrests, with Barrett standing over him and breathing like a bull.

“You here to rough me up a little?” Eliot rasped, licking a cut on the inside of his cheek. “Tear me down before Moreau can build me back up? Unfortunately for you, that means I know you’re not gonna do any lasting damage. Nothin’ that’ll keep me from doing what he needs me to do. All you got is pain, Barrett, and that don’t impress me anymore.”

“Then I guess it’ll just be for my own enjoyment,” Barrett said, grinning.

He drew it out, but the beating proved Eliot right—Barrett left his organs and joints alone in favor of hard hits with low risk of serious injury. His face, his ribs, his legs—painful, sure, but bruises only.

That wasn’t really the problem. This was Phase One of the “tearing down” part of Moreau’s plan, meant only to make it harder for him to focus during Phase Two.

When Barrett stepped back, Eliot spat out a mouthful of blood and smirked. “That all you got? I’ve fought retired school teachers with stronger punches.”

“You think you got this all figured out,” Barrett snarled. “Things have changed since you ran away, Spencer. You got no clue what Moreau’s planning.”

“I know him better than you ever will.”

His voice was low and raw, but Barrett heard him. He put one hand on the back of Eliot's chair and leaned down until his face was only inches away. “He won’t let you back, even if you pass his tests. No matter what you do, there’s always going to be a part of him that wonders if you can be trusted—and that’ll be my voice in his ear, Spencer, you can bet on it. When he gets tired of waiting for you to betray him again, I’ll be the one that puts a bullet in you. You got that?”

Eliot grimaced a smile through bloody teeth. “Overcompensation.”

Barrett smashed his fist into the side of Eliot’s face, and his vision swam as blood filled his mouth. By the time he was able to blink away the blurriness, Barrett was standing in the hallway and slamming the bars shut on Eliot’s cell.

“See you in the morning,” he called, grinning.

Eliot took a slow breath, closing his eyes against the harsh light overhead. Phase Two. They would leave him to wait out the next several hours in isolation, letting the discomfort from his various hurts mix with the cold and the thirst and the hunger, so that when they returned, he’d be more susceptible to manipulation during Phase Three.

That’s when Moreau would step in.

A groan was building in his throat, but he swallowed it back. Moreau would have guards in the hall, ready to report on his every move, every sound, every weakness. He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the churn of concussion-induced nausea in his stomach. He’d lost his countdown to the deadline when he’d lost consciousness, but either way, it would be up by the time anyone came for him in the morning. But Moreau had accepted his offer, so as long as Eliot could last through his tests, the team would be safe.

He took another centering breath and huddled into the chair, preparing to get as much rest as he could before the next phase started.

***

He dozed, but he was awake when the guards changed shift four hours later, and when the elevator dinged somewhere down the hall two hours after that. Three sets of footsteps echoed off the concrete, and Eliot straightened in his chair as they came nearer. One was Barrett’s—heavier than any hitter’s had a right to be, which only added to the list of things Eliot was coming to hate about the man. The second was clipped, purposeful, but otherwise undistinguishable.

The third was Moreau.

A jolt of adrenaline stiffened his shoulders, and he closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, working to relax his body before Moreau could see the effects of his presence. He was talking, and Eliot turned his head to hear the words. 

“I’m afraid Spencer is not the only one with something to prove. Given your past connection, I need to verify who’s side you’re on.”

He blinked his eyes open. What past connection?

“I’m on the side of whoever pays me.”

Oh God.

Fear choked off his breath, turning his body cold in a way it hadn’t since he was a kid facing his first combat. Quinn betrayed him? Eliot didn’t know him all that well, but he’d thought—he’d trusted—a knot of anger squeezed out the terror, his automatic defense, fighting off the emotions he didn’t have time to deal with.

“Wonderful,” Moreau said. He was outside the cell now, standing just out of view, talking over his shoulder. “But I’m afraid I need to see for myself. Spencer went rogue and tarnished my reputation. He helped an enemy put me in prison, and, worst of all, he betrayed the trust I have only given a handful of others. Before we can rebuild that trust, he must be broken down and reshaped into something I can use.”

The door opened. Moreau’s hand waved into sight.

“I’d like you to help me break him.”

Quinn entered the room, followed by Moreau and Barrett. They left the door open—apparently having Eliot cuffed to a chair with two hitters and four guards in the hall was enough to put Moreau at ease.

Eliot would have to remind him what he was capable of.

“Spencer,” Quinn said, giving Eliot a long, appraising look. “You know, my ribs still ache in rainy weather, and it’s been what, five years since you broke them? I figure I owe you for that.”

Something like hope speared through Eliot’s anger. It had only been four years since he and Quinn had first fought, but there were five guards if they counted Barrett. Maybe Quinn hadn’t betrayed him after all. Maybe he was talking to someone else, maybe—

Quinn glanced at Moreau. “What are we talking, here? Broken bones? Lacerations?”

“Nothing permanent,” Moreau said.

Quinn grinned, cracking his knuckles and locking his gaze with Eliot.

“Then I’m your huckleberry.”

The relief was so strong he didn’t even feel Quinn’s first hit. He went for Eliot’s face, knocking his head to the side and effectively hiding Eliot’s expression—just long enough for him to get his reaction under control, to fall into the act when Quinn drew back.

“How’s your jaw?” Eliot asked, his split lip quirking into a stinging half grin. “Think I recall that hit, too—hairline fracture, right?”

Quinn threw another punch, and Eliot let out a pained cough. He wasn’t holding back—couldn’t, not with Moreau watching—but damn, he was hitting all the bruises Barrett had given him. “It’s just business,” Quinn said, his fist colliding with Eliot’s stomach. “Maybe a little bit of payback.”

“Let me outta this chair and I’ll show you payback,” Eliot gasped.

Quinn eased back, just a second, meeting Eliot’s gaze and dropping his eyes to his own leg. “Hey, I’m just following orders.”

Eliot kicked up his foot, slamming it into Quinn's shin. He stumbled, cursing, and then lunged forward and seized a handful of Eliot’s hair. “I didn’t want to make this personal,” he snarled, yanking Eliot’s head back, baring his neck to the room. His hand twisted, fingers curling around Eliot’s ear, pressing something inside as he let go.

“That’s the code word,” said Nate’s voice, and Eliot’s heart rate spiked again. “Eliot, can you hear me?”

Eliot grunted, and Quinn followed up with a glancing blow to his chest so he could double over, speaking into his abdomen, hiding his face.

“Don’t let them listen,” he whispered, his voice ragged and pleading.

“Eliot?” Nate said.

Moreau cleared his throat. “That’s enough. Barrett already took care of that, Mr. Quinn. I was hoping for something a little more... nuanced.”

Quinn turned, one hand still hovering over Eliot’s shoulder. “What did you have in mind?”

“The others took out their comms,” Nate said. “It’s just me. No one else can hear.”

Eliot exhaled, sagging over the armrest. He’d rather Nate go off line too, but at least the others wouldn’t have to listen to what was coming. Quinn would have to play this carefully, which meant he’d have to use some of his real skills, which meant Eliot was in for a rough afternoon. He closed his eyes, savoring the last few moments of relative comfort, imagining his team gathered around Nate, waiting for an update.

“Make him bleed,” Moreau said.

Quinn looked back at Eliot, the hint of an apology in his eyes. “I’ll need tools.”

“Barrett,” Moreau said.

Barrett scowled, but obeyed without argument. Eliot drew a labored breath and lifted his head, surprised at how dizzy he suddenly felt, and licked chapped lips. “You don’t have to do this,” he said. “I’m here, I’m yours. You have my word.”

“Your word?” Moreau laughed. “That’s for men of honor, Eliot. You haven’t been that in a long time.”

The jab hurt more than he expected, but Eliot swallowed it and tried again. “You already have your insurance. I won’t do anything to jeopardize my team.”

“Eliot,” Moreau said. He took a step closer, reaching out like he was going to cup Eliot’s cheek.

And God help him—he flinched.

Moreau dropped his hand. “That is why we have to do this,” he said softly. “I can’t trust you until you can trust me again.”

Eliot stared back at him, fighting down the panic that tone of voice dragged up from his memories.

Phase Three had begun.

Chapter Text

The edge of the bar dug into Nate’s side as he leaned over it, but he didn’t move. He was completely absorbed in the conversation happening hundreds of miles away, buried underground like a premonition of Nate’s worst fears. Eliot had come so close to disappearing already—if Quinn hadn’t followed him, Nate may never have found out what had happened to him.

Moreau’s words slithered in his ear again, and he wondered if maybe knowing was worse.

“It isn’t just the betrayal,” he said, his voice echoing slightly between Quinn’s and Eliot’s comms. “Betrayal is a part of this business. I could have let that go.”

Eliot took a shuddering breath, and the sound went straight through Nate’s chest. “I never told anybody.”

“You didn’t have to,” Moreau said. His voice was louder now, so he’d moved closer to one of them. “I took you in, Eliot. I gave you a purpose. You threw that all back in my face.”

“I didn’t—” 

A thud, a grunt, a gasp of pain.

“You called them yours,” Moreau hissed. “Your team, your people. As if you have the right to that, after everything you’ve done.”

“He’s wrong,” Nate said. His voice sounded strangled, even to his own ears, and he was thankful for the empty brewpub and the fact that he’d told the others to stay upstairs.

“Mr. Moreau,” said another voice—distant, from the hallway connecting to Eliot’s cell. “I have the tools for Mr. Quinn.”

Nate refrained from asking what kind of tools. Even if Quinn could talk, Eliot had made it clear that he didn’t want this experience to be shared. Nate would offer what little support he could, but he would keep the details as dark as possible.

And he knew just how dark they could get.

“I need a needle,” Quinn said calmly. “Suture thread. Some gauze, too—I don’t like messes. Actually, a full first aid kit would be helpful. Would you be a lamb, Barrett?”

A growl told him exactly what Barrett thought of that request, but Moreau must have made a gesture for him to go, because Nate didn’t hear him again.

“Nice stall,” Nate said. “Just hang on, Eliot. We’re going to get you out of there.”

According to Quinn, there were still four guards outside the cell, and with Eliot injured and fourteen levels of Moreau’s men between them and freedom, they couldn’t risk Quinn trying to break him out yet. Hardison was busy digging up everything he could find on Moreau—how he’d escaped jail in San Lorenzo, what he was doing in Oregon, anything that might help Nate guess what he would do next. Until they had that information, there wasn’t much they could do but wait.

“I had to leave,” Eliot said, severing Nate’s train of thought. “I won’t apologize for that. But for everything else...”

Moreau laughed. “I don’t want your apology, Eliot. I don’t even want your punishment. This…” He paused, and the cold, clinical part of Nate’s brain appreciated the effectiveness of Moreau’s techniques. This was Eliot, after all—he knew grifting, knew manipulation, knew how to spot gaslighting and weaponized guilt and insincerity. But Eliot’s breath shook in Nate’s ear, and he knew Moreau’s words were digging deeper than they should have.

“This brings me no pleasure,” Moreau went on. “I can’t bear to see you suffer. I’m the one who took you in, remember? When I found you, you were nothing. You were hollow. I forged you from the flames of your own life as it burned down around you, and I can do it again. This fantasy you’ve been living, this... vigilantism. That wasn’t sustainable. It wasn’t real. You felt it too, or you wouldn’t have come back to me.”

“Don’t listen to him, Eliot,” Nate said gently. “He’s trying to make you think the way you did when you worked for him.”

“I know,” Eliot said. Nate couldn’t tell which of them he was talking to.

“You’ve been lost,” Moreau said. “That’s not your fault. I know you think you deserve the pain, but when this is over, I won’t let them hurt you anymore. Look at you, so desperate to protect your team. Always the defender, the faithful sheepdog. But who’s protecting you, Eliot? They let you walk in here alone, knowing exactly what would happen. They abandoned you.”

Quinn cleared his throat, breaking the hypnotic rhythm of Moreau’s voice, and Nate jumped into the gap.

“We’re here, Eliot,” he said. “You’re not alone. We’re going to get you out.”

“Ah, Seamus.” Moreau’s voice took on a cheerful tone, which made Nate scowl. “Please oversee Mr. Quinn’s ministrations. I have to make a business call. Eliot, we’ll talk more when I’m finished.”

Eliot didn’t answer, and Nate listened to the shuffles and clatters as Quinn prepared whatever tools Barrett had brought. He could tell when it started by the change in Eliot’s breathing, but otherwise there was no sound—no punches, no clash of weapons, no cries of pain.

“What’s happening?”

Nate jumped, startling off his stool before he recognized the voice as Parker’s. She stood at the end of the bar, watching him like she was afraid of what she might see.

He cleared his throat. “Nothing’s changed.”

“Then Eliot’s being tortured?”

He wanted to deny it, wanted to reassure her. Instead, he nodded.

“He didn’t go to kill Moreau,” Parker said. “He wouldn’t.”

Nate slipped the comm out of his ear and pocketed it. Eliot didn’t need to hear this—not with everything else Moreau had just put in his head. 

“Parker, look…”

“No,” she said. “He’s come too far, and he—he wouldn’t risk backsliding. Okay? I know him, the him that he doesn’t show people, and he wouldn’t give up like that. Not for anything.”

For you, Nate thought. He’d sell his soul to keep you safe, and he’d think he’d gotten a bargain.

Because there were things he knew, too. Files he’d read, pictures from when Eliot was just another faceless variable, a player in a parallel game of chess. He remembered all of it. Names of missions, of victims, statistics. Numbers. He had never mentioned them, but they were always there—hanging over every con that went bad, every haunted look Eliot gave him when he waited for Nate’s order to do his worst.

This time, Eliot hadn’t waited for an order. It was enough to tell Nate exactly how far he was willing to go.

But Parker was glaring at him now, daring him to argue, so he gathered the last of his composure and nodded. “Okay. Anything else?”

“You’re treating him like a killer,” Parker said. “Like he’s doing something you have to stop.”

“You don’t think we should stop him?”

Parker’s eyes flashed. “He’s not a hitman, he’s a retrieval expert. He didn’t go in there without a plan to get back out.”

The goodbye letter with Nate’s name on it seemed to disprove that theory, but he kept the thought to himself. “What do you think he’s retrieving?”

“I don’t know,” she said, lifting her eyebrows in a challenge. “But when you figure it out, you’ll know how to help him.”

How to help him... Nate wasn’t sure that was possible. Even if they managed to get Eliot out, what kind of damage would they be working with? How much hurt could Moreau inflict before Nate managed to put a plan together? How much of Eliot would they be able to bring home?

But then, maybe home was the answer. “Parker,” Nate said, stopping her as she started to turn away. “Get Hardison. I have an idea.”

Chapter Text

Eliot knew Quinn was doing his best to make this as painless as possible. He did. But when the point was inflicting pain, there was only do much he could do.

And Eliot hurt. 

Quinn started with a scalpel, making quick, clean cuts in his upper arm, far away from any arteries and shallow enough not to damage the underlying muscle. Eliot jerked his arm once, to keep up appearances, but Quinn clamped his hand down and twisted until Eliot went still again.

“None of that,” he said brightly. “We don’t want it to scar.”

His precision made Eliot wonder if the hitter had had some medical training in another life, and he almost asked just to give himself something else to focus on. But Barrett was hovering over Quinn’s shoulder, watching him work with a morbid gleam in his eye, so Eliot kept quiet.

“Hand me the needle,” Quinn said. 

Barrett’s gaze stayed on the blood. “Why?”

Quinn leaned away, fixing Barrett with a look Eliot couldn’t see. He’d gotten a chair and a tray table from another cell and had set it next to Eliot’s, on the left side where he’d be safe from kicks. Always keeping up appearances. “Your boss said not to cause lasting damage,” Quinn said. “Infection will kill a man as surely as a bullet. Besides, you ever been sewed up without anesthetics?”

Eliot swallowed, forcing down another wave of nausea. It was fine. Just pain, and pain was manageable—pain was nothing.

Pain was an old friend.

Barrett turned away to get the needle, and Quinn took the moment’s distraction to lift his eyebrows at Eliot.

Doing okay?

Okay. Sure. He definitely had a concussion, possibly a few fractured ribs, bad bruising across his face and torso. A cut over his eyebrow had bled and dried during Barrett’s turn at him, and his bottom lip was fat and tender. But yeah, he was okay—at least until Quinn started in with his needle.

That wasn’t fair. Quinn was in a bad position, and was doing everything he could to work slowly and precisely, minimizing damage while keeping Barrett away from him. If they got out of this, Eliot knew he wouldn’t hold it against him, but it was hard to see that far ahead at the moment.

Maybe that was part of Moreau’s plan, too. If Quinn was against Eliot, Moreau got some free torture and a new employee. If Quinn was with him, then every punch and cut undermined the trust between them, building up Eliot’s resentment and Quinn’s guilt, making them easier to manipulate. That’s how Moreau did things—he got inside a person’s head, played with their emotions, twisting reality until it was hard to remember what was true and what wasn’t. Until the truth became whatever Moreau said it was.

Quinn was still watching him, waiting for an answer, so Eliot nodded. Yes, he was okay. He had to be.

Barrett dropped a handful of tools on Quinn’s tray: the needle and thread, medical scissors, tissue forceps. Eliot took a breath, holding it as he closed his eyes and sifted through his memories for something pleasant to focus on, but as soon as he felt the smooth metal forceps against the first cut, he tensed. Quinn was quick, but not gentle—the curved needle pierced his skin, followed by the burning tug of thread being pulled through. He let out a shaking breath, determined not to make a sound. He hadn’t heard Nate in a while, but if he was still listening, Eliot didn’t want to let on how bad it was. They had enough to worry about.

He grasped for something else to think about, but every time he settled on an image, the drag of the stitches snapped his attention back to his arm. It shouldn’t have been this hard. Eliot had been tortured before, more severely than this, and he’d managed just fine. Sure, the previous beating—and the concussion—might have affected things a bit, but he’d handled worse in the past. Maybe it was the cold, held in by the concrete floor and walls, seeping into him through the metal chair. Maybe it was the thirst, more insistent than the hunger, though he knew the second would become a problem soon. Maybe he’d just gotten soft. He’d tried to keep his skills sharp, but obviously he’d let them lapse. He couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t fight the pain, and when Nate realized it, he’d speed things up, try to come after him without a full plan, and his team would be in danger—and it would be his fault, all his, always—

“Eliot?” Parker said.

Panic flooded him. His eyes flew open, already seeing what Barrett would do to her, and he threw himself upright against his restraints. The thread pulled tight on the cut, and Eliot let out a broken moan.

“No, don’t—”

Quinn froze. Barrett grinned.

Parker spoke again, softly, her words hesitant. “Eliot? I can’t hear you—Hardison made it so we could talk, but not listen. I don’t know if you can hear me, but... but I wanted to talk to you. If that’s okay.”

Eliot dragged in a shaking breath, honing in on the sound of her voice in his ear. She wasn’t there. She was safe, far away, somewhere Moreau couldn’t reach her.

“Settle down,” Quinn said, pushing Eliot back against the chair. He barely felt it.

“I miss you,” Parker said. “I wish you hadn’t left like you did, but I know you wanted to protect us. Sophie said I shouldn’t try to avoid my emotions, so—so I’m mad about that. You know how I feel about people leaving.”

God, that hurt worse than anything Quinn was doing. Eliot grounded himself in the feeling of the suture being tied, swallowing back the nausea his rush of movement had caused.

“But I’m only mad because of how much I care about you,” Parker went on. “And you know that, too. Don’t you?”

Yes, Parker, I know.

“I know you can’t answer, even if I could hear it, but...” Her voice flipped back and forth between steady and trembling, like she was keeping too tight a grip on her emotions. “Just get whatever you went there to get, okay? I need you to come back home. It’s not right without you. Hardison is all mumbly and over-caffeinated, and Sophie just keeps walking around with those flowers you sent her, and Nate—well, you know how Nate gets.”

The forceps parted the next cut. Eliot breathed through it.

“Anyway, um... I was going to distract you. Nate said just to talk about anything, so... did I ever tell you about the time I broke into the New York Federal Gold Vault?”

Eliot closed his eyes, letting her words settle like a blanket over the sharper sensations around him. The needle was smooth, Quinn’s movements deft, and Barrett was quiet in the background.

“The vault cylinder is 9 feet tall in a 140 ton steel and concrete frame, with air- and watertight seals and a time clock to keep the vault locked until business hours.”

Quinn finished with the next cut, and Barrett said something about Eliot withdrawing, making the pain ineffective.

Eliot sighed. Parker went on talking about the smell of the gold bars, and he opened his eyes with the feeling of her in the back of his mind. He wanted to stay there, enveloped in familiarity, but that wasn’t why he’d come. He had a job to do.

He had people to get back to.

“You think this is enough to make me shut down?” he asked. “I was bored, Barrett, that’s all. Thought I’d take a little nap.”

Quinn paused with his needle hovering over the third cut, his attention on Barrett. “I can keep going, but I think you’re right. This just isn’t effective on him.”

“You got a reaction before.”

“Must’ve hit an old injury or something," Quinn said. "But I’ve been on the same area since then, and nothing. Maybe we should take a break.”

“You’ll keep going until Mr. Moreau tells you to do otherwise,” Barrett snapped.

Quinn shrugged, and Barrett loomed over Eliot’s chair, sneering. “And you. Say whatever you want, but everyone breaks eventually. I’m going to enjoy it when it happens.”

“You don’t get it, do you?” Eliot said. “When this is over, you’re out of the picture. You think Moreau’s going to take me back and leave me on the bench? I was his second-in-command. I knew everything, about his business, about his contracts, about him. He’s not going to waste me on guard duty. When Moreau brings me back in, it’ll be your position he gives me, Barrett. You’re not gonna see anything.”

Barrett snarled. “He wouldn’t do that to me.”

“No? How many hitters has he burned through since you’ve been here, huh? You’re nothing special. I’m the best at what I do, and Moreau knows that. There’s no replacing me.”

Barrett hit him, a right hook to the jaw that sent Eliot’s head reeling.

“There are 122 compartments inside the vault,” Parker said. “And each one has two combination locks, a padlock, and an auditor’s seal. It’s like they weren’t even trying to keep me out.”

Eliot chuckled, staining his shoulder with flecks of blood. “He left you down here to babysit while he went up to take care of business. He doesn’t need you. But me—he used to talk everything through with me before he made a deal. That’s why I’m here now.”

“You’re here because of the job,” Barrett said.

“Sure,” Eliot said. “The job. You never stopped to wonder about the timing of this job? Why he targeted me? I’m the only one who could stop him, and I’m the best one who can help him. I know his plans, his clients—you’re just muscle, nothing more.”

“I know more than you ever will,” Barrett shouted. He was leaning over Eliot now, his hands in his shirt, his mouth twisted with rage.

“Did you know that only gold bars cast in the US before 1986 are rectangular?” Parker said. “The ones cast after that are trapezoidal, like the ones from overseas. The rectangular ones are my favorites. They just fit so nicely in your hand.”

“Gold, right?” Eliot said, seizing onto Parker’s distraction. “Moreau’s bringing in a shipment from overseas.”

Barrett laughed in his face, a harsh, spit-laden bark that Eliot tried to turn away from, but Barrett yanked his shirt and pulled him straighter in the chair. “You’re overrated, Spencer. Everyone says how good you were, but you’ve lost your touch. Nobody’s moving gold.”

“Just because he hasn’t told you—”

“Oh, he’s told me,” Barrett said. His eyes were bright with victory, and something cruel that sent unease squirming through Eliot’s stomach. “More than that, he trusted me to make the transfer personally. I’m the one who found the contact. I oversaw the development of the code. How much do you know about coding, huh?”

Eliot spared half a second to be glad Hardison hadn’t heard that remark. “Moreau doesn’t bother with coding,” he said. “He deals in physical goods.”

“Maybe he used to,” Barrett said. “But things have changed. All the best plays are digital now.”

“I need a name,” Nate said in his ear, talking over Parker’s continued praises of the rectangular gold bar. “Keep him talking.”

Eliot shook his hair out of his face, narrowing his eyes. “You’re lying. Moreau’s never cared about things like that before.”

“Then maybe your new position isn’t as secure as you thought,” Barrett leered. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Moreau sends you outside when it happens. You’ll have a pretty good view of the explosion from here—maybe even some residual radiation. I’m not sure what the range is on hydrogen bombs.”

Over Barrett’s shoulder, Quinn’s eyes widened.

“What’s the target?” Nate asked urgently.

Eliot could only blink up at Barrett’s bruised, triumphant face, not even bothering to hide his shock. He'd figured it would be bad—why else would Moreau have bought a bunker?—but he’d never expected this. There was only one place near enough with that kind of weaponry, and if coding was involved…

“The Boardman Bombing Range,” he croaked. “The Naval Weapons Systems Training Facility.”

“Looks like you know a little about it after all,” Barrett said smugly. He threw Eliot back into his chair, then pulled another from the side of the room and sat on Eliot’s right. “Go on,” he told Quinn. “Keep going. The quicker you sew, the quicker you can get back to cutting.”

“Look, I don’t want to get into anything too deep here,” Quinn said, lifting his hands. “Hydrogen bombs are a little above my paygrade. Do what you gotta do, but let me know if I need to get out of Dodge, you know?”

“Don’t worry,” Barrett said. “If Mr. Moreau decides to keep you on, you’ll be safe here in the bunker. If not, you’ll be dead before the bomb goes off next week.”

Eliot let out a half-breath, fixing his eyes on the ceiling to keep from glancing at Quinn. They had time. Nate would come up with something—Eliot just had to keep stalling, keep feeding them information. This was the best place for him to be.

“Cut,” Barrett said.

Quinn got back to work.

Chapter Text

“Uh, hey Eliot,” Hardison said.

His voice was uncertain, like Parker’s had been when she started, though by the time she’d finished her story (and subsequent stories) of her favorite thefts, it had grown more confident. When she said she had to go, Eliot had tried not to feel disappointed. Nate would need her to chase down leads—of course she couldn’t spend the whole day talking about nothing, especially since Eliot couldn’t tell them how much it was helping.

But then Hardison took her place, and Eliot relaxed the muscles he’d let tense in her absence.

“It’s weird talking to you like this,” Hardison said. “I know Nate said you don’t want us to listen, but I wish I could hear your voice. It’s like you’re not real, man. Like I’m talking to a ghost.”

Quinn was back to cutting, but he’d moved down to Eliot’s forearm. He inhaled through the third slice, breathed out as Hardison kept talking.

“Parker and Sophie are checking into Boardman. Once they plug me into the database, I’ll find that code your friend was talking about, but there’s not much for me to do until then. I thought... I mean, I did some research on pain management, anything I could try in an audio format, and I found some real interesting stuff on Solfeggio tones. A 174 hertz frequency can help relax muscles and slow the heart rate, which helps for relaxation and pain relief, and... I mean, it’s meant for like easing a pulled muscle, not torture, but... uh, some studies indicate patients feel less pain and anxiety during and after medical procedures when they’re listening to music, so I whipped up an audio loop to see if it might help. I’m gonna hit it now, all right?”

A peaceful chord progression rippled through the earbud, easing through his mind, filling it with gentle sounds and soothing echoes. Barrett shifted his weight in his chair. Quinn made another cut. Eliot kept listening.

“Another study showed patients responded a little bit better to live music,” Hardison went on. “You know, stuff that’s slow and repetitive. So, um, I tried to write something... I guess, Nate, tell me if he doesn’t like it.”

“Go ahead, Hardison,” Nate said quietly.

When the music started, Eliot couldn’t stop the slight hitch in his breath. Quinn hesitated and glanced at Barrett.

“Getting bad, huh?” he said casually.

“No.” Eliot’s voice cracked, so he cleared his throat and pushed on. “Don’t stop on my account. Never been better.”

It was violin, low and melancholy the way only violin could be, blending perfectly with the Solfeggio tones. The tempo was slow, as promised, setting a pace for his breathing almost without him realizing it. When the melody rose, it was sweet and natural—when it fell, it was tranquil and hushed. At times, the music grew so quiet that Eliot had to strain to hear it, which brought him even farther from the throbbing in his arm. Relief sank through his battered body, promising the resilience he’d thought he’d lost.

Not alone, the music sang. Not anymore.

A crackle pricked his awareness, and he tilted his head to listen. A walkie-talkie. Barrett shifted next to him and answered, “Mr. Moreau?”

“Send Mr. Quinn up,” said Moreau’s voice. “I’d like to discuss the terms of his employment. Thompson is on his way down with a meal. Let Spencer up for ten minutes, then cuff him again and leave him to the guards to give me your report.”

“I should finish the rest of the stitches,” Quinn said.

Barrett narrowed his eyes. “You seem awful concerned about it. Makes a guy wonder.”

“I take pride in my work,” Quinn answered in a flat voice. “Man walks around with my stitches in his arm, it’s like a signature. I don’t need him sporting a shoddy billboard with my name on it.”

“You can finish later,” Barrett growled. “Don’t keep Mr. Moreau waiting.”

Quinn shrugged and set the scalpel on the tray. “Have it your way. I’ll leave the cleanup to you.”

He didn’t look back, and Eliot sent a glare after him for good measure. He listened as Quinn’s footsteps echoed down the hall, then tore the last of his attention from Hardison’s music to focus on Barrett. 

“Why Boardman? There are other military testing facilities—bigger, more advanced. What’s Moreau got against this one?”

Barrett snorted. “Nothing. Not everything is personal, Spencer. That’s the kind of thinking that put you in that chair.”

“Everyone has motivations,” Eliot said. “So what? They’re testing something specific that someone doesn’t want finished? There are better ways to get that kind of tech. Give me a couple days, and I can get in and out without—”

“Retrieval isn’t the objective,” Barrett said.

Eliot narrowed his eyes. “You set off an h-bomb, you won’t just destroy the range. Every town in a 30 mile radius will be blown away.”

“Nobody’s dropping a bomb on the facility,” Barrett said. “They’re researching fusion there. We’re just going to ensure their work doesn’t leave.”

“Who’s funding the strike?” Eliot pressed.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Barrett grinned, the effect ruined somewhat by the black eyes Eliot’s headbutt had given him.

More footsteps in the hall—a new man appeared, carrying a plate and a bottle of water. Eliot lifted his hands, rattling the cuffs against the armrests, and Barrett grudgingly released him. He thought about throwing a punch, just on principle, but let the thought be lulled away by Hardison’s music. 

He would get his shot at Barrett later.

“In the elevator,” Quinn muttered. “Any idea what this is about, Eliot?”

Yeah, he had ideas—not that he could discuss any of them. Barrett inspected the sandwich on the plate Thompson had brought and shoved it into Eliot’s hands. Wonder bread and sliced spam—as if the actual torture wasn’t enough. The bastards.

“Guess Quinn passed your little test,” Eliot said, his voice even rougher than usual. “When this is over, he’s the second one I’m going after. You’re the first, Barrett.”

“Last time I do you a favor,” Quinn said.

“Mr. Moreau probably wants him to deliver a message,” Barrett said. “He has a few friends in Portland that will want to gather in the bunker in the next few days. For a price, of course.”

“Thanks for that,” Quinn said. “I'm on the fifth floor. Moreau’s offices.”

Eliot took a bite of the sandwich and chewed slowly despite the taste. “Errington?” he guessed. “Torres? The Lithuanians?”

Barrett laughed. “You’ve been out of the game too long. Come on, finish up. Back in the chair.”

It definitely hadn’t been ten minutes yet, but Eliot choked down the rest of the sandwich and frisbeed the plate at Barrett, then drank the water Thompson offered him and made a show of stretching before he sat. Barrett dragged the left cuff over his newly stitched cuts, but Eliot had expected that and managed not to react.

“Good luck,” Barrett said, throwing Eliot’s hand down on the armrest.

Then he was gone, taking Thompson with him, and Eliot sank back into the sound of the violin. He could hear voices through the comm—someone was talking to Quinn, but Eliot was having a hard time focusing on the words. It wasn’t Moreau, and that was enough to give himself permission to tune it out. Nate was listening too, after all, and he would be able to do a lot more about whatever it was than Eliot.

He exhaled, relaxing his aching muscles against the chair as best he could. The pounding in his head had faded a bit after the water, but the nausea increased after the sandwich. He closed his eyes, letting the music fill his thoughts, chasing away the persistent pain, the deep-rooted anxiety. Outside, he could hear the guards shifting their stances, watching him and waiting to report like Barrett was no doubt doing now. This was meant to be a return to Phase Two, a time for him to wonder what was coming next, to wrestle with the doubts Moreau had introduced while his new wounds ground away at his endurance. Quinn had destroyed that edge when he smuggled in the earbud. He wasn’t alone. His team was on the job, and the rest was just a minor inconvenience in comparison.

Exhaustion weighed on him, and Eliot let himself sleep.

Chapter Text

“Eliot? Eliot, can you hear me?”

Eliot started awake, his breathing sharp and painful in his dry throat, and searched automatically for a threat. His cell was empty—the shadows of the guards still stood outside—and there was silence in his ear. The music had stopped, and he felt its absence like a missing tooth.

“Eliot,” Nate said. “Clear your throat if you can hear me.”

He did, and one of the guards turned to give him a questioning look. They really were listening, then, not just standing around to deter an escape. That would make things trickier.

“Quinn’s finished with his meeting,” Nate said. “I’m not sure how much you heard, but things are moving. Moreau sent him in to Portland to keep an eye on us, in case you’d told us where to find him. And he’s supposed to contact someone called Williams about renting a floor in the bunker. Parker and Sophie are back from Boardman, and Hardison’s running through the data now. It won’t be much longer, all right? Just hang on.”

Eliot cleared his throat again—he didn’t want to risk speaking, not with the guard still watching him.

“I didn’t wake you, did I?” Nate asked softly. “I realized I hadn’t heard you in a while and thought you might have passed out, but I should have let you sleep. Hardison said he made a recording of the music if it helped, and he can play it again. If you want it later, say ‘avocado’ and I’ll have him put it back on.”

Comfortable affection drowned the last of the panic his sudden waking had caused. “Sophie wanted a turn to talk to you,” Nate went on. “If you’re up for it.”

He gave one more agonizing cough, and added a nod for the guard in the hall. “Don’t suppose I could get a water?” he tried, earning a glare and an order to shut up.

A pause, a heartbeat of silence, and then—

“Eliot, it’s Sophie.”

He sighed, hoping Nate would pick up the sound and interpret it as relief. It had only been what, three days since he’d talked to them? They’d gone longer than that before—he shouldn’t miss them as badly as he did.

“Nate says you’re waiting,” Sophie said, her voice as soothing as lemon tea. “So I thought I’d fill the time a bit. I saw you looking at my book a couple weeks ago, and it’s really very good. I was going to let you borrow it, but now... maybe it’ll help take your mind off things.”

Eliot hid a smile. He’d picked up the book because she’d left it on the chair he wanted to sit on, not because he was interested in it. But she could read from the phone book for all he cared, as long as she kept talking.

It was a Regency romance, and he’d mocked Sophie for the low-bodiced dress the heroine had been wearing on the cover, but she’d said the author was one of her favorites. It started out, unsurprisingly, with a snobby description of an English manor, and then an amusing introduction of the main character. Sophie read slowly and clearly, changing her voice and accent for each character, and by the second chapter, Eliot found himself embarrassingly invested in the story.

Of course, that’s when Moreau would ruin things.

The guards alerted him before he heard the footsteps—they snapped to attention in the middle of the young heroine’s proposal to save her sister from an unwanted marriage, and Eliot’s spine straightened before he could tell it not to.

“Any change?” Moreau asked.

“Nothing,” one of the guards answered. “He asked for water once, but otherwise he’s just been sitting there.”

Eliot forced his shoulders to relax, sitting coolly at attention when Moreau opened the door. Barrett was with him—of course he was—but there was no one else, and that was both relieving and concerning. Phase Two should have lasted longer, keeping Eliot weak and demoralized before the Moreau started in. If he had moved past the physical torture already, it meant he was escalating his timetable.

“Sophie,” Nate said, and she cut herself off mid-sentence. Eliot set his jaw, allowing himself a slow, bracing breath.

He wasn’t alone. He could do this.

“Seamus tells me you two have been talking,” Moreau said, wasting no time as he entered the cell. He stayed standing, looming over Eliot, an unsubtle reminder of his power. “He says you’ve been curious about our plans.”

“I can’t help if I don’t know what’s going on,” Eliot said.

Moreau reached out, taking Eliot’s chin and tilting it up. “Then why not ask me? Why go behind my back to weasel information out of Seamus?”

“You weren’t here,” Eliot said through clenched teeth.

“You could have waited,” Moreau said. “Don’t you realize what this looks like? Like you’re being dishonest. Like you’re up to something.”

Eliot didn’t bother denying it. That wasn’t part of the game.

“Don’t you want things to go back to the way they were?” Moreau asked. He pressed in with his fingers, edging closer to Eliot’s throat.

And it all came back, muscle memory and internalized responses locking into place over the facade of confidence he’d build up over the years. His gaze dropped, even though Moreau was still holding his face up. His heart started its old familiar we-should-run-away pattern against his ribcage, and his fingernails dug crescents into his palms.

Moreau smiled. “There you are. I’ve missed you, Eliot. You were always so steady, so eager to please. So loyal.”

His skin burned under Moreau’s touch, and he wanted to turn away, but he couldn’t move.

“You never told them, did you?” Moreau whispered. “No, of course not—they’d never understand. How could they? This part of you… you’ve tried to bury it, but it wouldn’t take much to bring it back, would it? Not as much as you pretend. A single step off the path, and you’d slide right back into your old ways. Back with me. Only I wouldn’t judge you, not like they would. I understand. I’m the only one who can.”

Eliot closed his eyes. “What do you want me to do, Damien?”

Moreau let go of his chin and patted his cheek. “I promised to leave your team alone, and you know I keep my promises. But what you did, Eliot… I can’t let it go unanswered. You’re going to have to serve penance.”

“I will,” Eliot choked out.

“And you know I reward obedience,” Moreau said. “So I’ll grant you leniency. An easy job, at first—nobody you know. My men found an FBI van parked a few miles away, but we’re still working on getting into their systems. I want you to take care of them and destroy anything they may have collected.”

“What’s the FBI doing there?” Nate said.

Quinn’s voice was faint in his ear. “I can check it out. I haven’t left the bunker yet.”

“Hang on,” Nate said. “Eliot, say you’ll go after the van, and then you and Quinn and come back together.”

“Where are they?” Eliot asked.

Moreau leaned back and looked at Barrett. “Seamus will show you. You understand, of course, that I can’t let you out completely on your own yet. Not until you prove that I can trust you.”

“I can handle him,” Quinn said.

“Then let me up,” Eliot said, shaking the cuffs on his wrists. “We can go now.”

It was the wrong thing to say. He didn’t know why—he’d agreed, he’d promised to do what Moreau wanted—but he could tell by the way Moreau’s eyes narrowed, just slightly, and the way his lips pressed together. He was displeased.

“Do you think you’re ready?” he said at last, his gaze needle-sharp.

Eliot resisted the urge to swallow. “I told you I wouldn’t question you.”

“Yes, you did,” Moreau said slowly. He grazed his fingers across the right handcuff, sending another reactive jolt over Eliot’s skin. “How will you do it?”

“I’ll... follow Barrett to the van, and depending on how many there are, we’ll either lure them out or—”

“No,” Moreau said. “Tell me how you’ll kill them.”

His stomach twisted. “I’d have to see how they’re positioned.”

“Seamus will give you a gun,” Moreau said.

“Then... I’ll shoot them.”

Moreau’s eyes burned. “Where?”

“Chest. Center mass.”

“Picture it,” Moreau pressed. “Remember the weight of the gun in your hand. Tell me what it feels like.”

Bile coated the back of his tongue. “I can do it.”

“Prove it to me, Eliot. Before I send you out, I have to trust that you will obey me.”

“I will.”

“Then confirm your orders.”

He knew. Eliot didn’t know how, but Moreau had figured it out—or had guessed, at least, that Eliot couldn’t do what he’d promised. He knew when Eliot was lying, knew his tells, knew everything. If he worked it back far enough, he would suspect Nate, too, and he’d send out worse than Quinn—

“Seamus,” Moreau said.

Barrett’s punch was vicious, gleeful—it cracked Eliot’s head to the side, made him grunt and hunch up his shoulders, made him gasp for breath.

Made the earbud fly across the cell, where it bounced and rolled to a stop against the wall.

A flash of fury chased the suspicion from Moreau’s eyes, and Eliot jerked at his restraints. Out, out, he needed to get—

“Oh, dear,” Moreau said, crossing the room in two steps and bending to pick up the comm. He tucked it into his ear and looked back at Eliot. “With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

Eliot braced his feet against the floor. If he stood quickly enough, used his momentum to swing the chair at Barrett—

“Nathan Ford.” Moreau moved purposefully, walking back to the center of the cell, standing directly before Eliot. “I might have known.”

Eliot gripped the armrests with shaking hands. “It wasn’t him. I came here on my own, Moreau, I swear.”

“And you’ve been listening in this whole time?” Moreau went on. “Did you learn anything interesting? Our dear Eliot hasn’t said much, but I’m afraid Seamus isn’t quite as discerning. You’ve put me in a difficult position.”

“I’m still here,” Eliot said desperately. “I’m still with you. This changes nothing. I’ll take out the van, I’ll do whatever you say, just—”

“We both knew it would come to this eventually,” Moreau said, his eyes on Eliot.

He took a breath. Moreau’s eyes dared him to beg.

Eliot threw himself upright. The chair was heavy, but he used its weight to roll into Barrett’s leg. Barrett stumbled, shoved him back—Eliot crashed to the floor.

“Let me give you something to listen to,” Moreau said.

Nate yelled through the earbud—Eliot heard the muffled sound, distant and helpless.

Moreau reached for Barrett’s gun.

Quinn is listening. He’ll get out in time.

The barrel leveled on him, and Eliot met Moreau’s eyes one last time.

Last line of defense.

Moreau fired.

Chapter Text

The gun went off, and Moreau’s name tore from Nate’s throat before he could stop it. He was standing, both hands pressed against the bar, guilt and rage and panic slamming through him with each new beat of silence through the earbud. Dimly, he heard footsteps on the stairs, opening doors, the sound of his name.

“I’ll give you your privacy,” Moreau said. “Talk all you’d like now. Seamus, find Mr. Quinn.”

Harsh, gasping breaths filled the comms, followed by the clang of the cell door.

“Eliot?” Nate said. “Where are you hit? Quinn, can you get there?”

“I’m on my way,” Quinn answered.

Across the room, Sophie and Parker stood in the doorway, their faces pale. Hardison had a hand on each of their shoulders, his eyes huge, his mouth open.

“The van,” Eliot panted.

Relief stabbed through him, followed by another rush of fear. “Where are you hit, Eliot?”

“The FBI van,” Eliot repeated. “It’s McSweeten. I went to him—told him, before I—” A horrible, wracking breath shuddered through his earbud, and Nate felt the blood drain from his face.

“Eliot…”

“Told him—” Eliot said weakly. “I knew Parker.”

“You know who?” the desk agent said, frowning over a building directory. “There’s no Special Agent Hagen in this office.”

“Agent McSweeten will know who it is,” Eliot said. He crossed his arms and threw in a scowl for good measure. “This is important. He’ll want to talk to me, trust me.”

“Well, I’ll call up, but he’s very busy. You may have to come back.”

He didn’t have to come back. Parker’s alias had been enough to bring McSweeten running, and the additional mention of Nate’s profiler identity from their work for McSweeten’s father solidified his credibility. Eliot hadn’t worked with him directly on that case, but he’d learned enough about McSweeten over the years to know that this was a good call.

This was how Nate would do things.

The FBI had files on Moreau, and it didn’t take much to get McSweeten to agree to Eliot’s plan. The only problem was the bunker. Government-issued bugs wouldn’t transmit through the layers of security Moreau had no doubt put in place, so Eliot would have to find a way to plant a recording device and send the audio afterwards. That was fine—Hardison had something that could do it, probably, and if the FBI techs could hide it somewhere small, somewhere Moreau would miss if he searched for a wire, then Eliot had a chance of taking care of Moreau for good.

“Needed evidence,” Eliot wheezed.

“We have evidence,” Nate said. “We have the data from Boardman, we know about the attack. We can stop it.”

But that was only because Quinn had gone in with an extra earbud. If Eliot had been planning to get evidence himself, how had he intended to get it out?

“Planted a bug,” Eliot said, as if he’d read Nate’s mind. “Moreau’s office.”

Eliot positioned himself in front of the desk. He’d taken care of the goons—now he just had to provoke Barrett into charging.

“You’re riding on Moreau’s reputation,” he said. “Hiding behind it and flaunting your status. Looks like Moreau gave up on finding lieutenants with brains and settled for the dog with the loudest bark.”

Barrett swung. Eliot took the punch on his cheek, rolling with the strike, testing its strength.

“You’re going to regret that,” Barrett said, stepping inside Eliot’s guard and following with a second hit. He lifted an arm to block it, but Barrett swerved and hit him in the ribs instead. “You may have been useful to Moreau once, but you’re nothing now. You’re dead already—you just don’t know it.”

Eliot let the next hit land, let it drive him back against the desk, let out a grunt when the impact forced the air from his lungs. He steadied himself with one hand on the edge of the desk—reached underneath it with two fingers, pressed the bug McSweeten had given him into the wood—and locked his arms over Barrett’s shoulders. 

“Signal can’t—get through,” Eliot said, his voice straining. “There’s a mic-micro-transmitter, on my necklace. Quinn, take it.”

“He’s on his way,” Nate said. “He’ll get you patched up, get you—”

“Nate.”

Nate stopped, his chest burning, his throat thick. “I’m listening.”

“Necklace,” Eliot repeated. His words were faint, worn through like old denim. Fraying.

Fading.

“I’ll get it,” Quinn said. “When it’s free of the bunker, it’ll transmit the recordings from the bug in Moreau’s office, right? I’ll make sure it happens.”

Eliot exhaled, coughed, labored through another breath. “Quinn—finish the job. McSweeten will—” A gasp, even weaker than the last. “Take care of Moreau.”

“Eliot,” Nate said. He looked up, found the others staring at him, and couldn’t look away. “We’re not finished. You’re not done.”

Another gasp. Quinn’s footsteps echoed over concrete.

“You will hold on,” Nate said. “You will not let go.”

Sophie buried her face in Hardison’s chest. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and he’d moved one hand up to cover his mouth, the other tightening over Parker’s shoulders. Her expression was blank, her eyes dry and red.

Eliot took another breath. “Yes, sir.”

Chapter Text

Quinn hurtled down the stairs. He’d found them after ditching Moreau’s men on the top floor when they tried to escort him out of the bunker—he’d taken the chance to snoop, maybe dig up something that could be useful, and had found a staircase instead. It was enclosed, so he figured he’d hide out where Moreau couldn’t keep tabs on him, just in case Eliot needed backup.

Then the gun went off, and by the sound of Eliot’s breathing over the comms, he needed a lot more than backup.

He spared a few seconds to open the bunker doors and jam the controls to keep them from closing, and then he was flying down the stairs. Fifth floor. Sixth. Seventh. Eliot told them about the bug he’d planted, the micro-transmitter in his necklace. Clever bastard.

“I’ll get it,” Quinn said. “When it’s free of the bunker, it’ll transmit the recordings from the bug in Moreau’s office, right? I’ll make sure it happens.”

Eighth floor. Ninth.

“You will hold on,” Nate said, the order clear even to Quinn. “You will not let go.”

Tenth.

“Yes, sir.”

Eleventh. Twelfth. Thirteenth. Fourteenth.

“Can you get ahold of the van?” Quinn panted, throwing himself down the last set of stairs. “Get an ambulance rolling.”

“Hardison,” Nate said.

Quinn ripped open the door to the fifteenth floor and sprinted down the jarringly bright hallway toward Eliot’s cell. They all looked the same, and for a moment, he didn’t know which way to go—but then he heard the ding of the elevator, and he was running again. He rounded a curve—

Face-first into Barrett. Barrett’s eyes went wide, and he reached for his empty holster—Quinn hit him without slowing down. Barrett dropped like the second-rate hitter he was, and Quinn turned to run on.

“Mr. Quinn.”

He froze, his breath coming in shallow pants, sweat sticking to the back of his shirt. The elevator door was open, just a few feet ahead of him, and Moreau stood with one foot in the doorway, a .44 aimed between Quinn’s eyes.

“You stayed to listen?” Quinn said.

Moreau quirked an eyebrow. “I stayed to listen. So you were working with him after all.”

“Still am.”

“The FBI are storming the bunker,” Nate said. “Stall, Quinn.”

But he couldn’t stall, not if he wanted to get to Eliot. Moreau was only a few feet away. If he could duck the first shot, he could get close enough to disrupt a second. He needed a distraction, something that would make Moreau flinch. What did a man like Moreau fear?

Someone like him... Someone better.

Quinn smirked and fixed his gaze over Moreau’s shoulder. “Nate. Glad you could make it.”

Moreau’s eyes shifted, not quite looking away, but it was enough. In a second, Quinn closed the gap between them—Moreau shot, but it was a reaction, not an attack, and it went wide. Then Quinn was on him, tearing the gun out of his hand, smashing his fist into the side of his head.

“What’s happening?” Nate asked.

Moreau collapsed, and Quinn checked the cylinder. Four rounds left.

That’s all he needed.

“Tell the FBI that Moreau and Barrett are unconscious on the fifteenth floor,” Quinn said, making his way back down the hallway. “Four bodies outside Eliot’s cell.”

“Bodies?” Nate said. “There weren’t any—”

Gunshots shattered the stillness, but Quinn had been expecting that. Two guards, by the sounds of it, leaving the other two on Eliot. Quinn crouched and leaned around the wall, lifting the .44.

One shot—a cry of pain—another.

“Ah,” Nate said. “Those bodies.”

He moved on, his back to the wall, listening for the last of Moreau’s men. They’d held their post, trusting their bigger guns to protect them.

Amatures.

Quinn squeezed off the last two shots, then shoved the gun into his waistband, stepped over the guards, and pressed Moreau’s code into the number pad. The lock hissed open, and he held his breath as he peered through the iron bars.

Eliot was still in the chair, lying on his side on the cold cement, his hair flung over his face. He didn’t move when Quinn opened the door.

Then he saw the blood.

“Dammit, Eliot,” Quinn muttered, and an immediate rush of questions assaulted him.

Hardison’s voice was loudest—apparently he’d switched the comms back to full audio. “Tell me he’s alive, Quinn,” he said, his words shaking. “Tell me he’s breathing. Tell me he’s—I swear, if you don’t start talking right now—”

“Chest shot,” Quinn said. He stepped into the cell, his shoulders sagging. “Heart, or close to it. I’m sorry.”

Silence. Quinn took another step, swallowing the bitterness that rose up at the sight of Eliot’s bruised face pressed into the floor. He shouldn’t be reacting this strongly. Eliot wasn’t a friend, not really. They didn’t know each other well enough for that. Half the times they’d been in the same room, they’d beaten on each other. But Eliot Spencer was a legend in his line of work, and to lose him like this...

Quinn reached out, resting two fingers against Eliot’s neck.

“Son of a—”

A pulse. Holy hell, the man had a pulse.

“Where’s the ambulance?” Quinn demanded, twisting toward the supplies Barrett had brought him earlier. “Get them down here, now.”

“He’s alive?” Sophie gasped.

Quinn ripped open a package of gauze and stuffed it into the bullet wound, leaning his free ear close to Eliot’s mouth. He couldn’t hear his breathing over the team clamoring for attention in his ear, but he felt a tickle of air against his cheek. What first? Bleeding, no—pressure in the lungs, tension pneumothorax. Surgical tape. Quinn grabbed the medical scissors to cut through Eliot’s blood-soaked shirt, then sliced apart the empty gauze packaging—the inside plastic would be sterile—and taped three sides of it over the wound.

“Quinn,” Nate barked, and Quinn shook his head as if that would dislodge the voices inside it.

“Treating him now,” he said. “He's bleeding bad from the front. Exit wound…” He eased Eliot forward, running one hand down his back. “Yeah, hang on, the bullet went through.”

He pressed more gauze over the exit wound in Eliot’s lower back, trying not to think about how many organs the bullet had probably hit on the way through. He must have already been on the floor when Moreau shot, judging by the angle—into the chest near the heart, and then punching a diagonal line through his torso. Bad, bad, bad. He bent over Eliot's face again, pushing aside the worst-case scenarios and focusing on the next step of treatment. “Stop talking, I have to listen.”

They shut up, and he closed his eyes to concentrate on the sound of Eliot’s breathing. “How long on the ambulance?”

“Twelve minutes,” Nate said. “But McSweeten had paramedics with him in the van. They’re on their way down.”

Good—then it was time to keep his other promise. Carefully, he ran his fingers along the back of Eliot’s neck until he found a necklace chain; he lifted it, undid the clasp, and slid it free.

It was small and silver, with what looked like a guitar pick dangling from the end. He turned it over, feeling along the back—thicker than necessary—slid his fingernail into a crack along the side, and popped the false backing free.

A tiny round chip was attached to the metal.

Clever bastards, all of them.

Quinn fastened the chain around his own neck and tucked it into his shirt, then dug for his pocket knife and flicked out the shim pick he kept hidden in the handle. By the time he heard footsteps in the hallway, he’d freed Eliot’s wrists and had eased his body out of the chair, and was leaning over to check his breathing again.

“In here,” he called, and two men with a stretcher charged into view. They hesitated over the bodies in the doorway, but when Quinn backed away from Eliot, they took his place on the floor beside him.

“Talk to us, man,” Hardison begged. “Please, just… anything, please.”

“I don’t know,” Quinn said. His voice came out strained, which surprised him—he’d felt relatively calm a moment ago. “It’s bad. Chest wounds are tricky… there’s the bleeding, the risk of collapsed lungs, hypoxia, hypotension…”

“But he’s alive?” Sophie pressed.

“Yeah. For now, he’s alive.”

For the first time, Parker’s voice came over the comms. “And he’s going to be okay?”

Quinn watched the paramedics work, watched the way their shoes slipped through Eliot’s blood on the floor. There was blood on Quinn’s hands, too, and not in the way he normally meant. The smell of it covered him, coating his skin, saturating his clothes. Eliot was dying. It was a miracle he’d held on this long, and the chances of getting him to a hospital in time dwindled by the second.

But Eliot had a different definition of okay than other people.

And he was counting on Quinn to finish the job.

“I don’t know if Eliot’s going to make it,” Quinn growled. “But I can tell you who won’t.”

He slipped the earbud free, pocketed it, and made his way back to the elevator. 

Chapter Text

Barrett was still in the hallway, still unconscious, exactly where Quinn had left him. When he hit people, they tended to stay down—the exception being Eliot—and he only spared a moment to grab an extra round from Barrett’s holster before he moved on to the elevator. The paramedics had to have used it to get down with their stretcher, but they’d left Moreau sprawled on the floor in their hurry to get to Eliot.

Quinn slid his hands under Moreau’s arms and propped him up against the elevator wall. The gun dug into his waistband, and he pulled it out and tapped the barrel against Moreau’s forehead.

“Wake up,” Quinn said. “I’m trying to figure something out.”

It took a few more tries, but eventually Moreau’s eyes fluttered open, and he let out a groan as he straightened against the wall. “Mr. Quinn,” he said, rubbing his jaw with one hand, apparently unconcerned by the revolver in his face.

“What exactly were you hoping to accomplish here?” Quinn asked.

Moreau narrowed his eyes. “Can you be more specific?”

“I’m noticing certain parallels between you and Ford,” Quinn said. “Control issues. Manipulation. Nate thinks he’s righting wrongs, picking up where the law leaves off. Ends justifying the means. What is it for you? Because it’s not just money or power—those I’d understand. Revenge? All this just to mess with Eliot? Or were you messing with Ford?”

“Maybe a little of both,” Moreau said, with that annoying little chuckle that made Quinn want to hit him again.

Instead, he pushed his thumb against the cylinder and slipped the single round inside. “Was it worth it?”

“I had to send a message.” Moreau’s eyes were clear, his voice calm. “When it gets out that I killed Eliot Spencer, no one will ever cross me again. I would have used him, if I could have, but this does the job just as well. As for Ford… there’s not much to worry about now. I know better than anyone that there’s no replacing Eliot.”

Quinn tilted his head. “Maybe they won’t have to. Maybe I’ll take care of it for them right now.”

He was suddenly, vividly reminded of his last job with Eliot’s team—when Eliot held a gun over Dubenich, deciding whether or not he’d save Nate the trouble of shooting him. Quinn hadn’t understood his hesitation at the time, but now… here he was with a gun trained on someone else’s enemy. The only difference was that he didn’t have Eliot’s moral qualms to stop him. Killing was a job, one Quinn was good at. He wouldn’t think twice about adding Moreau’s name to his ledger.

Except Eliot had gone to extreme lengths not to kill him, and that meant something. Even if Quinn didn’t know what.

“You understand this business,” Moreau said, finally acknowledging the revolver with a nod. “Ford is paying you, yes? I’ll triple it.”

Quinn raised an eyebrow. “To what? Let you go? Walk you out?”

“This can be a one-time job, or it can turn into something more. Seamus isn’t quite living up to expectations, but you’ve proven to be quite a talented man. We could work something out.”

“Huh,” Quinn said. “Triple my rate?”

Moreau smiled. “Then we have an agreement?”

“That’s a hard number to argue with.” Quinn surveyed the gun once more, flicked open the cylinder, and let the bullet tumble free to bounce across the floor. He tossed the gun away and stood, reaching down to help Moreau up. “And you know the kicker?”

Moreau took his hand, and Quinn pulled him to his feet. “What’s that?”

“I’m not even tempted,” Quinn said. Before Moreau could react, Quinn twisted his arm behind his back, spun him around, and pinned him to the elevator wall. He dug his elbow into Moreau’s shoulder blade and leaned close, letting out his own annoying chuckle.

“Guess Eliot's a better friend than I thought.”

***

Agent McSweeten led the breach into the lower levels himself. Quinn met him and his half-dozen agents outside the elevator, presenting a scowling Moreau and an unconscious Barrett to the sudden swarm of officers. “I’m here with Eliot,” he said. “I can take you to him.”

McSweeten checked him for weapons before lowering his own, and Quinn gestured toward his pocket. “There’s an earbud in there. Should clear things up.”

Slowly, the agent removed the comm and placed it in his ear. “This is Special Agent McSweeten. Who’s this?” He listened, and his expression relaxed as he looked over Quinn. “Nick Dalworth, am I glad to hear your voice. Agents Thomas and Hagen are with you? Yes, I have him. The paramedics are with Eliot now—we’ll transport him to Reed Medical Center once he’s stabilized. Can you meet us there? Okay.”

He took out the comm and held it out, and Quinn put it back into his ear. “This was your doing?” McSweeten said, gesturing to Barrett and the two guards visible down the hall.

“They were like that when I got here,” Quinn said.

The hint of a smile touched McSweeten’s eyes. “Sure. And you are?”

“Hitching a ride with you to Reed.”

McSweeten clapped Quinn on the shoulder and guided him down the hallway. “I’ve been getting updates from the paramedics. You treated Eliot before they arrived?”

“Did what I could.”

“Then yeah,” McSweeten said softly. “We’ll give you a ride.”

Quinn stood in the hall while McSweeten cleaned up his mess, plucking at the chain of Eliot’s necklace under his collar. He probably should have handed it over, but then it would be evidence, and something about that didn’t sit well with him. Eliot had worn the same necklace during their last job—it was his, not the FBI’s—and it probably had sentimental value. If what he’d said was true, then the transmission should send whether or not Quinn gave up the necklace. He’d hold on to it, then, until he could give it back.

McSweeten stepped out of Eliot’s cell, catching Quinn’s eye as he directed two of his men to move the bodies in the doorway. “We’re ready to transport.”

“Nate,” Quinn said, moving toward the elevator. “They’re moving Eliot.”

“We’re on our way,” Nate answered.

The paramedics came out with the stretcher, and four agents stepped forward to help carry it out. Quinn spared a single look at Moreau as they passed, noting the surprise on his face with a stab of satisfaction.

“Guess he’s tougher than you gave him credit for,” Quinn said. “But then, you said it yourself—there’s no replacing Eliot.”

Moreau stared at him, mouth open, doubt creeping into his eyes. Quinn saluted and turned to follow Eliot into the elevator.

Chapter Text

By the time Hardison screeched Lucille to a stop in the Reed Medical Center parking lot, Eliot had already been taken in to surgery. McSweeten had left an agent to bring them through the ER into a private room he had set up as a base of operations, where they found him and Quinn deep in discussion over two styrofoam cups of untouched coffee. They looked up when Nate and the others came in, and McSweeten got up to shake Nate’s hand.

“I didn’t realize you were working on this with us,” McSweeten said, offering his hand to Hardison and Parker as well. His gaze lingered on Parker, a worried crease settling between his brows, and he glanced back at Nate. “I wanted to send backup in with him, but he refused.”

“He left without telling us,” Nate said. “By the time we tracked him down, he’d already gone in. We didn’t know you were a part of it until…”

Until Moreau found the earbud Nate had directed Quinn to bring in. Until Nate derailed Eliot’s plans. Until Nate got Eliot shot.

Quinn stood as well, straightening the FBI windbreaker he wore over his bloody shirt. “I’ll get some more coffee. Leave you to chat.”

He started out of the room, but Hardison stopped him with a hand on his forearm. “The transmission went out,” he said. “The FBI received the audio files from Moreau’s office. You did it.”

Quinn smiled, then started when Hardison pulled him in for a hug. 

“We really owe you for this one,” he said, locking one arm around the hitter’s shoulders.

The smile wavered, and Quinn brought up a hand to pat Hardison’s back. “Don’t thank me yet.”

Nate watched as Quinn retreated down the hall, his hands buried in his pockets. “He’s one of yours?” McSweeten asked, lowering his voice so only Nate could hear.

“On this one, yeah,” Nate said. “He’s a, uh... private consultant.”

McSweeten nodded. “I’ll need a name for the report.”

“Agent Thomas will get you everything you need,” Nate said.

Hardison looked up at the sound of his alias and sighed. He’d brought his laptop in, and he moved to the corner of the room and sat in a hard plastic chair to get to work.

Then there was nothing to do but wait.

McSweeten came and went a few times, ducking out to make calls, take calls, and ensure Moreau was heavily guarded while he was being processed. “I have a prosecutor friend who’s agreed to take the case,” he told Nate. “She’s listening to the audio recordings now. She’s going to push for maximum penalties, but I’d like to coordinate with your division as she puts the case together. Actually, can I have your number? It’d be a lot easier to do some of this over the phone.”

“Oh, here,” Hardison said, digging in his pocket. “I brought an extra one for Eliot.”

He held out an earbud, and McSweeten accepted it as if it were made of gold.

“I’ll talk you through what we know,” Hardison said. “Eliot got Moreau’s man to give up some of his plan for Boardman.”

McSweeten nodded. “Yeah, good. I already warned them, but we need to know exactly what his plan was in case he had any of his people outside the bunker. I have to grab a few things, and then we can talk.”

He left the room again, and Hardison looked up from his laptop. “They’re not gonna have any problem with evidence. I’ve been going through the recordings, and they got Moreau on everything. Everything. He put out a hit on us, first of all, so right there you got solicitation of multiple murders, and that’s not even getting into the attack on Boardman. We’re talking seditious conspiracy, maybe even treason. And if the prosecution can get any of his guys to flip on him for lesser sentences, they’ll have even more. He’s going away for a long time.”

“No he’s not,” Nate said. 

Hardison frowned at him. “Did you not—I just read you the list, man, it’s all—”

“Maximum penalty,” Nate said. “As in capital punishment. In Oregon, the only crime punishable by death is aggravated murder.”

Hardison’s fingers stilled over his keyboard. “Then...”

Nate looked at Parker. “You were right. This was a retrieval job. Eliot went in to get enough evidence to take care of Moreau for good. No more bribes, no more escapes, no more running off to a country he can buy. If Eliot dies, Moreau dies. That was his contingency plan.”

“And if he doesn’t die?” Sophie said, her eyes on Parker.

Nate didn’t answer. If Eliot lived, Moreau would still go to jail for a very long time, but he would fight it. With his money and his influence, there was no guarantee he’d stay where they put him. It was San Lorenzo all over again.

Nate had to make sure that didn’t happen. One way or another, they would finish what Eliot started.

They spent the hours in near silence. Hardison typed and engaged in occasional hushed conversations with McSweeten over the comms; Sophie joined in on their discussions, but otherwise paced quietly in the back of the room; Parker disappeared and reappeared without a word; Quinn reclined in a chair against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, napping. Nate watched it all through the reflection in the window by the door, trying and failing to keep his thoughts from spiraling.

Eliot. Moreau. Death. Eliot. The cycle began again.

Movement down the hall drew his attention, and his stomach gave a hollow lurch as he watched McSweeten guide a doctor toward their room. “Guys,” Nate said quietly, and the room behind him went still.

The doctor came in first, casting long looks over each of them before she settled her attention on Nate. “My name is Dr. Early,” she said, staying where she was in the doorway. “Agent McSweeten tells me you’re the patient’s family.”

She put a strange emphasis on family, which Nate interpreted as I won’t ask if you don’t give me a reason to.

“Is he okay?” Hardison asked. He hadn’t moved from his corner, but he closed his laptop and sat like a coiled spring at the end of his chair.

Dr. Early sighed. “He’s out of surgery. The bullet entered here—” she held up an x-ray and tapped the left rib cage, “—and continued through his torso at an angle before exiting here, above his hip. He was in critical condition when he arrived, but the field treatment he received prevented a pneumothorax, and we’ve managed to get the bleeding under control.”

The dread stayed lodged in Nate’s throat. “But?”

Dr. Early fixed him with a sympathetic look. “There is severe damage to his left lung, spleen, and kidneys, not to mention fractured ribs and a concussion from trauma he suffered previous to being shot. I can’t tell you yet whether he’ll recover.”

Sophie stepped toward the door. “Can we see him?”

“His less severe wounds are being treated now,” Dr. Early said. “There’s extensive bruising to his face, torso, and legs, along with some cuts along his left arm. At least someone had already started stitching those.”

“That was me,” Quinn said, his head still tipped back against the wall, his eyes still closed.

Dr. Early gave him a kind smile. “You saved us a bit of work, then.”

“Well, that’s only fair,” Quinn said. “I’m the one who put them there.”

“You…?” the doctor said, blinking. “Why?”

Quinn opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. “‘Cause I’m a damn good friend.”

Dr. Early shot McSweeten a concerned frown, but he shook his head and gestured for her to continue. “Once he’s been transferred to the ICU,” she said uncertainly. “Family members can visit one at a time for fifteen minutes each. A nurse will come get you after he’s settled.”

“Thank you,” McSweeten said, smiling as the doctor sent one last glance toward Quinn before leaving the room.

“Fifteen minutes,” Sophie said. “That’s it?”

Nate cleared his throat and turned away from the window. “ICU rooms aren’t private. The limitation on visitors helps keep things quiet for the other patients.”

“That’s fine for normal patients,” Hardison said. “But what happens when Eliot wakes up and doesn’t know where he is? The last he knew, he was being tortured. What if he tries to escape?”

“Would he do that?” McSweeten asked, eyes wide.

They looked at Quinn, who shrugged. “If it was me? Yeah, probably. Even half dead, Eliot could do a lot of damage.”

“Then maybe I’ll go talk to Dr. Early,” McSweeten said. He ducked out of the room, and Nate went back to staring through the window until Sophie touched his arm. 

She didn’t say anything—no promises she couldn’t keep, no assurances neither of them believed. Later, for Parker and Hardison, they would put up a front, but for now, she looked up at him with all the hopelessness screaming through his own head, and he nodded.

Once again, there was nothing he could do.

It was another hour before the nurse came to take them to the ICU, and they moved through the halls in continued silence.

“One at a time,” the nurse reminded them. “Dr. Early said you’ve been cleared to stay longer than fifteen minutes, but please keep it quiet for the other patients.”

“You should go,” Sophie said softly.

Nate took a long, slow breath. This wasn’t his forte. He shouldn’t be the one going in, offering comfort, saying goodbye. He wasn’t good at that sort of thing. Eliot needed someone who could encourage him, and Nate... Nate wasn’t sure that he could.

But Parker had disappeared again, and Hardison was clutching his laptop to his chest like a shield, and Quinn was pointedly avoiding eye contact, so Nate went in.

He immediately regretted it. There was a man lying on the bed, and it didn’t look like Eliot. An air mask covered some of the bruises on his face, but it couldn’t hide the black eye or the sallow skin, the bandaged chest, the bloody hair. Tubes were taped to the back of his hand, the inside of his elbow, leading to IVs on stands; the beeping, the shushing of oxygen, the presence of someone else’s dying loved ones behind the curtains dividing the room. It all crowded the body on the bed, tucked beneath a sterile, soulless blanket, and it sent a rush of panicked nausea up Nate’s throat. Not another one, God, not again...

A sound in the hall made him turn, and he found himself seeking out Sophie among the small group that had gathered outside the door. She had moved to stand by Hardison, who was back to work on Quinn’s alias or Moreau’s case or some other useful contribution. Right now, there was nothing else for Nate to do. He took a breath and forced himself into the room, to the chair beside the bed, so he could sit and stare down at his lap instead of Eliot’s face.

A voice over the intercom paged a Dr. Brackett. Someone down the hall was crying, and a monitor in the next room blared an alarm, summoning a pair of nurses past the open door. A sour taste in the back of Nate’s throat made him swallow, then clear his throat and close his eyes to shut out the distractions.

Nothing else mattered. This was for Eliot.

“There are things I should say to you,” he began, his voice low and uneven. “I’m not sure if you can hear me, but... I should say them.”

The monitors beeped. Eliot didn’t react.

“I should tell you that you did a good job,” Nate went on. “I don’t know if you need that from me, but I should say it. I should tell you that it was stupid to do this alone. I don’t know if you need that, either. You probably knew that going in, so I doubt it would change anything.”

He took a breath, letting his gaze slip to the side, to the stitches in Eliot’s arm. “The thing is, I’m not sure I can say those things. Not here.” He swallowed, and his head dipped toward his knees. “I couldn’t say them to Sam, either, and I was so much better for him. Back when I still tried to be my best. You never got that—my best. None of you did. I’m starting to wonder if there’s any of it left to give.”

The oxygen hissed, and Nate looked up at the bed. Eliot’s face was still, his eyebrows drawn, as if even now he was trying to concentrate. “I would have given anything to keep Sam with me,” Nate whispered. “Even just one more day. People told me he was in a better place, that he wasn’t in pain anymore, but I would have done anything to keep him. Even if it meant prolonging his suffering.”

The machine breathed for Eliot. His bruised chest rose and fell. Nate thought about taking his hand, and kept his own folded in his lap.

“You’re suffering under an enormous weight,” he said. “And I ordered you not to put it down. I’m finding myself in the same position I was in then, asking myself the same question: what would I do to keep you here? But it isn’t me, is it? You’re the one fighting, and I… Maybe I overstepped. Maybe it’s cruel to ask you to suffer. Maybe I should tell you it’s okay to let go.”

Eliot didn’t answer. Nate let out a breath and stood, wishing he had a drink in his hand. “But that’s the thing,” he muttered. “I’ve always been a selfish bastard.”

He started for the door, but a high-pitched whine from one of the monitors froze him in place. The room was suddenly flooded with nurses, converging on Eliot’s bed and calling out numbers and terms he understood but couldn’t process.

Tachycardia.

Acidosis.

Respiratory distress.

“I need you to leave, sir,” said a nurse, taking his arm to guide him from the room. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t tear his eyes from Eliot’s, still closed, still bruised, still still.

“Sir,” the nurse said.

Then Sophie was there, pulling him away, and the door closed behind him, and Nate collapsed into the nearest chair and buried his face in his hands.

Hold on, he begged. Do not let go.

Chapter Text

Hurried footsteps made Nate lift his head, but it was only McSweeten jogging toward them, oblivious to the scowls he was earning from the nurses in the hall. “I heard over the...” he said, gesturing toward his ear. “What happened?”

“We don’t know,” Sophie said. She was standing beside Nate’s chair, her arms wrapped around herself, and the sight sent guilt spiking through him. Hardison sat in the chair beside Nate, and Quinn stood across from him, his arms crossed, his feet planted the way Eliot did when he expected a fight. Parker was gone.

Nate rubbed his face and stood to put an arm around Sophie. “Respiratory distress,” he said, lifting a hand to his earbud. “Parker, where are you?”

“Coming,” she said in a clipped voice.

The ICU door opened, and Hardison shot to his feet beside Nate. “Is he—?”

Dr. Early stepped into the hall, her expression grim. “He’s stabilized, but we’re going to need to transport him to Providence in Portland. Our scans missed a left hemothorax—bleeding in the chest cavity—and we had to put in a chest tube to drain the fluid. Our equipment is old, and I’m concerned we may have missed other bleeds. Providence has better machines, plus one of the best trauma surgeons in the state.”

“Can we see him before he goes?” Sophie asked, her fingers digging into Nate’s forearm.

“I’m sorry,” Dr. Early said. “They’re prepping him for transport now. But he’ll be in excellent hands there.”

She gave them one more encouraging smile, which was too sympathetic to be comforting, and turned back into the room.

“You can ride with me,” McSweeten said. “I’ll put on the lights and sirens, and we’ll get there in no time.”

“Someone’s gotta drive Lucille,” Hardison said.

Quinn pushed away from the wall. “I’ll go with you. Got a few questions about this micro-transmitter.”

“I’ll meet you in the parking lot,” Parker said over the comms. “I’m almost there.”

Sophie took Nate’s hand. “All right. If we hurry, we might even beat them there.”

She pulled him down the hall, and Nate resisted the urge to look over his shoulder for what he hoped would not be his last glimpse of Eliot.

***

“Agent Thomas and I have pieced together most of Moreau’s plan,” McSweeten said over the whine of his siren. “He was going to disable the base’s security code and detonate a device inside the lab where they were conducting fusion research. It would have been...” He paused to turn a corner, his eyes on the cross traffic. “It would have been bad. Really, really bad.”

“But Agent Thomas found the code,” Sophie said. She was in the front with McSweeten, but she kept glancing in the rear-view mirror to check on Nate in the backseat.

“Yeah,” McSweeten said. “He said you and Agent Hagen were able to get him into the database at Boardman. Between that and the recordings from Moreau’s office, we’re confident the attack has been stopped. It’s over.”

Sophie met Nate’s eyes in the mirror again. It was far from over.

McSweeten had gotten them out of the Reed Medical Center parking lot before the ambulance, and according to Hardison’s somewhat breathless report, he and the others were only a few minutes behind them. Nate forced himself to focus on the buildings flying past his window, letting his mind work in the background.

Moreau will fight his sentencing. What will be his first move? Pawn to c5.

The comms were quiet, and McSweeten let the conversation lapse as he drove.

Counter knight f3. Moreau likes to push for dominance over the pawns: Caro-Kann Defense.

A sign for Providence Portland Medical Center directed them to a parking lot, and McSweeten eased into a space near the ER building. “We’re here,” Sophie said into the comms. “How close are you?”

“Be there soon,” Hardison answered.

Sophie opened her door. “We’ll meet you inside.”

They crossed the parking lot, in through the ER doors—Moreau would go for an aggressive defense, castling kingside—McSweeten spoke with a receptionist while Nate and Sophie moved to stand out of the way.

“They’re not here yet,” McSweeten said.

More waiting.

Moreau doesn’t hesitate to sacrifice his pieces, but he doesn’t like to give up control of the center of the board. It makes him predictable.

“It’s been too long,” Sophie muttered. “They should have been here by now. Hardison, where are you?”

“Parking,” he said.

“Family for Eliot,” called a nurse.

Sophie took Nate’s hand and flashed a thin smile at McSweeten, but a sour feeling turned Nate’s stomach. They hadn’t seen Eliot come in, and if they didn’t bring him into the ER...

“I’ll take you to Dr. McCall,” the nurse said, leading the way through more doors, more halls, into a different section of the hospital. Nate tightened his grip on Sophie’s hand. He should tell Hardison where to go, but maybe it was better to do this without them. Sophie didn’t realize it yet—her eyes were still hopeful, and she squeezed his fingers reassuringly. God, if only he could prolong that hope.

“Take out your earbuds,” Nate said, stuffing his own into his pocket. Hardison and Parker shouldn’t hear it like this—Nate needed to tell them in person. Sophie cast him a worried glance and obeyed, and McSweeten handed his over with a look that said he knew exactly what Nate was doing.

The nurse opened the door to an office, and a short woman with platinum blonde hair met them inside. “Special Agent McSweeten,” she said, with brief nods to Nate and Sophie. “I understand the patient we just received was involved in an FBI case.”

Was. God.

“I’m very sorry,” she said gently. “There was a hemorrhage in his chest cavity, and the paramedics were unable to stop the bleeding during transport.”

Sophie shook her head, her eyes wide. “No, that’s—they said he was stabilized.”

“It would have been easy to miss the bleed,” the doctor said. “I’m so sorry. I’ll give you a moment.”

White knight taken. King exposed. Check.

“No,” Sophie whispered. 

McSweeten closed his eyes, shaking his head, and let out a long breath. “I’ll talk with the doctor,” he said. “See if I can find Agents Hagen and Thomas.”

He left them, and the only thing Nate could do was pull Sophie against his chest and wonder what he was going to tell the others.

Aggravated murder. Job complete, Eliot.

The door burst open, and Parker tore into the room with Hardison on her heels. “McSweeten said you were here,” Parker said in a rush. “He’s talking with the doctor in another office. Come on, we have to—”

“Parker, wait.” Sophie pulled away from Nate, wiping her eyes and taking a trembling breath. “We have to talk.”

Parker shut the door and leaned her back against it. “Okay, but hurry up. We have to go get Eliot.”

“Parker…” Sophie glanced at Nate, recognized his uselessness, and went on herself. “Eliot didn’t... There—there was a bleed, and they couldn’t...”

Her voice broke, and she covered her face with one hand and waved for Nate to continue, but his eyes were on Hardison. Hardison, who was busy rifling through the files on the doctor’s desk, pulling papers out of a folder and replacing them with ones from the printer in the back of the room.

“There wasn’t time to explain,” Hardison said, an apology heavy in his voice. “We couldn’t say anything over the comms, not with McSweeten listening.”

Sophie dropped her hand from her face and clutched it to her chest. “What are you saying?”

“Eliot’s not dead,” Parker said, her eyes bright. “We stole him.”

Chapter Text

They didn’t get the full story for almost two hours, and by then, Nate had figured most of it out anyway. There were details to iron out at the hospital, which took the rest of the evening—mostly involving keeping McSweeten away from the deceased “Eliot”. Sophie ended up having to distract him while Nate went with Dr. McCall to identify a body he had never seen before.

“One of Moreau’s guards,” Quinn had explained. “We swapped him from the morgue at Reed. Parker stole an ambulance, I posed as a medic, and we made the switch a few blocks away. Hardison took care of the paperwork.”

Nate had never doubted Hardison’s skills, but the hacker had truly outdone himself on this one. In the time it took to transport the body from Reed to Providence, he’d managed to create Eliot’s new alias, change the hospital records to match Eliot’s wounds to those of the guard Quinn had shot, and hack the FBI reports to update the altered information—all without a single bottle of orange soda.

Quinn had taken Eliot and the stolen ambulance to a private clinic run by a man named Curly, about whom Nate asked no questions and received no information. He was safe, Quinn assured them, and that was good enough for them.

“Surgery’s the worst part,” Quinn said. “With that out of the way, Curly and I can keep an eye on the rest.”

The rest, apparently, included the continuation of the treatment started at Reed—Hardison had taken Eliot’s charts and had passed them on to Quinn, who passed them on to Curly. By the time Nate, Sophie, Parker, and Hardison arrived at the clinic, Eliot had already been set up with a new chest tube, IVs, and oxygen mask.

“This was risky,” Sophie said, frowning at Parker from eyes that were still red and puffy. By unspoken agreement, they had gathered in Eliot’s room, though it was barely large enough for half of them to fit comfortably. It was better than letting him out of their sight again.

“We didn’t have a choice,” Parker said. She had perched on the back of a chair beside the bed, and sat with her feet on the seat and her eyes on Eliot’s face. “The only way for Moreau to be charged with aggravated murder was for Eliot to die. We had to make McSweeten think that’s what happened.”

“But to take him during transport,” Sophie pressed. “After he’d just gone into respiratory distress! It was too dangerous—”

“Oh, that was me, too,” Parker said.

Sophie stared at her. “That’s impossible.”

“I took some clothes,” Parker said, shrugging. “Dressed like a nurse, went in before you guys got there, and tweaked the machine readings to trigger the alarm.”

“How?” Sophie asked, exasperated.

“Hardison showed me how the code for Boardman was supposed to bypass the security system,” Parker said. “So I just did the same thing on the ICU computer. I didn’t mean for it to go off while Nate was in there, but it took longer than I thought it would. Sorry.”

“Then you came in with the other nurses,” Nate said, impressed in spite of himself.

“Well, I had to make sure they didn’t give him anything extra. I tampered with some of the x-rays so the damage looked worse than it was, and like they’d missed the hemothorax—though actually, that was pretty lucky, because when they inserted the chest tube, turns out there was a bleed that they didn’t know about, just not in the same place as on the x-ray.”

Sophie buried her face in her hands. “I cannot believe you saved Eliot’s life by faking his medical data. When did the rest of you get in on it?”

“When you went off with McSweeten,” Quinn answered from where he was leaning against the door frame. “She asked if I’d ever stolen a body before, and funny enough, this one time in Serbia—”

“And then I got to pull off the most amazing records switch in history,” Hardison cut in. “With nothing but a laptop and a cellphone picture of a dead guy.”

“Yes, we’re all very impressed,” Sophie said, looking to Nate for support. “But was it really necessary?”

Parker spoke without lifting her head. “Moreau meant to murder Eliot. His punishment should reflect that.”

She looked up then, fixing Nate with an expression that dared him to disagree.

He didn’t.

“I’ve been talking with McSweeten,” Hardison said, his gaze darting between the two of them. “The prosecution is pushing to get things moving. McSweeten’s going to let us know all the players so we can keep an eye on things from our end.”

Quinn nodded. “I’ll be listening through my contacts, too. If Moreau tries anything, I’ll hear about it.”

Nate sat with his elbows propped on his knees, his chin resting on his folded hands. The monitors were less obnoxious here, fading to background noise instead of disrupting his thoughts like they had at the hospital. It felt better, being in the room with all of them together. Hardison’s chair was so close to the bed that he was practically sitting on it, and Sophie had taken up a position by Eliot’s head and was absently stroking his upper arm.

And for the first time since Nate got Eliot’s message, the knot of anxiety in his stomach loosened. “Keep on it,” he said quietly. “We’re going to see this one through to the end.”

He stood, and though he didn’t say for Eliot, he saw the sentiment echoed on each of their faces as he left the room.

***

“Agent,” Nate said.

McSweeten lifted his head from his desk, blinking blearily up at Nate. “Nick?” He sat up, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, I must’ve... what time is it?”

“You asked me to come in and give a statement,” Nate said. He pulled a chair from a nearby desk and sat beside McSweeten, handing over the extra cup of coffee he’d brought. Nate had caught a quick nap in the early hours after they’d gotten Eliot settled in Curly’s clinic, but he doubted McSweeten had gotten much sleep in the last two days.

“Right,” McSweeten said, clearing his throat. “I’m sorry. I know this is a bad time.”

Nate surveyed the agent’s rumpled suit, the bags under his eyes, the pale cast of his skin. “It’s all right,” he said gently. “You don’t need to push yourself this hard. You got Moreau.”

“It doesn’t end at the arrest,” McSweeten said. His voice was gruff, but he gave Nate a small smile as he took a sip of coffee.

“No,” Nate said. “I suppose it doesn’t. But you’re not the only one who can file paperwork.”

McSweeten set the cup down and sighed. “I owe Eliot a little more than paperwork.”

Ah, damn. He’d been worried about that. It made sense that Eliot had gone to McSweeten, someone he knew he could trust, but McSweeten took after his father. He was soft in all the ways that mattered. He took things to heart.

It made him so much harder to lie to.

“Todd,” Nate said, leaning forward and waiting until McSweeten met his eyes. “What happened to Eliot is not your fault. He knew what he was getting into. It was his choice, not yours.”

“I was the agent in charge,” McSweeten said. “It was my first time leading anything like that, and I—I made a bad call. I should never have let him go in alone.”

Nate shook his head. “There was no other call. Eliot was your only chance at getting in, and he knew it would be dangerous. He left us messages before he went to you. He knew he wasn’t coming back.”

“That doesn’t make it any easier,” McSweeten said.

Nate’s eyes, already tired and stinging, had started to burn with more than exhaustion. He wasn’t grifting here, wasn’t trying to put on a show, but God, it had come so close... “Eliot came to you,” Nate said, blinking hard, forcing his words through a dry throat. “Because he trusted you to do your job. And you did. You got him out, Todd. You took the bunker by surprise, you executed a successful raid, you arrested every one of Moreau’s men. Eliot did his job to get you in, but you can’t do the rest of yours if you run yourself into the ground before the trial.”

“No, I know.” McSweeten pushed a hand through his hair, his eyes closed. “I know. I just... I want to make sure this gets done right.”

“All right,” Nate said. “Then I’ll give you my statement, and I’ll walk you out to your car, and you can come back tomorrow.”

A tired smile relaxed McSweeten’s face. “Deal. And—will you let me know about the funeral? I’d like to be there.”

“I don’t think we’ll do much,” Nate hedged. “He didn’t know many people around here.”

Dark brows furrowed, destroying the ease Nate had worked to put on McSweeten’s face. “Oh, I thought… it’s just, you seemed so close. All of you.”

“We were,” Nate said. “We’d… we’d consulted for the FBI before, for Agents Hagen and Thomas. But he mostly kept to himself.”

“How long did you know him?” McSweeten asked.

Nate tilted his head, pretending to think, even though he knew exactly how long it had been. “About five years, I guess. I knew him a little by reputation before that, but how much can that really tell you about a person?”

“He was brave,” McSweeten said, his voice hushed. “He saved a lot of lives.”

At that, finally, Nate smiled. “You have no idea.”

“Well, if you decide to do anything…”

McSweeten stood, shuffling some papers together, and Nate set his hand on the agent’s shoulder. “We’ll put together a small ceremony,” he said. “Just the few of us who really knew him. I’ll send you the details.”

He nodded, and Nate watched as Todd, the man who cared too much, mustered the strength of McSweeten, the dedicated FBI agent, and wove them together into something his father would have been proud of.

“Thanks,” he said. “For everything. Let’s go get that statement.”

Chapter Text

For the second time in as many days, Eliot woke to the feeling of hands in his hair. A damp cloth ran through it, warm, followed by the gentle tug of fingers parting the snarls that had built up since whenever Eliot had last brushed it. He couldn’t remember when that was.

There was a voice, too, humming a slightly off-key melody, and a dull, pulsing ache rocking through his body. He tried to open his eyes, but they were so heavy—everything was heavy. The fingers brushed over his forehead, and the voice went on humming, and he let himself sleep.

***

The next time he woke, he recognized the voice as Sophie’s. She was talking now, though her words only confused him more. “The Viscount,” she said grandly. “Having received in Rome the intelligence of his youngest sister’s betrothal, was moved to comply with his parent’s desire for his immediate return, and set forward on the journey with all possible speed.”

Viscount. Was that a code? Eliot tried again to open his eyes, but a haze of light burned against his lids, and he changed his mind. Something swam at the edge of his memory, some swirl of unease that wanted his attention, something that said he should be moving. But Sophie was beside him, which meant that she and the others were safe, so he fell back into the rhythm of her voice as she went on not making sense.

***

He couldn’t remember falling asleep, but he was awake now, so he must have at some point. Sophie wasn’t talking anymore, and her absence sent anxiety curling through him. He wanted her beside him, where he could protect her. Could he protect her? He had to; that was his job. He would find a way to do it.

It was dark, and he hurt, but the pain was sluggish and unidentifiable. Warm pressure against his right side made him turn his head, and something soft tickled his cheek.

He opened his eyes. Training kept him still as the details faded in and out of focus: an oxygen mask covered his mouth and nose, IVs pricked his skin, the room was cold. That was all secondary to the feeling of a body against his, pressing into him and instantly soothing the fear trying to take hold.

Parker.

She was asleep, her breath ghosting against his chest and her hands curled into the blanket draped over his body. He tried to lift his head to look at her, but all he could tell was that she’d managed to climb into the bed without tangling herself in the various tubes attached to him. She’d tucked herself in under his right arm, pillowing her head in the crook of his shoulder.

He exhaled, rested his chin on her hair, and went back to sleep.

***

Hardison was crying.

It was quiet—just a catch in his breath, a heavier-than-necessary exhale, but it brought Eliot awake with all the panic his brief interludes of consciousness had buried. 

Hardison was hurt. He needed help.

Eliot opened his eyes and immediately shut them against the glare of lights overhead. That was fine, he didn’t need to see—he tensed his arms, gathering his strength to sit, listening for the threat, analyzing his options.

“I know you’re gonna be fine,” Hardison said, and Eliot froze. “Quinn said the numbers look better, that the bleeding’s stopped and all. It’s just waiting now. But I just keep thinking, and—I keep having these nightmares, man, that I wake up and you’re gone. Or you’re calling for help, but I’ve turned off the comms and can’t hear you. If I hadn’t turned them off, if we’d sent the FBI in sooner…”

He took another breath, and Eliot sagged back against the bed. It was him? He’d hurt Hardison?

“I need you to be okay,” Hardison whispered. “Okay? Just tell me—just show me you’re gonna be okay.”

The lights were still too harsh, too bright, but Eliot shifted his hand until he found the edge of the bed, and reached further, bumping the backs of his fingers against Hardison’s arm.

“Eliot?” Two hands wrapped around his, and Eliot could hear him holding his breath.

He squeezed his fingers.

Hardison made a choking noise and leaned forward, lifting Eliot’s hand so his elbow was bent against the bed and sandwiched between Hardison’s arms. “Eliot? Can you hear me? What do you need?”

Eliot fought through the burn of the lights and opened his eyes again. He needed Hardison to stop crying, but the oxygen mask was still secured to his face, and he didn’t think he had the strength to remove it. So he squeezed again, and Hardison pressed his forehead to Eliot’s hand.

“Oh, thank God. Thank God, thank God, thank God. Eliot, man, it’s—it’s okay. You’re okay. Okay?”

All he could do was tighten his grip over Hardison’s fingers, but that seemed to be enough. Hardison took a shaking breath and nodded against his hand before lifting his head. “Do you remember what happened?”

No, and he didn’t want to. Whatever it was had been bad, bad enough to scare his team, bad enough to send him here. The last job was a blur in his memory, and it was so much easier to leave it that way. Hardison was safe. Parker and Sophie were safe. And Nate...

Nate. He hadn’t seen Nate. Had whatever happened to him happened to Nate, too? Had someone gotten to him while Eliot was down? Fear flooded in, and Eliot closed his eyes, forcing his thoughts into obedience, laying the pieces together until he had a semi-coherent picture to review.

Moreau.

The bunker.

Shot.

Dammit.

His eyes cracked open and found Hardison staring at him, tears still spilling over his cheeks, and the sight made him want to drag himself through all fifteen levels of Moreau’s bunker and bury himself in the concrete. He tried to speak through the oxygen mask, but when no sound came out, he managed a pathetic nod.

Hardison echoed the movement. “Quinn got out okay. Everyone else, too, we’re all okay. All right, so don’t worry about that. You just gotta worry about getting better, all right?”

Some of the tension drained out of him, and he let his eyes close again. It was so hard to keep them open, so hard to focus. He felt the heaviness weighing on him once more, threatening to pull him back under, but Hardison’s hands were trembling, and it was Eliot’s fault.

“Do you need anything?” he asked again.

Yes. Hardison needed to be needed, and Eliot… well. Eliot couldn’t tell him that, not with words, but what had he said? Back in the bunker, Nate had told him something... something about a code, that he could say the word if he wanted...

He drew in a painful breath, summoned his strength, and tapped his finger against Hardison’s hand.

Short, long. Short, short, short, long. Short, short, short.

For a moment, Hardison didn’t respond, and then he gasped and let go with one hand. “Is that Morse code? Are you kidding me? I don’t know all these—no, hang on, lemme get my phone—okay, go again. Yeah, all right, A. V. O.”

Long, short, long, short. Short, long. Long, short, short. Short, short, short. 

Hardison patted Eliot’s hand. “Avocado? You mean the music? It helped?”

Long, short, long, long. Short. Short, short, short.

Yes.

“Okay, yeah, I can—yeah, I’ve got the recording right here.”

The phone speaker wasn’t as clear as the earbud, but the music was just as good as he remembered. Eliot sank into the sound, letting it settle into his bones, filling the gaps between the pain.

“Okay?” Hardison said. “Is that all right?”

Long, short, long, long.

He fell asleep before he could finish the rest.

***

He washed back to consciousness on a fresh wave of pain, but he held in the groan that came with it. Pain was good—it meant the drugs were wearing off, that he’d be able to stay awake for more than a few minutes. The face mask was gone, replaced by a cannula running across his upper lip, and he gave an experimental flex of his fingers. His hands were empty, and the music was gone. He opened his eyes.

“You gave us a hell of a scare,” Nate said.

Eliot turned his head and found Nate in the chair beside him. He was facing the door, angled slightly away from the bed, looking at a clock on the far wall. Hospitals, Eliot thought with a stab of guilt. Nate wasn’t great with hospitals.

“Sorry,” he rasped. It was barely audible, and he tried to clear his throat to speak again, but Nate sighed and turned to look at him.

“Don’t apologize.” His eyes were bloodshot. Eliot’s gaze dropped to his hands, expecting to see a drink, but they were wrapped around the armrests like he thought the chair might throw him. “How are you feeling?”

“Awesome.”

Nate snorted, rewarding Eliot with a tired half-smile. “Yeah. Me too.”

Eliot shifted to take some of the pressure off his side, but the movement sent pain rocketing through his torso. “Quinn?” he grunted, wincing.

“He went out to check on a report,” Nate said. “We’re working on shutting down Moreau’s network while he’s distracted.”

“Then… McSweeten… arrested him?” Talking hurt, but Nate didn’t seem to be in a hurry. He waited while Eliot panted his way through the question, and then gave a hesitant nod.

“He did. But, uh… he thinks you’re dead.”

Eliot blinked at him. Had it been that bad? He didn’t feel like he was dying—and he’d almost died enough times to know exactly what that felt like. Maybe he wasn’t in the best shape at the moment, but hey, he was conscious. Unless…

“How long have… I been… out?”

“A couple days,” Nate said. “You had a shaky moment after surgery, but otherwise, your recovery’s been going surprisingly well.”

“Then... why...?”

“Parker faked your death so Moreau could be charged with aggravated murder.”

Parker. It would have been Parker—out of all of them, she would be the one to see through the situation, to set aside her emotions and follow through on what he’d started. A glow of pride chased some of the pain from his chest, and he smiled through a half-healed split lip.

Nate watched him, reading his reaction. “We thought that was your plan.”

Well. It hadn’t been Plan A, but he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t an acceptable outcome. Moreau had to be stopped, at any cost. He couldn’t regret that.

But Nate let out a sigh that said he disagreed. “You should have come to us.”

“Wasn’t… time.”

“Then you should have made time,” Nate snapped. “Your priority has to be the team.”

A rush of irritation overwhelmed the pain, and Eliot found the strength to prop himself up on his elbow to give Nate a proper glare. “Who the hell—do you think—I did this for?”

“Parker and Hardison,” Nate said sternly. “Sophie. Me.”

Eliot made a helpless gesture with one open palm, and Nate shook his head. “There is no team without you, Eliot.”

“I called… Quinn.”

“Not a hitter,” Nate said. “You. You are not expendable. You are not replaceable. And unless you accept that, you’re just going to end up hurting the team again.” 

He fixed Eliot with a look that made him feel like a child who’d just been told his father wasn’t mad, only disappointed. “I don’t think we can take another hit like this,” Nate said, and suddenly his red eyes made sense. All of it made sense—the way Hardison had clutched at his hand and begged him to get better; how Parker had slept curled into his side, close enough to hear his heartbeat; the care Sophie had used in cleaning the grime and tangles out of his hair. He’d tried to protect them, and look where they’d ended up.

Nate’s expression was an impossible combination of firm and gentle. “Do you understand?”

Eliot swallowed, fighting the urge to lower his gaze, and nodded.

Nate put his hand on Eliot’s arm and stood. “All right, then,” he said. “The others will want to know you’re awake. Do you want a second before I call them in?”

“Yeah,” Eliot croaked. He lowered himself onto the bed and laid his head back, trying to summon the least-exhausted expression he could muster. “Wait,” he said as Nate started toward the door. “My phone?”

Nate reached for a small table beside the bed. “Hardison brought it in,” he said, handing it over. “I’ll give you a couple minutes.”

He left, and Eliot opened his empty messaging app and typed in the number he’d memorized a year ago.

I owe you a beer.

He tipped his head back, hoping for a few moments of silence before Nate sent the others in, but his phone buzzed as soon as he closed his eyes.

You owe me a case, Quinn replied.

Eliot smiled.

Chapter Text

Eliot stood in front of the observation window overlooking the Execution Room in the Oregon State Penitentiary. He’d waited over a year for this moment—withstood months of recovery, of physical therapy, of waking up to Parker and Hardison in his apartment, of getting used to working with backup until his team could come to terms with him taking hits again. He’d endured the nightmares that came whenever Moreau found a way to delay his trial, but those never lasted long. Every time Moreau made a move, Nate was there to counter it. Moreau pushed back his sentencing—Nate convinced the judge to get back on schedule. Moreau tried to get evidence thrown out—Nate provided more. Moreau sought to make a deal—Nate got it taken off the table. They’d worked with Quinn and McSweeten and the prosecution to insulate the jury from anyone Moreau might have used to get to them; they’d coordinated with the penitentiary to cut off Moreau’s contact with his network after he was found guilty; they’d intercepted the few messages he was able to get out and dealt with them before they could get into the wrong hands.

Counter, attack, counter—check mate.

It all led to this moment. Only select members of the public were allowed to witness an execution, but Hardison had gotten Eliot in as a reporter. “One of us should go with you,” he’d said as he handed over a new ID badge. “Or instead of you. You don’t have to do this.”

But Eliot had looked at Nate, asking permission the only way he could, and Nate had nodded.

“Take your earbud,” he’d said.

And that was that.

Eliot had pulled his hair up and tucked it under a hat, just in case McSweeten decided to attend, but he didn’t recognize anyone in the room with him. Moreau didn’t have a family, and neither did Eliot’s deceased alias, so it was just him, two security guards, and two other reporters. He’d brought a notebook and pen to keep up appearances, and he tapped at them absently as the men inside the Execution Room secured Moreau in his restraints. A curtain blocked his view of the process, but he knew how it would happen: clocks and straps and equipment would be checked before two catheters were inserted into Moreau’s arm—one to administer the lethal injection, one as a backup. He imagined the straps tightening around his own wrists, and looked down to verify the smooth, healed skin where Moreau’s handcuffs had once chafed.

“Doing okay?” Nate said quietly in his ear.

Eliot cleared his throat—their new code, just between the two of them.

“We’re here if you need us,” Nate said.

Eliot spun his pen between two fingers, wondering just how much of his mind Nate could actually read. Did he know how nervous he was? How unsettled?

How relieved?

A shadow moved behind the curtain, and Eliot inhaled through his nose as a man inside drew the fabric back to expose the Execution Room to the witnesses. There were more guards, and medical examiners, and even the Assistant Superintendent of Security—but Eliot’s eyes went straight to Moreau.

He reclined on the table, masking his emotions behind hooded lids. The expression was so familiar, so Damien, that Eliot sucked in another breath to control the regret churning his stomach. Eliot had respected him once—liked him, even. Eaten with him, shared inside jokes with him, exposed his hurts to him.

Now he was killing him.

Moreau looked into the gallery, his gaze brushing disinterestedly over the guards, the reporters, sweeping on. Eliot swallowed, set his jaw, emptied his face of emotion the way he’d done so many times in Moreau’s presence, hid his fear, his guilt, his misgivings, and Damien looked at him and saw him, and Eliot stood still as his eyes went wide in shock and anger and something—something like approval.

Damien relaxed his expression into an almost-smile, the cocky one he used to wear when Eliot had done something to impress one of his competitors, and nodded.

Well played.

Then the clock struck 7, and the executioner pushed the blend of barbiturates and potassium chloride through the syringe, and it was over.

The witnesses were taken to a media center, where the reporters compared notes and questioned the guards. Eliot sat in silence. A counselor offered his services and was politely refused. When the reporters finished, a guard told them they were free to go.

Eliot stepped onto the front steps, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets. Fall was quickly giving way to winter, and he would normally have begrudged the aches and stiffness the low temperature brought out in him, but tonight, he appreciated the way it made his lungs sting.

The comm was silent. He could feel the others listening, but he made them wait as he left the penitentiary grounds, walking unhurriedly back toward the pawn shop where he’d parked. It was only about a mile down the road, and he knew he’d want the time to clear his head, to put distance between himself and the man he was leaving behind.

When he turned onto State Street, he withdrew one hand from his pocket and pressed a finger to his earbud. “It’s done.”

“Are you okay?” Hardison asked.

“Yeah,” Eliot said, passing through the shadow of a skeletal tree. “I’m gonna go offline for a bit. I’ll check in when I head back home.”

“We’re proud of you,” Sophie said.

The words warmed him, and he hummed into the comm to let her know it.

“Hardison and I are at the brewpub,” Parker said. “If you want to stop by when you get back.”

Eliot smiled. “Yeah, okay. I’ll see you in a bit.”

He’d have told them not to wait up, but they wouldn’t listen—they’d backed off a little since his recovery, but he knew they’d be extra clingy tonight. That was okay. When he returned, he’d be ready to fall back into the familiar patterns of bickering and teasing, of them invading his personal space and him pretending he didn’t crave it. Of putting this all behind them, finally, and moving on.

But not yet. He needed time, movement that wasn’t frantic or violent or self-preserving. He needed quiet before he could match their energy again.

Infrequent street lamps spilled light across the sidewalk, separated by long stretches of darkness. He passed an empty bus stop, a laundromat, some houses, a bar. He took a deep breath of cold air and tried to let the exercise work out the rest of his tension.

Up ahead, the sign for the pawn shop reflected the brake lights of passing cars. The lot was small and unlit, but he’d left his Charger on the far end of a line of vehicles still parked in front of the shop. The owner had accepted some of Eliot’s dwindling supply of cash to keep his car there until he’d finished at the penitentiary, and had seemed friendly enough when they were talking. A buzz of restlessness made him dread the long drive back to Portland—he wasn’t ready yet. Maybe he could go inside, chat a bit, browse the eclectic wares. If he brought something shiny back for Parker, she might even leave a little more of his money lying around for him to find.

He turned toward the door, but a rustle of movement drew his attention a second before a fist flew out of the darkness. Eliot blocked it, falling back to put distance between him and the attacker, but the other man followed—a man, definitely, taller than him, and fast. He couldn’t see much else.

He didn’t have to. Instinct took over, shifting his weight to his back foot, dodging the next punch before he darted inside the other man’s guard. A block, a jab, another—the man drew back, countered faster than Eliot expected, and hit him in the face with a blow that made him stagger.

Eliot pushed his hair out of his face. “Thanks, man,” he said, rolling his shoulders. “I needed this.”

He met the next punch with all the force he’d held back over the last year. His first swing was wild and violent, and the other man ducked—Eliot reined in his strength, drawing it under control, letting his movements rock back into the rhythm he’d developed over decades of being outnumbered and underestimated. The hesitations that had crept in during his recovery reared up, but his body remembered the motions, the measured breaths, the flexing muscles. It was a dance, and he knew the steps.

He controlled the fight.

He swung again, a sharp blow to the other man’s jaw, and another, sending him sprawling onto the sidewalk in front of the shop. There was a light over the door, giving just enough illumination for Eliot to watch the man rub the back of his hand across his face as he lifted himself onto his knees. 

“Think I’ll take that beer now,” he said.

Eliot lowered his hands. “Quinn?”

“Guess you’re back to full strength, huh?” Quinn said, flashing a familiar smirk beneath a bloody nose. “I was worried when you didn’t notice me following you.”

A reflexive scowl fell over Eliot’s face. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Checking up on you,” Quinn said, as if that was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Why?”

“Curiosity.” Quinn stood, straightening his jacket, not looking at Eliot. “Noticed you came alone.”

“You think that might’ve been for a reason?”

Quinn hummed. “Might’ve been.”

He held out a moment longer, but when Quinn extended a hand, Eliot sighed and took it. “You drive here?” he asked, glancing into the shop windows to make sure no one had seen their fight.

“Nope. Know anyone who can give me a ride to Portland?”

“You normally assault the guys you ask favors from?”

Quinn gripped his hand tighter. “Like you can talk.”

A laugh snuck out before Eliot could stop it, and he gave up trying. “So that’s it? You came all the way here just to see if I could still kick your ass?”

“Well, not just for that.” He dug into his pocket and produced something on a string—no, not a string, a chain—and dropped it into Eliot’s hand.

“My necklace,” Eliot said blankly. “I thought this was in evidence.”

“I meant to give it back sooner,” Quinn said. “But—it’s hard to explain—it turned into a kind of luck charm. At first I just forgot about it, but every time I thought I should give it back, something would happen. Moreau would find a new lawyer, or one of his goons would pop out of the woodwork, or your spleen would rupture.”

Eliot twisted the charm in his fingers, running his nail over the familiar etched design. “My spleen never ruptured. I just popped a stitch.”

“Yeah, well…” Quinn rubbed the back of his neck and looked away. “It got to feel like things would pile up every time I was gonna bring it back, so I thought I’d just hang on to it until it was over. And now it’s over. Right?”

Eliot undid the clasp and fastened it around his neck, running his fingers down the chain as it settled against his skin. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s over.”

Quinn watched him, motionless in the faintly flickering light. “Reminded me of dog tags,” he said. “Was that intentional?”

“No,” Eliot said, too quickly. Quinn kept watching, so Eliot sighed and went on. “I’ve had this a long time—before Moreau. He knew about it, knew what it meant to me. It’s the kind of thing he’d take as a trophy if things went south. Maybe he’d start wearing it to intimidate other crews, or maybe he’d send it to Nate to gloat, but either way, it’d get to where the transmission would send. That was the whole point of the thing.”

Quinn shoved his hands in his pockets. “Seems like you thought of everything.”

“Against Moreau? I had to.”

“You sure had the others worried.”

Eliot lifted his eyebrows. He almost called Quinn out on that, but he’d already bloodied the poor guy’s nose just for jumping him in an empty parking lot. He didn’t need to add insult to injury. “The others,” he started, glancing away. “They went through a lot on this one. More than any job should have asked of them.”

“Maybe they didn’t think of it as a job,” Quinn said.

“What else would it be?”

Quinn dabbed at his nose again, but the bleeding had already slowed. “Dunno. Never worked anything that wasn’t a job before.”

A breeze cut through the alley, and Eliot took off his hat and pulled his hair tie free. “Come on, we can get that drink back at the brewpub. You’ll have to buy, though—Parker changed the passwords on my bank accounts and hid all my cash. She’s only been giving it back in small amounts.”

Quinn snorted. “Like an allowance?”

“Shut up.”

“My buying kind of defeats the purpose of you owing me a drink.”

“I’m giving you a ride. What else do you want?”

“A beer.”

Eliot laughed, feeling lighter than he had in years. “Fine, a beer. Parker’ll agree to that.”

“Not one of Hardison’s,” Quinn said. “I learned my lesson last time. Something with a label, all right? Down to earth. None of that IPA crap.”

Eliot threw an impulsive arm around Quinn’s shoulders and steered him away from the shop. “You got it.”

“I could go for a burger, too. Since you’re buying.”

“You’re a hell of a friend, Quinn.”

“Yeah,” Quinn said, setting his hand over the faint scars he’d left on Eliot’s arm. “How ‘bout that?”