Work Text:
i.
‘Parker,’ Eliot yells, swinging for the last of the three Serbians to keep him from reaching the vault door. His fist connects with an audible crack, sending the guy sprawling. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘I’m working on it,’ she shouts, voice cracking on the final syllable.
The back of Eliot’s neck prickles. He makes sure that the Serbians are not getting back up within the next hour before checking the hallway they came in through. When he is done and turns around, he catches Parker flipping her hair out of her eyes.
His comm crackles. ‘Guys, what is going on down there?’, Hardison asks, sounding distracted.
He’s working a last-minute background check for Nate and Sophie; one of their marks dropped a hint about working with the CIA.
‘Because I do not want to stress you – I know you people like your zen at work – but we’re kind of running out of time here. There’s only so long even Sophie can draw out a simple lipstick choice; they’re down to Candy Floss and Shimmer Of Daylight. If we’d gone to that corporate meeting like I’d suggested, it would have given us six hours easily–’
‘I am working on it,’ Parker hisses. She throws her head back again. When her hair falls right back into her face, she snarls, curls two strands of it around her fingers and yanks hard.
Were Eliot a lesser man, he would wince.
She doesn’t manage to tear it loose, even though she clearly wants to. Her face screws up. Before she can actually contemplate whether wrestling with it to get rid of the distraction would be worth the time lost, Eliot crosses the room in two strides. He pulls a dark blue, sparkling elastic from his wrist and holds it out to her. ‘Here.’
Parker blinks, then grabs it. ‘Thanks.’
Eliot returns to the door to keep a lookout until they can escape with the package.
Two more Serbians and a Korean later – which is a combination that sets off all kinds of alarm bells; he’ll need to drop Shelley a note – they crawl back into Lucille through the bottom hatch over a conveniently located storm drain.
‘Hey, Eliot?’
He turns away from the equipment he’s loading up and finds Parker standing behind him. Her wheat-blond hair falls around her slender shoulders, a little messed-up from how carelessly she’d been treating it. She has the glittering elastic pinched between her forefinger and thumb.
‘Why do you have this?’
Eliot stiffens. ‘I always have some with me, just in case.’
She squints.
He holds up his left arm and, with a flick of his fingers, opens the broad leather band. Underneath it are three thin, black hair ties.
Parker considers them for a moment and then shrugs. ‘Okay, but why do you have this one?’
Because when he saw it at the farmer’s market, the midnight sky caught in the wrapped thread had reminded him of her triumphant grin the last time she was practicing locks at the office. He’d bought it before he could stop himself, and only realized later that there was no way he could give it to her. They’re work colleagues; and for three of the four months they’ve known each other, they were waiting for Nate to find them a job. Heck, he’s only asked her to trust him for the first time a week ago. Walking right up to her saying ‘I bought this because it reminded me of you’ is simply not an option at this point.
Besides, Hardison would probably sign him up for a load of spam mail if he did.
So Eliot just scowls at her. ‘What, a guy can’t have a sparkly scrunchie?’
Parker’s eyes narrow. ‘You don’t like glitter.’
‘So keep it.’
–
ii.
It’s become a thing for them, once they got settled in Boston, to gather at Nate’s after a job and debrief. They talk through what went right and, more often, all the things that went wrong. In the beginning, Eliot made them dinner afterwards, which slowly morphed into them standing by the counter, beer in hand, while he cooks.
Now, they don’t even start until everyone’s settled at the table.
Some cons, like today, there’s not much to talk about. It went well from start to finish. They even got out early, thanks to the mark being all too willing to stab his former business partner in the back for a ridiculously narrow profit margin. Being in the same profession, Eliot was kind of second-hand embarrassed for the guy.
Not that he ever spends much time worrying about their marks. There are a few exceptions, but right now, he’s more interested in the others’ faces as they polish off the food he’s made; German-style potatoes and bratwurst, with homemade sauerkraut on the side.
Nate and Sophie are engrossed in their own conversation at the end of the table, and are barely paying the food any mind. But they’ve both finished their servings, even Sophie. Parker is stuffing her face with a third helping of potatoes, and Eliot has long since stopped worrying about her metabolism. Obviously she gets rid of it somehow. And Hardison… is batting his eyelashes at him.
Eliot scowls. ‘What?’
‘C’mon man, don’t play dumb. You know what I want.’
The hitter raises a brow.
Hardison snorts. ‘The good stuff. I know you have it. Cough it up.’
‘He’s right,’ says Parker and licks the rest of the gravy from her lips. ‘It’s not an Eliot dinner without dessert.’
She turns her blue eyes expectantly on him, and Eliot huffs to himself. But it’s more of a good-natured grumble. He stands and makes his way to the fridge. He picks up three little bowls of chocolate-covered fruit and returns to the table.
Parker bounces in her chair. ‘Is it the French thing again?’
Eliot bites down on a smile. Aimee may have been right, all those months ago, when she called them his family. ‘Parfait, Parker.’
He pushes it towards her, and hands the other two off to Nate and Sophie.
Hardison blinks. ‘Hey, where’s mine?’
‘You’re not getting any,’ says Eliot and returns to the kitchen.
‘Ooo,’ crows Parker. ‘You were naughty and upset the dessert-Santa!’
Eliot fetches one last bowl and comes back just in time to hear Hardison’s reply.
‘If I have to sit on Santa’s lap to get my sweets, y’all better be ready to bleach your eyes because let me tell you, the lengths I go to for dess– dude! Are you serious?’
He sits up straight, making grabby hands at Eliot.
‘Did you make this just for me?’
The hitter hands the little hazelnut meringue tower over. Hardison is giving the bowl the same wide-eyed, starstruck look as he did the last time, causing a warm flutter to spread in Eliot’s belly. It was this precise memory that drove him to the farmer’s market at six in the morning to pick up eggs.
But he can’t say that. He can gift Parker a hair-tie and cook for the team, but getting here early and making a single bowl of dessert specifically to see Hardison’s smile when he eats it, that’s… not them. They’re bros, and friends, and co-workers, they’re not… whatever.
Eliot sneers. ‘It was left over.’
–
iii.
A large part of a well-worked con is just sitting around and doing nothing while the mark stews in their own juices. It’s usually boring, if everything goes well, and Eliot spends that time counting his blessings and running through everything that could still go wrong in his head. Not this time, though.
This time, he’s sparring with Quinn. They claimed a corner of Leach’s underground tunnels – which Hardison and Annoying Computer Freak II christened the ‘bat cave’ – for themselves as soon as they got here, and have been taking every chance to tussle like lion cubs since. As they’ve gotten to know each other, their attacks and feints have gotten more elaborate, and when Quinn flips Eliot and they end up in an awkward grapple, he catches a glimpse of blonde hair above them. He squints. Sure enough, it’s Parker, upside-down, observing the violence with an inscrutable expression.
He doesn’t think about it, for two reasons: one, because she uses vertical spaces like spider-man – which is another thing he only knows courtesy of his very own computer freak – and two, because Quinn is putting pressure on his windpipe and he needs to refocus on staying alive.
They finish up once he’s freed himself, and he goes to shower.
When he comes back out, a towel slung over his shoulders so his t-shirt won’t get wet, both Parker and Hardison have joined the other hitter by the mats.
Quinn hasn’t cleaned up yet. He’s holding a knife and demonstrating, slowly, a Russian technique Eliot hasn’t seen since the last time he fought a KGB agent. Way back; pre-Moreau kind of back. It’s curious that Quinn, who must be younger than him by quite a few years, has it mastered.
He’s about to comment on it when he notices the expressions on the faces of his team.
They’re side by side, elbows and forearms brushing. They’ve been so close in the past few months, they’re going to make it official soon. Eliot’s stomach twists. Right now they’re barely paying attention to each other, though, as both their eyes are focused on Quinn.
He drops into a spin, the knife arcing out from his closed fist. They follow his every move with their gaze, tracing his arms to the muscled curves of his shoulders as he straightens, lingering on where his sweat-soaked tee clings to his pecs.
Quinn beams, and Eliot’s belly fills with a liquid flame.
One part of him wants to turn on his heel and run. Another, louder part wants him to throw himself at the other hitter and– something. He’s not sure what, but it involves a great deal of violence and blood. He’s beaten the jerk into a pulp once, he can do it again.
Rooted to the spot, he does neither. Mostly because Nate won’t be happy if he has to find them another hitter on short notice because Eliot got– what? Angry, because Parker and Hardison are watching him show off stabbing techniques while still red-cheeked from their sparring? They can watch whomever they want. They can even invite him over to whatever they do late at night at Hardison’s after Eliot has made himself go home; catch Quinn between the longing glances and the thread between them that seems to pull tighter with every passing day. It’s their choice.
Eliot makes himself take a deep breath and visualizes the agitation in his belly flowing out with his next exhale. Then he walks up to them. ‘Give me the knife.’
Parker frowns. ‘Why?’
He steps onto the mat and throws down the towel. ‘Because you should see a master at work before you let this rookie teach you anything.’
Quinn’s teeth flash, and then there’s some quick violence and Eliot has to focus on nothing but the roll and tug and pull of his body for a while. It’s good. Better than wondering about what Quinn has that he doesn’t.
–
iv.
‘Can we stop now? Because I really, really want to stop now.’
‘Stop whining and keep your fists up,’ Eliot grunts, ducking at the same time. Hardison has a height advantage on him, but he’s a slow, lumbering giant. It’s easy to evade his swinging arm and sweep his feet, sending him sprawling.
From the floor, the hacker blinks up at him. ‘You’re one mean SOB, do you know that?’
‘Get up.’
‘I don’t want to.’
Eliot grits his teeth, grabs the other by the scruff of his neck – or rather, his collar – and yanks until Hardison has to put some effort into climbing to his feet or risk being strangled. He breaks away from the hitter and whirls to face him, eyes blazing. There are wet spots under his armpits and sweat glistens on his temples, but his stance is better than it was a few months ago.
‘Why are you so prissy about this? Parker’s not like Nate, you know? She’s never going to put me in a situation where I’m going to have to fight.’
Eliot steps back, gives him half a second of warning and socks him in the jaw.
Hardison’s head snaps back. ‘Ow! What the–’
‘Quinn would have blocked that,’ Eliot sneers. ‘Parker would have dodged that. Heck, even Archie Leach would have gotten out of that without a scratch, only you–’
‘I’m never going to be as punchy as you or Parker!’ Hardison throws up his arms, and Eliot can see the whites all around his eyes. ‘I’m the freaking tech guy!’
‘Yes,’ Eliot yells back. ‘That’s the problem!’
Anger roars in his belly, tight and hot, and he lets it guide his next more. Hardison, having learned his lesson, shifts to defend himself, and then they’re sparring halfway properly again, the only sound in the room their harsh, ragged breaths.
Within minutes, the hacker’s on the floor once more – and it only took so long because Eliot allowed him to draw it out. This time, he doesn’t get back up. He just lies there, staring at the ceiling.
‘That’s it. We’re done.’
Eliot growls. ‘The hour’s not over.’
‘It is for me.’ Hardison rolls onto his feet and shakes out his t-shirt. ‘I’ve got my pepper spray and a taser, that’s enough to take out one person. It’s not like I’m ever going to be in a position for melee combat.’
‘You sure about that, Ice Man?’
‘That was one time and it’s not going to happen again. Besides, you were there to save me in the end, so. Stop being such a hardass.’
He turns around and heads for the door, leaving Eliot standing alone in the middle of his basement gym. There’s a limp in his step, from a fall earlier.
Seeing it makes something ugly twist in Eliot’s stomach. All of a sudden, he feels like throwing up. He rubs a hand over his face, trying to block out the overlapping memories of Hardison being thrown around by Russian mobsters, Hardison flailing in front of a Mexican gang, Hardison being stuffed into a coffin because he couldn’t defend himself. Because Eliot wasn’t there. And, try as he might, there will inevitably come another day where he can’t be there. It’s unavoidable in their line of work – and fucking naive to think a pepper spray would save him.
There’s only one way Eliot can make sure his crew is protected, and he can’t let the incessant bitching stop him from it.
Fuming, he chases after Hardison.
–
v.
Things go to shit alarmingly quickly. All it takes is one suspicious shop clerk and a chatty secretary’s daughter, and all of a sudden the lawyer they’re conning is right there, five minutes ahead of time. There’s a lot of shouting, both in the old warehouse they’re fake-renovating and in Eliot’s earpiece.
They get out with their skins intact, but five-hundred thousand dollars poorer. There’s no way to get the stolen statue back, even if they could be sure it hadn’t been melted down yet, and their client’s hopes are completely shattered.
From the other side of the river, dripping wet, they can only stare at the open, empty warehouse gates in utter shock.
‘How did this happen?’ Parker asks, being the first to speak. Her voice is flat, devoid of emotion.
Hardison’s gaze flicks towards her, which means he can’t tell what she’s feeling. ‘It’s not your fault, Mama.’
Under normal circumstances, Eliot would appreciate his positive attitude, and willingness to comfort her. It’s just that this time, he can’t agree. This is absolutely their fault – if not Parker’s, because it was her plan.
She whirls, eyes flashing, and Eliot knows that she knows.
‘Don’t say that! Don’t– What do we do? Hardison, what do I do?’
‘I… don’t know.’
‘What can we do?’
She runs a hand through her hair, raking her nails across her scalp. She doesn’t cry, of course. The only time Eliot’s ever seen her cry was after that medium cold-read her.
‘Did we… do you think we got–?’
‘Mama–’
Eliot growls. He doesn’t need to hear this. This wasn’t their first solo; Nate and Sophie left half a year ago, they’ve done a dozen cons since, there’s no excuse for this. The question this begs is cold in his mind, spinning carousel-fast, like a premonition.
His crew turn to look at him, matching expressions of dismay on their faces. It slices through Eliot’s sternum like needles, pinning him to the spot like an ant under a magnifying glass, because even though he’s the oldest, and has seen most of the world with the scars to prove it, he has no answer. Their first real loss hangs in the air like miasma, rasping in his throat with every breath he draws.
He has no answer, but he doesn’t have the courage to bring it over his lips.
Parker stares at him for a moment longer, rain soaking through her suit, and then spins around on her heels and stalks off. The ice in Eliot’s stomach cracks. They’re not going to see her again for a good long while.
Hardison is not meeting his eyes. They don’t talk on the way home, but they stop at the first liquor store they see.
–
vi.
Something changed since they moved to Regensburg. Parker, eidetic memory being what it is, adjusted quickly, but Hardison seems to be struggling with the language. Yeah, that’s probably all there is to it, when he shoots to his feet the moment Eliot tries to get up after the game they’re watching is over, and grabs his wrist.
‘Yo, dude. You’re not leaving, are you?’
Eliot shakes his head. He’s just going to stretch his legs, or go to the bathroom, or the kitchen – he hasn’t decided yet. He’s had four beers in the past two hours and the world has gone a little soft around the edges. ‘Nah, just…’
‘Great,’ says Hardison. His face lights up in that way that always makes Eliot’s brain stutter for a second. ‘Because, uh, there is kind of something I need to tell you.’
He knows that tone of voice. Eliot’s thought processes realign themselves and he narrows his eyes. ‘What did you do?’
‘Well, uh. How do I– You know how you are kind of here most of the time? You’ve been sleeping in the spare room for, what, three weeks now, so I thought–’
Eliot’s stomach clenches, solidifying to cold stone. Suddenly, he feels like falling, and it’s all he can do not to let it show on his face. ‘I can go. Shit, dude, why didn’t you say so earlier? If you two want your privacy, that’s absolutely– Let me get my shoes–’
They’re upstairs, under the bed in the spare room, which he’s apparently been imposing on for weeks–
‘No! No, wait, that’s not it.’ Hardison looks away. ‘You can’t go back to the other place, actually, because, uh.’
Eliot replays the last minute or so in his head, and flinches. ‘You sold my house!?’
Immediately, the hacker’s hands fly up. It’s a proper defensive posture, even if he’s still sitting on the couch. He could protect his face with that. He might need to, unless he does some fast talking now.
‘Think about it. You’re here, we’re here, no need to for the bat signal if the team’s already assembled, right? This will greatly improve our response time and all of that. Parker thought it was a good idea, too!’
‘Parker thinks unicorn cornflakes and candy floss are a good idea,’ Eliot hisses. ‘In combination. I literally live just down the street.’
‘But you’re here all the time–’
‘– and I’m going to stay,’ Eliot grinds out between clenched teeth. As if there was ever any alternative. As if they’ve left him another option. He pushes his hair out of his face. ‘Get me my house back, Hardison.’
The other ducks his head and reaches for his phone.
Eliot stalks out, goes to the bathroom and splashes some water over his face. When he’s reasonably sure he’s not really angry – there can be a latency to it; sometimes he needs to think through the implications of something before he can settle on an emotion – he walks back out into the living room.
Hardison’s sitting with his hands between his knees, looking contrite. ‘Eliot, man, I’m so–’
‘Don’t do that again,’ Eliot says, surprised by how level his voice sounds. ‘Next time, just ask.’
‘I should have. I don’t know why I didn’t, it’s just, this place… no, that’s no excuse. I just… maybe I didn’t want you to leave. I’d have no one to talk to. I can’t even order a pizza in this country.’
‘You might wanna work on that.’ Eliot sighs. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
‘I know.’ Hardison rubs the back of his neck. Then he looks up, a crease forming on his forehead. ‘Sorry for grabbing you like that. Shouldn’t have done that, with all your…’
Eliot blinks. To be honest, the thought of defending himself didn’t even occur to him. His wrist is tingling a little, the skin warm and alive where Hardison touched him, and the memory of it lingers like it does every time they come close.
He finds himself provoking it, sometimes, when he hands them plates or cutlery, or when he carries Parker’s ropes, or Hardison’s computer equipment. Just waiting, like a lion, for the brush of their fingers on his skin.
‘It’s okay. Just don’t do it again.’
–
vii.
Eliot moves in with them after their return to the States. He helps Parker set up safe beginner missions for the rookies they’re filling the spots on their new teams with, gets Hardison access to rare tech using his overseas connections, fights for his crew on their own cons and cooks a hundred, nay, a thousand, meals for them.
All throughout, they watch him. Their gazes linger on his face and his body, and sometimes his eyes, when he forgets to look away because he’s enthralled by the glint of mischief in Parker’s, or the meaningful, feverish expression in Hardison’s eyes.
There is an ease to it, too. Parker and Hardison have had it since before Nate and Sophie left, which is only natural considering what they are to each other. They’ve kept it down for a long time, and Eliot can’t help but think it was partly for his sake, but they’ve grown used to him now. His presence in their space is no longer alien, and over time he’s seen more and more of how the two of them communicate. How they speak to each other.
Parker doesn’t keep a fixed sleeping schedule, but she turns on the coffee machine every morning before going for her run, so Hardison, who rolls out of bed sometime around ten, will have his espresso waiting for him. It’s usually Eliot who’s down first these days, whipping up breakfast for when they both find their way into the kitchen.
There are little things strewn about their dining table at all times, but mostly after Parker’s early-morning outings: shampoo bottles, soaps and toothpaste, but also massage oil and ribbed condoms and granola bars and packaged candy, most often with more chili in them than Eliot would dare to put into an actual chili. All of those items have two things in common: they’re all stolen, and they’re all stuff that Hardison likes.
Or so Parker probably thinks. Soon, Eliot will have to admit to her that it’s not Hardison who eats the sour cream crisps she nicks from the corner store by the park. But she always brings two packages – if he doesn’t eat them, they’ll pile up and go to waste.
Hardison is more overt with his gestures of affection: flowers, of course, and jewelry, and interesting dates in places Parker would never think of going. Eliot tags along for security reasons; they’ve been in the business for several years now, there’s bound to be a few people out there who know their faces. He keeps to the background, though, no matter how many photos Hardison wants to shoot of him and Parker re-enacting that scene from Titanic on every even remotely ledge-like location.
Sometimes, he feels his chest constrict, watching them. All the small and large gestures they use to say ‘I love you’ on a daily basis. He’s never said those words to anyone and meant them; or if he has, he wasn’t very good at it.
The only things he knows how to do are fighting and cooking. So he fights for them, and cooks them dinner after, grinning through his bruises. They grin back, never knowing that he’s giving them his heart with every carefully arranged plate. But that’s alright.
He only needs to know they have it; they don’t need to be gentle with him.
He won’t break. It’s his job.
–
viii.
They’re bleeding. Both of them are bleeding and it wasn’t even a con, so there’s no bad guy for him to punch to make it alright again. There’s only the slick wet marble of the walls, already tinged red even without their blood on it, and, far above, the last shimmer of daylight.
‘We shouldn’t have gone in here. We should not have gone in here. I told you not to go in here,’ Hardison babbles. He’s clutching is arm to his chest; the falling rocks caught him badly. His hand is uninjured, but his sleeve is soaked, sangria-colored and sticky. They don’t have anything with them to dress the wound.
Parker’s is worse. She’s dragging her leg, and it’s the bad one, too. The one she already injured years ago, on one of Nate’s insane missions.
‘Worrying is not going to get us out of here any faster,’ she says.
‘No, it’s not. We’re going to be here until they either find us or we have to start eating ourselves to stay alive.’
That’s not going to happen. Come hell or high water, Eliot thinks.
Parker pats the walls. ‘I could try to climb this.’
‘No,’ says Eliot, the word out before he can stop it. Both of them turn to him.
‘I don’t need my legs to climb,’ she says.
‘And if you fall off and break something in a way that requires immediate medical attention? If you break a rib and it pierces your lung? If your spine cracks and you never walk again? What about your hips? Your legs? Your hands?’
‘Eliot–’
‘No, Parker,’ he yells. ‘I said no, you are not climbing up there! Don’t try to convince me, just sit down and don’t fuck up your leg while we wait for someone to find us.’
The two of them exchange a glance, which he can just barely see in the dimming light, and Eliot feels a stirring of something as volatile as a dust devil in his belly. Speaking of dust, their water bottles are up there. With all their food. It’s going to draw the animals near. ‘There might be predators,’ he mumbles. He finds them both staring at him. ‘What?’
‘Eliot, you’re shaking,’ says Hardison. ‘I’ve never seen you shake before. Well, except once.’
The hitter furrows his brow, but he doesn’t get a chance to think about it, because Parker is hopping closer on her uninjured leg, looking up at him with guileless cerulean eyes. ‘Are you scared?’
Eliot flinches as if scalded, heart jumping right into his throat. He doesn’t think there’s been anything but adrenaline flowing in his veins since the ledge they were all clinging to crumpled under their hands and feet, and his skin sings with it. His knees are weak; he’s been forcing himself to stay upright. They are not supposed to see. ‘I… What are you talking about?’
‘It’s okay,’ says Parker. She places a small hand on his arm, her thin white fingers standing out starkly against his tan. He’s used to seeing the contrast between her and Hardison; that there would be one between him and her surprises him. ‘We’re here. You don’t have to be afraid.’
‘That’s right, man,’ says Hardison, drawing near. He’s stopped fussing with his arm. ‘It’s us, after all. There’s nothing that can stop us.’
‘See?’ beams Parker. After all this time, how can she still seem so innocent?
Eliot yanks his arm away. ‘I’m not scared!’
He turns away and hides the shaking of his hands by wrapping his arms around himself.
‘Okay,’ Hardison says slowly, and he’s probably putting his palms up in a placating gesture even if there’s no light left for Eliot to see it. ‘Not scared, got it.’
–
ix.
Eliot hates painkillers. In the army, they used to administer them without consulting him, and he spent most of his recovery from anything in a hazy stupor. Once he’d finally gotten out, he had sworn to himself never again.
He’d been doing great with that, for the most part. Moreau looked at him funny when he found out, but he respected Eliot’s wish and told his physicians that he’d learn once he’d toughened it out a few times. Eliot had never found it in him to be annoyed by the amusement that inevitably followed. It was better than losing control of his body. Being in pain is better than being slow.
After Moreau, he built up his own network of helpers, and he paid all of them enough to treat him exactly the way he wanted them to, without asking stupid questions. And Toby… well, Toby’s not only really good at cooking, but also really good at not prying, which is probably why he knows almost as much about Eliot as Nate.
Hardison and Parker are different. Which, at this point, is like saying the sky is blue, but it nonetheless bears mentioning, because in addition to being weirdly tolerant, bat-shit crazy and, some days, borderline inhuman, they also have this weird non-concept of personal boundaries. Parker especially never had much respect for his space. She never got scared when he bared his teeth at her, and now Hardison has gotten in on it, too. Probably emboldened by the lack of reaction on Eliot’s part, like a scavenger trying to steal a predator’s kill.
It’s ten times worse when he’s injured. Their respect for distance just evaporates. Which is a problem, because Eliot is even more stressed than usual when he’s in pain.
Parker is quick enough to get out of the way when he shoots up off the bed, ready to defend himself with nothing but a pillow, swaying in place. But Hardison isn’t. He got punched in the face one time. His whining about it lasted longer than Eliot’s injury.
The point is, he’s a ticking time bomb. Sooner or later he will be so out of it – hurt or tired or disoriented – he will have no idea whom he’s about to hit, and it’s going to get ugly. He’s tried to tell them this many times over by now, but he can already feel Parker climbing into bed with him, pressing up warm and solid against his side. He blinks, and Hardison hovers over him in the half-dark.
‘Hey, soldier. Even bandaged up, that looks pretty nasty. You want some painkillers?’
He thinks about waking up in a panic, and how he’ll never forgive himself if he hurts them. His voice rasps in his throat, dry and painful. ‘Sure.’
Parker’s eyes narrow suspiciously. ‘But you hate painkillers.’
Eliot attempts to shrug, which pulls on his wounds. He grunts. ‘Must be getting old.’
–
x.
‘I love you,’ says Hardison, his kiss tasting of sugar and grapefruit.
‘I love you,’ says Parker, her touches burning like a brand, drawing streaks across his skin like fireworks in July.
‘I,’ says Eliot and breaks off, shivering and shaking between them, with the confused, messy tangle of his feelings choking his airways.
Love seems inadequate for all he wants to say to them. Adore seems childish. His adoration knows no bounds, but it’s more than that. And want… sounds so plain, so ubiquitous; he’s always wanted a lot of things, people and freedom and to make his own choices, to be good at what he does and to be a good person. Peace and quiet and their hands on him, and all that fills him when he thinks about them, are not things he can lump in with any of that.
The silence stretches, and a spark of cold kindles in Eliot. He opens his eyes. He wants to say something, but his mouth is too full with all the things that don’t quite fit.
Above him shines Parker’s grin, broad and sparkly. A Cheshire-cat’s smile, full of trickery and mischief. Her nails scratch down his chest and he bites his lip to keep the noise in, watching her face light up in triumph.
The words feel like they’ll tumble right out if he doesn’t clamp down on them, and when they come, they’ll be as jumbled of a mess as his insides. He chews the side of his cheek, trying to force his brain to make sense of it. ‘I–’
He struggles. Again.
‘I–’
It’s like the sounds turn to air, and Eliot is frozen inside. He tries to pull away, but Hardison’s hands – his body, his solidness, his kindness – catch him. ‘Shh,’ he says, leaning close so he can breathe the words into Eliot’s mouth. ‘It’s okay.’
‘No, it’s–’
More kisses, on his cheeks and eyelids. Warmth. Belonging.
‘We hear you.’