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Usually, Hardison doesn’t mind when Parker and Eliot watch him working.
You don’t get to be the world’s greatest hacker if you can’t type when there are distractions. Besides, he enjoys—very, very much—watching the two of them do their thing, so he can’t really complain if they want to hang out and read over his shoulder. It’s not like what he’s doing right now needs all that much focus anyway—it’s the kind of routine admin you have to do if you’re a professional criminal trying to hold down a base of operations with minimal suspicion.
And Parker, at least, is fine, sitting close to him and swivelling this way and that in her chair, reading over his shoulder (and occasionally with her chin directly on his shoulder, pressing into him in a way that should be uncomfortable but isn’t). Making derisive noises every so often at the content filling his screen. Hardison can handle all that.
Eliot, however, is glaring at him, and finally Hardison minimises the window he’s working in and turns in his chair to look at him.
‘What?’ he asks.
‘What?’ Eliot asks back.
‘I feel you staring at me, man, just staring daggers right at the back of my head—’
‘I wasn’t doing anything!’
‘Well, it feels real passive-aggressive, that’s all I’m saying.’
Eliot drops all pretense, his frown deepening. ‘You know I don’t like you doing this.’
Hardison rolls his eyes. He’d sort of hoped that they might avoid actually having this argument. In this particular instance, when he’d really like to finish work and do something fun, the knowledge that he’s definitely going to win is more annoying than it is something he can feel preemptively smug about. ‘Oh, you—you want me to stop?’
‘I just think—’
‘What?’ he presses. ‘Tell me what you think.’
‘—just think we can’t be cutting corners here, okay; as long as we’re careful—’
Hardison turns to pull the window back up and reads from the string of emails he’s hacked into. ‘“Maia, do not volunteer to inspect the BridgePort whatever you do; it’s not worth it, it’s never worth it—”’
‘Well, that seems harsh,’ Eliot mutters.
‘“—the last time I went there the head chef (I think??) got into a fight with what I assume was a customer, and please don’t misunderstand me and think I mean that the customer got a little pissed; I mean there was a full-on fight like something out of an action movie between the chef and the other guy—”’
‘Which wasn’t my fault!’
‘“—and at one point,”’ Hardison reads, voice carrying over Eliot’s, ‘“the chef threw a paring knife and it went through the customer’s collar and pinned him to the wall.”’
‘Yeah, which—she’s welcome, by the way,’ Eliot retorts, jabbing a finger at the computer screen. ‘That guy was Ukrainian mafia; you think he’s gonna care if a food safety inspector gets in between him and his target? No.’
‘Okay,’ Hardison says patiently, rubbing a soothing hand over Eliot’s knee. ‘So, I know that guy was Ukrainian mafia, and you know that guy was Ukrainian mafia, but Samantha at the Multnomah County Department of Health doesn’t know he was Ukrainian mafia; she just thinks you really can’t handle customers complaining about the food.’
‘He wasn’t even talking about the food!’ Eliot's quick to point out.
‘Right,’ Hardison agrees, ‘he was talking about murdering you with a spatula, which luckily Samantha took to mean he was really, really unhappy with the food, but do you see how food safety inspectors being all up in our business is a bad idea?’
‘Listen. Eating establishments in Portland are required to undergo biannual health and safety inspections to make sure they’re up to code,’ Eliot reminds him, not for the first time.
‘And I admire your commitment to the law in this one extremely specific area, but we are up to code,’ Hardison argues. ‘She even says, look: “Everyone in this department’s got a weird BridgePort story and somehow absolutely none of them involve any violation of food safety standards.” We got nothing to worry about.’
‘Not everyone,’ Eliot says indignantly. ‘It’s not like I make this a habit. That’s—they’re exaggerating, man.’
‘Oh, it’s not always you,’ Hardison reassures him. ‘Samantha and Maia’s friend Ashley says, uh…’ He scrolls for a second. ‘“I would call bullshit on this story, except when I did their inspection this time last year one of the co-owners fell from the ceiling almost directly on me and then just walked off like it was normal, so the place is pretty weird, admittedly.”’
‘Hey!’ Parker objects. ‘That’s not true; I didn’t fall! I landed exactly where I planned to! Hardison, tell them I landed exactly where I planned to!’
‘I think that would give away that I’m reading their emails pretty fast, babe,’ Hardison says, swiveling to face her.
‘“Almost fell directly on me”,’ Parker mutters. ‘So dramatic. I know what I’m doing.’
‘I—again, I know that,’ Hardison says. ‘But this woman does not, and you have to understand that most places she visits probably don’t have the owners dropping from the ceiling.’
‘Well, then other places are boring,’ Parker says.
‘Yeah,’ Hardison says, ‘so what do we say I hack into their records and say we’ve already been inspected, we let them go visit those boring places, and then Eliot can just reread the Oregon Health Authority food sanitation rules—don’t roll your eyes, man, I know you’ve already been through those things cover to cover—and we just make sure we’re doing what we should be doing without involving local government employees. Yes?’
Parker sighs, nodding.
Hardison swings round to look at Eliot again. ‘Yes?’ he prompts.
Eliot growls but gets up and stomps off to start on dinner, which Hardison takes as agreement.
***
Hardison appreciates the whole “Keep Portland Weird” thing, for the most part. Promoting local businesses, celebrating individuality—he can get on board with that.
And he can get on board with talk about actual, unexplained weirdness in Portland, except when the weirdness is in their brewpub and, in fact, very explainable.
‘We need to set some rules, baby girl,’ he tells Parker, approaching, tablet in hand, as she and Eliot are finishing a sparring session one day.
Parker frowns at him, releasing her hold on Eliot and pushing herself up off the floor. ‘Rules about what?’ she asks, pulling her hair out of its ponytail.
Between the way her hair tumbles down around her face and the sweat glistening on her flushed skin and the position he just found her and Eliot in, Hardison has to remind himself to stay on task.
‘Rules about whatever it is that’s got this reviewer thinking one of the BridgePort’s co-owners can teleport,’ he says, waving the tablet.
Parker wrinkles her nose. ‘Let me see.’
Hardison hesitates. ‘Are you two done throwing each other around, ’cause if not I don’t really wanna be introducing my delicate electronics into the mix—’
‘Relax, we’re finished,’ Eliot says, swigging from a bottle of water as he crosses the mat to peer at the tablet too, other hand coming to rest on Parker’s waist. ‘Hey, this is the person you made me make that cocktail for.’ He frowns as he reads aloud, ‘“It was weird because this cocktail was not on the menu; in fact, no cocktails are on the menu. The menu really seems to be purely decorative.” Hey, that’s not true!’ He grabs the tablet. ‘You gotta delete this.’
‘I only delete stuff that compromises the security of the brewpub,’ Hardison says.
‘Which this does!’ Eliot insists, brandishing the offending review at him.
Hardison grins. ‘I mean, sure, it compromises the sanctity of your menu, but—’
‘I said that cocktail was a bad idea,’ Eliot grumbles, handing the tablet back to Parker.
‘C’mon, that woman’s car broke down; she deserved to someone whip her up a gin sling—’
‘You couldn’t have just paid her garage bill?’ Eliot asks.
‘I did that too,’ Hardison says, and then grins wider at Eliot’s stony look, taking a couple of steps closer and reaching for him, hand clasping his wrist and drawing him near. ‘What’s that, Eliot? You’re wondering how’d you wind up dating such a sweet, thoughtful—’
‘Pain in my ass?’ Eliot mutters, but tilts his cheek up when Hardison presses a kiss to it. ‘You’re gonna take it down ’cause of the thing she said about Parker, anyhow, right?’
‘Nah, I’m just gonna tell her it’s only the short grumpy guy and the really handsome dude who own this place and the blonde she saw move from one side of the room to the other at lightning speed must be a ghost,’ Hardison says.
Eliot elbows him. ‘Very funny.’
‘Ghosts make more sense than teleportation,’ Parker says. ‘Or a hallucination. Ooh, or an evil twin.’
‘Or,’ Hardison suggests, pulling her in so that all three of them are cuddled together and pressing a kiss to her cheek too, ‘you could stop being so fast and freaking out our customers.’
‘Can’t drop from the ceiling,’ Parker sighs. ‘Can’t be “fast”, whatever that means.’
‘Can’t get some damn respect for a menu you put your heart and soul into,’ Eliot adds under his breath.
‘It ain’t easy being you two,’ Hardison agrees. ‘Go shower; I got more reviews to go through.’
***
‘Let me say, first off, this is no one’s fault,’ Hardison says, stopping in the entrance to their kitchen and resting a hand on the top of the doorframe.
‘Hey.’ Eliot pauses midway through unpacking the bag of groceries in front of him and points a finger at Hardison. ‘Whatever’s going on, man, don’t be blaming me, okay?’
‘No, I’m—’ Hardison sighs. ‘I’m actually saying this is no one’s fault. We just got a situation.’
‘Like a job situation?’ Parker asks, swiping an apple from the top of the grocery bag.
‘Hey—dammit, Parker, that’s a cooking apple!’ Eliot protests, as she bites into it with gusto.
She waggles her eyebrows at him. ‘I like the sour ones.’
‘I was gonna make a crumble with that—’
‘Not a job situation,’ Hardison interrupts, before they can get into it. ‘It’s a BridgePort situation.’
‘Something I need to deal with?’ Eliot asks warily, unpacking the rest of the apples where he can shield them from Parker.
‘No,’ Hardison says. ‘Something I need to deal with, only I wanted to talk to you both, ’cause we might need to think about how we’re running things around here. People are finding us suspicious.’
‘I haven’t dropped from the ceiling since you told me not to,’ Parker says around a mouthful of apple. ‘Not with customers in the building, anyway. Amy might’ve caught me once, but she’s used to it by now.’
‘No, I—for the last time, I’m saying it’s no one’s fault!’ Hardison exclaims. ‘Look, it’s an internet thing, okay? Here.’
He passes his phone to Parker, and Eliot comes to read over her shoulder as she scrolls.
‘What’s the problem?’ he asks, after a moment, looking up at Hardison. ‘This is all nice.’ He glances back down at the phone. ‘Really nice.’
‘Yeah, look at this stuff,’ Parker says. ‘“It’s tough for me at home right now… BridgePort staff never make me feel like I’ve outstayed my welcome… even given me free food sometimes…” And this one: “Needed a drink and a cry after work a few weeks back—”’ She breaks off. ‘She’s in the wrong career. My work’s never made me cry.’
‘Babe, I hate to break it to you, but I think probably someone at some point has cried because of crime,’ Hardison suggests.
Parker ignores him and continues reading: ‘“…meant to go the the BridgePort for the first and not the second, but ended up talking to one of the owners for hours… Manager who’d been making the lives of me and the girls in my team hell was gone a week later—total coincidence, obviously, but go to the BridgePort for the good karma all the same—” Hey, was that the job with the jewelry business?’
‘Yeah,’ Hardison says. ‘And you’re right: this is all really nice—it started as a hashtag about things to love about Portland, only enough people started talking about us that it got beyond local, and then it got big enough that the internet did what the internet does best, and now we’re seeing the backlash. Scroll down.’
‘Okay…’ Parker frowns as she reads. ‘“This is all nice and everything, but there is literally no such thing as a free lunch—if they’re really just giving away all this food how the hell are they making money? This lot are clearly either money laundering or majorly cutting corners somewhere and it’s wild that all the people gushing about them are just ignoring that.” Well, that’s not fair,’ she says indignantly. ‘That’s one kind of crime we’re not doing.’
‘Yeah, where are they even getting this from?’ Eliot asks.
Hardison frowns at him. 'What do you mean, where are they getting this from? It’s social media, doesn’t matter what’s true and what’s not. What matters is they’re getting a little close for comfort—and I can handle it,’ he assures them, ‘but I thought it was only fair to ask you both if you wanna rethink some of the… less… business-minded… things we’re doing if it’s gonna make people think we’re hiding something.’
‘No,’ Eliot says immediately.
‘No way,’ Parker agrees. ‘All the nice stuff—that’s all true, right? We’re making a difference to people. That’s important.’
‘Yeah,’ Eliot says. ‘Might be small-scale, but I’m not gonna be the one to tell some teenager they gotta go to a home they don’t feel safe in just ’cause some asshole who’s never even been here thinks we’re a front for something. Hell, if this helps people without us even really trying, I say we do it more.’
‘In fairness, we are a front for something,’ Hardison says, and then smiles. ‘But good. That’s what I’d hoped you’d say.’
***
‘Hey,’ Amy says, sticking her head around the door of the little office off the brewpub’s kitchen, from which Hardison does all the genuinely legitimate business. ‘There’s a journalist at the bar who wants to speak to you.’
Hardison frowns a little as he considers which of their allies might come in claiming to be a journalist, then frowns a little more as he considers which of their not-allies might come in claiming to be a journalist. It’s long enough that Amy waves a hand in front of his face.
‘You okay?’
He snaps his attention back to her. ‘Huh? Yeah. A journalist?’
‘That’s what he says.’
‘Does he have…’ Hardison trails off and then takes a stab in the dark, ‘…curly hair?’
‘What? No, he’s not one of your friends that I don’t ask too many questions about; he’s an actual journalist. He showed me his credentials.’
Hardison scoffs. ‘Okay, well, anyone can fake credentials.’ He pauses at the look on Amy’s face. ‘I’ve heard.’
She sighs, leaning against the door jamb. ‘Do you want me to tell him to go away?’
‘We’re technically not open for another fifteen minutes,’ Hardison points out.
‘Sure, only I think he’s going to keep trying, so maybe it’s a good idea to talk to him when there are no customers around?’
‘What kinda slow news day are they having that some journalist wants to interview the owner of a brewpub?’ Hardison asks.
‘Well, not that slow,’ she says. ‘He’s asking to talk to you about… you know, the Incident.’
‘Which one?’
Amy gives him a pained look. ‘Oh, I really hope you’re kidding; it scares the crap out of me when you say things like that.’
‘Of course, the Incident,’ Hardison says, taking pity on her. ‘It’s fine; I’ll go talk to him.’
‘I can do it if you want,’ she volunteers bravely, ‘only I don’t know what went on and I don’t really want to.’
‘That’s okay,’ Hardison says, pulling out his phone to rattle off a quick text to Parker and Eliot. Amy, looking very relieved, beats a hasty retreat.
Unlike Amy, the journalist, whose name is Derek, is unfortunately very keen to know exactly what went on in minute detail.
‘Oh, just a little mishap,’ says Hardison. ‘Y’know, it’s a working kitchen, these things happen.’
‘“These things” being…’ Derek begins, trailing off to look at his notes, ‘…a flood. And an explosion.’
‘A small explosion,’ Hardison corrects. ‘Man, it was barely anything compared to—you ever see a big explosion?’
‘No.’
‘Right, me neither,’ Hardison says, nodding. ‘Except in movies; gotta love an action move. How about all those Mission: Impossibles, am I right? Or should that be Missions: Impossible?’
‘I’ve never seen them,’ Derek says crisply. ‘So the explosion—’
‘Small explosion.’
‘—Right. The explosion was caused by…?’
‘Uh… range… cooker… something or other, I dunno.’
‘You don’t know? You’re the owner, aren’t you?’
‘Well, I mean…’ Hardison waves a hand and does his best to channel the tried and true Eliot Spencer Grifting Technique. ‘Yeah, but honestly, I’m just the guy who pays the bills; I don’t understand half of what goes on back there.’
‘If I’d had an explosion—’
‘Small explosion,’ Hardison says, measuring with his finger and thumb.
‘—and a flood, and a… is it true someone was hit in the head with a projectile?’
‘It—it’s possible that in the panic an underripe avocado was… airborne,’ Hardison admits.
Derek frowns. ‘Yes. If I’d had all that happen in my kitchen, I’d want to understand what, exactly, had gone on.’
‘Mm.’ Hardison nods. ‘Mm. Well, I don’t tell you how to do your job, right?’ He smiles, showing teeth. ‘What paper did you say you were from, again?’
Derek inclines his head. ‘I suppose you must know what you’re doing; you got back on your feet remarkably quickly.’
‘Yeah, we got a pretty good insurance policy,’ Hardison says. ‘And I know someone who… does… kitchen repairs.’
It’s not lost on him that he hasn’t been given an answer to his question about where this guy works, but he’s saved from probing further by the brewpub door slamming open and Eliot storming in, furious expression on his face. Derek’s on his feet in an instant, yanking Hardison back against his chest. Hardison hears the click of the safety being taken off a gun and sighs.
‘So I’m guessing he’s not a journalist?’ he asks Eliot.
‘No, he ain’t,’ Eliot growls. He’s stopped short at the sight of the weapon, his fists clenched at his sides.
‘Okay. That’s actually a relief,’ Hardison says. ‘Those questions were getting kinda uncomfortable.’
‘Those questions were an attempt to do my job without making things unpleasant,’ Derek—or probably not Derek, actually—hisses next to his ear. ‘But now we’re going to have to do things the hard w—’
Abruptly, Derek’s hold on him loosens and the man collapses to the floor.
‘Aww, babe,’ Hardison says, turning to face Parker, who’s come in the back and emerged from the kitchen behind them. ‘He was just getting going.’ He glances at the floor, where an avocado is rolling away under a table. ‘Is this gonna be the new thing?’
Parker shrugs. ‘I didn’t have my taser. But Eliot’s right. Anything’s a weapon if you throw it hard enough.’
‘Nice job,’ Eliot tells her, crossing the room to check Derek’s actually out and dissembling the gun. Satisfied, he straightens up and closes a hand around Hardison’s forearm. ‘Hey, I’m sorry; he’s one of Jansen’s guys.’
‘Yeah, I figured,’ Hardison says. The mark on the job that had left their kitchen unrecognizable had been able to afford a lot of muscle.
‘I thought we’d dealt with ’em all but this one was clearly biding his time,’ Eliot continues. ‘Guess he ain’t happy to be out of steady employment, huh?’ He’s shooting for lighthearted and misses by a mile; he looks at the unconscious man for a moment, plainly rattled, then snaps his gaze back to Hardison. ‘You okay?’
‘Yeah, I’m okay,’ Hardison says, already thinking about ways to keep a closer eye on old marks and their acquaintances. This is only the second one who’s come back around for another swing at them in the whole time the team’s been together, but even so, it’s a little unnerving—Dubenich, at least, never made it into their base.
Eliot raises his eyebrows. ‘Yeah?’
‘I’m fine, Eliot,’ Hardison reassures him. ‘Look at me, I’m all good.’ Then, because the worried expression isn’t leaving Eliot’s face fast enough for his liking, Hardison slings an arm around his shoulders and tugs him close.
Eliot makes a vaguely disgruntled noise but no effort to pull away. ‘You oughta know the difference between a journalist and a hitman,’ he mumbles, turning his face into Hardison’s shoulder.
‘Why’d’you think I texted you, huh?’ Hardison asks, kissing the top of his head.
‘Whoa,’ Amy says, from behind them. ‘Oh my god, did he pass out? Should I call 911?’
‘Wh—him?’ Hardison asks, whirling to face her. ’N—no, he’s fine; he’s just—’
‘Napping,’ Parker says, at the same time as Eliot offers, ‘Checking the, uh, floorboards.’
Amy folds her arms. ‘He’s not from The Stumptown Sentinel, is he?’ she asks sadly.
‘He might’ve read it?’ Hardison tries.
‘Okay.’ Amy looks, understandably, like she has a lot of questions. The one she goes with is, ‘Just—is he dead? Or dying? You’d let me call 911 if he was dead or dying, right?’
‘Probably not,’ Parker says.
Hardison shoots her a look and says encouragingly, ‘Of course we would! He’s fine. Eliot’s just gonna show him out, actually. Eliot?’
‘Yeah,’ Eliot says, grabbing Derek beneath the arms and beginning to drag him away.
Amy watches for a moment and then says, ‘You know, this is probably only my second weirdest shift here.’
‘There’s a very logical explanation,’ Hardison promises.
‘I’m still not sure I want to know,’ Amy says. ‘But I would like you to tell me how to identify a fake press credential.’
Hardison nods. ‘That I can do.’
***
Hardison does his best to open their bedroom door quietly, but Eliot’s sitting up in bed anyway, one hand holding an open book, the other stroking idly through Parker’s hair as she dozes beside him. As Hardison enters, Eliot pushes his glasses up and sets the book aside.
‘Hey,’ he whispers.
‘Hey yourself,’ Hardison whispers back. ‘You need more light if you’re gonna be reading, babe; you’ll strain your eyes.’
Eliot shakes his head. ‘I’m fine. Don’t want it too bright in here.’
‘She asleep?’ Hardison asks, nodding at the Parker-shaped lump beneath the blankets.
‘’M awake,’ Parker mumbles.
Hardison crosses the room to kneel down on Parker’s side of the bed, tucking her hair behind her ear where her head is poking out from under the covers. She squints at him blearily.
‘Hey, baby,’ he murmurs. ‘How’re you feeling?’
‘Kinda sore,’ she says, voice very groggy. ‘Better than I was.’
He slips a hand into the cocoon of blankets, reaching for hers. ‘You want more painkillers?’ he asks, glancing over at Eliot, who nods that it’s been enough time since her last dose.
She shakes her head. ‘No. I get all fuzzy.’
‘All right,’ he says, leaning in and brushing a kiss against her temple. ‘You let us know if you need anything, okay?’
Parker nods and squeezes his hand. ‘Did you do your thing?’
‘You’re safe,’ he tells her. ‘And we’re safe, and our home is safe. Promise.’
She gives him a sleepy smile, satisfied with that reassurance, and burrows deeper under the covers. Hardison straightens, sliding his hand gently out of hers, and goes to sit on Eliot’s other side, leaning against him and stretching his legs down the bed.
‘We okay?’ Eliot asks him quietly.
Hardison nods. ‘Yeah, I’m just scrubbing any mention of the BridgePort on Facebook and Twitter as it pops up. Put something up on our official account saying we’re repainting the kitchen— boring stuff, so no one’s gonna ask too many questions, plus who’s ever gonna check?’
‘Okay,’ Eliot says. He rubs for a moment at his jaw. ‘And the other thing?’
‘Interpol picked up Correia,’ Hardison says. ‘He ain’t gonna bother us again.’
Eliot presses his palms to his face, visibly slumping against the headboard with relief. Then he parts his fingers, grimacing. ‘Wait. Please tell me we don’t owe—’
‘Don’t worry; we’re not gonna have any former IYS agents slash smarmy pains in the ass calling in favors,’ Hardison reassures him, patting his knee. ‘The part where we led him to an internationally wanted arms dealer took care of that; I’m pretty sure he owes us one.’
‘I hate involving him,’ Eliot mutters.
‘He’s useful sometimes,’ Hardison reminds him.
Eliot bites his lip, looking over at Parker, who’s dozed off again. ‘Yeah. More useful than I was, anyway.’
‘Stop beating yourself up,’ Hardison says, nudging him gently. ‘We’re gonna get hurt sometimes, Eliot; it happens.’
‘It shouldn’t. Not ’cause someone's trying to hurt you, anyway,’ Eliot says, eyes on Parker’s sleeping form. ‘I should’ve been with her when things went sideways.’
Hardison gets it. There’s plenty of self-blame going around for all three of them over this one: Parker, because one of their mark’s thugs got the drop on her, slowing her down sufficiently that he could follow her back to the BridgePort. Eliot, because he hadn’t been there to stop it. Hardison, because no matter what kind of security he has in place for the apartment, and no matter how many ways he can keep the cover the brewpub affords them from being blown, he’s yet to find a way to stop people from simply walking in the front door, hence why they’ve spent the last 24 hours lying low, brewpub closed to the public, until they could be sure it was safe.
‘Hey,’ Hardison says, reaching for Eliot’s hand and twining their fingers together. ‘You did your job, okay, both of you. And Parker's gonna be fine.’
‘We got in too deep with this one.’
Hardison almost laughs. ‘We have been in way deeper.’
‘Never said we didn’t get in too deep those times, either.’ Eliot sighs, letting his head tip back against the headboard.
‘Well, so, that’s the way it goes,’ Hardison says. ‘We start pulling a loose thread, sometimes things unravel more than we thought they would. You wanna stop?’
‘No,’ Eliot says quickly. ‘Just been a couple of close calls lately. Having to throw online reviewers off our scent’s one thing; pissed off, dangerous people coming into our home’s a whole other ball game.’ He runs a hand over his face. ‘Y’know? Just sometimes wonder if we’re making ourselves this great big target in the middle of Portland, is all.’
‘“Great big target”, huh?’ Hardison repeats, with another gentle nudge. ‘Not if I’m doing my job we ain’t.’
‘I know,’ Eliot says. ‘I know.’
He lapses into silence, staring pensively at his hands as Hardison watches him, and tries to figure out what he’s thinking.
Because the thing is…sure. The brewpub gives them a base, and it has high ceilings for Parker to stay busy with and it’s its own reason for Eliot to cook for people, and maybe sometimes they get really lucky and some customer gets more out of coming here than just the best cheeseburger in Portland, or they witness an active crime and assume it’s dinner theater, as in the case of one lady whose enthusiastic blog post Hardison scrubbed from the internet a few weeks back.
But it’s also about giving them all a place to be still, and safe. The LA office was a start, back when Hardison’s pretty sure he was the only one consciously hoping this team could be something longterm (and also wanted to do something cool with the biggest payout he’d ever gotten), and after three years they were pretty used to Nate’s place in Boston. But the brewpub is theirs, always intended as capital-H-Home for the three of them, and Parker and Eliot haven’t had that—well, ever, in Parker’s case, and not for a long time in Eliot’s. Hardison’s going to protect it any way he knows how, until they don’t want it anymore.
He’s about to say something—something about how they can pack this whole thing up and go someplace else if any of them ever stop feeling settled and start feeling trapped, when Eliot speaks again.
‘We don’t say thanks enough for that.’
Hardison turns his head to look at him. ‘Hm?’
‘For—’ Eliot stops, gives a small laugh. ‘Man, I don’t understand what the hell you do. But it keeps us safe, whatever it is. I’m, uh. I’m grateful.’
‘Grateful,’ Hardison repeats, smiling. ‘You saying my brewpub idea was pretty smart after all?’
Eliot rolls his eyes and smiles back. ‘Yeah. It was all right.’