Work Text:
[1]
The job's done, Hardison retreated to play games for a while and Parker to keep him company, and Eliot's stretched out on the sofa feeling every one of his aches and bruises. It'll be a while yet before he has to stir to see to dinner.
He's vaguely aware of Quinn moving around the room. There are several chairs free, and he fully expects to find Quinn reading in one of them later. He hasn't yet figured out if the romance novels are a running joke or a genuine interest, or just a way to make himself look harmless on jobs. So far, at least, Quinn's only read around the team.
Eliot didn't expect it the first time, either.
He's just puzzling over the memory of Quinn reading in bed and pretending he was alone in the safehouse, utterly irritating and somehow still endearing, when he registers extra weight on the sofa and someone lying down on top of him. Eliot tenses immediately, hands moving to make space.
"Quinn, what the hell are you—"
"Shut up." There's no force behind it, but Eliot stops talking anyway. Quinn's draping himself along him, and Eliot's body keeps trying to go on alert again, but it's a little difficult when this actually isn't terrible. He can't quite bring himself to shove Quinn away.
Eliot's had the chance by now to work with and rely on him, more than once, has seen him injured and deciding to trust—he's already halfway convinced he can trust Quinn too, and isn't that a thought.
And that trust translates, apparently, to this.
He lets out a huff. "You serious? You're not injured this time, man, I didn't get a lick of sleep."
"You slept great," Quinn says, pressing his cheek against Eliot's chest. Something in Eliot short-circuits at the contact.
He deflates, staring down at Quinn, voicing a few more grumbles that don't even reach complete sentences. Quinn's breathing is already slowing, his hand settling on Eliot's shoulder. Eliot shifts his weight just a touch, casts a few wary looks at the doors, and lets himself relax.
After a while, without fully waking, his hand finds itself resting on Quinn's hair.
[2]
While Eliot was busy cosying up to a congressman—it wasn't any easier this time, but he held his temper, no Nate at his shoulder to take over if he slipped—Quinn was on watch for thirty hours straight, keeping an eye on a vulnerable (and ignorant) party in case he needed to intervene.
Eliot knows that he can handle that and more, that even exhausted Quinn can do his job better than most hitters out there, so he isn't all that sympathetic. Not when Quinn piles into the car and lets out what has to be an exaggerated sigh of relief. And not when Quinn, more and more relaxed in the backseat with every passing minute, slumps to rest his head against Eliot's shoulder.
"Dammit, man," Eliot mutters, quieter than he meant to. He's pretty sure Parker's already asleep in the front, Hardison taking the driver's seat for the first leg of the journey home, but he doesn't want to make this the whole van's business.
(Hardison flicks an amused glance in the rearview mirror anyway. Eliot pretends not to see it.)
Quinn just hums, so brief and so quiet that he might have imagined it, and Eliot takes a moment to pretend he has any options other than letting him sleep.
He doesn't. Not with Quinn a teammate, not with those shadows under his eyes, not with how he accepted the work without complaint when the job ran on longer than expected, when they offered him options and he turned them all down. Not with the trust he's showing by being anything other than alert around Eliot.
He sighs, and settles an arm around Quinn's shoulder to hold him steady. Bit by bit, and without quite meaning to, he relaxes as well.
Hardison has to wake him when it's Eliot's turn to drive.
[3]
"You had to have planned this."
"Why would I plan this?"
Eliot glares at him. Quinn stares right back, seeming genuinely nonplussed.
"You know," Eliot says, the words coming out stilted. "Because you're. You."
"If you don't want to share a bed," Quinn says with obvious patience, "I'll take the armchair. You're the one who bruised his ribs today."
It's very reasonable, and very considerate, and it irritates Eliot far more than it ought to. "You're not getting out of being the little spoon that easily." The words are out of his mouth before he realises what he's saying.
Quinn smiles in a satisfied sort of way but doesn't rub it in, just turns away and starts shedding his jacket and tie. Eliot has a moment to question whether he wants to walk it back. He can always take the chair for himself.
He... doesn't.
He has good reasons. He's not making Quinn sleep in a damn chair after a day on the job, and he's not convinced Quinn would give him space if he asked him to. And it would be even weirder, anyway, to change his mind now.
Quinn's already in place when Eliot joins him, stripped down to an undershirt and oddly small for it (he's strong, yes, but the jackets do the work of making him look bigger than he is), and when Eliot settles down the cheeky bastard pulls his arm around himself and makes a satisfied noise. If he tried to get him to hold his wrists, Eliot might actually slap him.
He doesn't though, and the discomfort gives way quickly to the familiar slowing of Quinn's breathing, the familiar warmth and weight of him, the scent of his shampoo. Eliot takes a moment to question his life choices. He hadn't been expecting the way Quinn went warm at this suggestion—and it might have been enough to scare him away, were they anywhere but here, in some shitty hotel room with only the lamplight for company.
They've been here before, after all.
Eliot shifts just once to get Quinn's hair out of his face, then it's the easiest thing in the world to let go and let himself drift.
And maybe, yes, he snuggles a bit closer when he wakes up in the night. Quinn makes another noise at that, soft and small, and Eliot replies in kind, and Quinn has the wisdom (or the kindness) not to mention it in the morning.
[4]
Eliot's sewing a button back onto one of his favourite shirts (he's learned not to wear them on cons, he has, but it's hardly his fault someone pulled a knife in the brewpub and had to be taken down) when Quinn just sets down his book, stretches himself out on the sofa, and lays his head in Eliot's lap. Eliot holds the shirt and needle above him and stares down at Quinn's closed eyes as if waiting for an explanation.
He doesn't get one. He can feel himself shaping the gruff words, ready to reclaim his personal space and his dignity, but he holds them back. He considers it.
He lowers the bundle to the arm of the sofa.
And after a moment, a little guiltily, he lowers his hand to stroke Quinn's hair back from his face.
[5]
The fifth time, it's on the job. A mark returning at just the wrong moment leaves their plans on hold and both hitters hiding under a desk waiting for her to leave.
There's barely enough room for the both of them, and they're side by side in a way that would be funny to anyone watching, two grown men crammed into a too-small hiding place, but is definitely going to leave them with a few bruises each as a keepsake. Quinn isn't even complaining about Eliot's boot wedged right up against his thigh. Then again, they can't really risk complaining just now. Then again, they've both endured far worse.
It's not ideal. Eliot's pretty sure he keeps it from his face. But after a few minutes Quinn sneaks a hand to Eliot's shin, waiting for his eyes to snap towards it before he starts tapping.
The Morse is a little slow—deliberate care, Eliot would guess, more than any real unfamiliarity. Shoulder, Quinn tells him.
Eliot feels his mouth twist.
He shifts his weight, pain flaring warm and unwelcome in his bad shoulder—already wrenched from a fight on the way here, he's not surprised Quinn noticed—and pushes himself a bit more upright, pressing even more uncomfortably against Quinn. He has to duck his head at the same time to keep from bumping the desk, and his neck is going to hate him for it later, but he can deal.
Then he feels Quinn move. Quinn draws his knees back and jostles him away in the process, folds himself small—surprisingly compact when he tries to be, tucked in on himself like this—then starts to push himself slowly behind him. Eliot very nearly swears, forgetting himself, but then Quinn's hand finds his shoulder and taps out the word still.
Eliot makes the decision to trust. He goes still.
Quinn squirms his way behind him with rather more elbows and knees in Eliot's bruises than, Eliot feels, the manoeuvre really requires. He pulls Eliot back against him at the same time, keeping them both within the bounds of the desk, and Eliot doesn't protest the arms around his midsection. Not even when Quinn gets as settled as he can—there's not remotely enough room to stretch out, so his legs are awkwardly folded and now vying for space with Eliot's—and twists so Eliot is firmly on top of him.
Quinn doesn't quite manage this without their shoes scuffing slightly against the wood. A moment passes, then another, but there's nothing to indicate they've been heard.
This just leaves Eliot staring at the bottom of the desk. That's the only thing that's keeping him from getting payback for this, frankly—he's not sure he could handle having to stare Quinn in the face or chest after being manhandled like that. For the first time, though, the pain in his shoulder is only a faint warmth. He shifts slightly to make sure he's not pressing on anything vital (or potentially awkward for the both of them) and glances down to prop his boots carefully against the wall of the space.
That managed, it's actually not awful. Quinn smells a bit. Eliot's probably not fragrant himself up close—they had a pretty busy day before getting here. And he's definitely pressing on a few of Quinn's bruises, but he's not the one who chose this position. He can even appreciate the sense of this.
There's just a lot of body in contact with him, shifting with Quinn's slow breathing and minute adjustments, and if he weren't already familiar with it this would be a hell of a lot more awkward than it is.
Five metres away, on the couch by the sound of it, come the all-too-cheerful sound effects of the mark playing a game on her phone.
Eliot cautiously drops his head back, feeling something—Quinn's jaw—move out of the way. He stares up at the poorly-lit wood grain of the desk. Then he raises his hand to Quinn's wrist (where his arms are still comfortably around him) and taps out a message, slowly.
Bastard.
That done, he closes his eyes. He can be ready to move in a heartbeat when it's needed. And here, now, no-one else to judge him and not much say in the matter, he can admit he's glad that it's Quinn.
He feels it against his ear and his hair when Quinn lets out a soft breath. He shifts his hand again and pats Quinn's wrist with as much sarcasm in the motion as he can manage.
Two minutes later, when Eliot is coming around to the idea of relaxing, their earbuds crackle to life. "Hey guys," says Parker, "it looks like she'll need to get moving in thirty minutes. Are you alright to hide out until then?"
Quinn's arm shifts, and a second later Eliot hears the staticky thump of him tapping on his earbud, once for yes.
"Good. Shout if you get into trouble. Or... tap, I guess, if you're still hiding."
Another tap for acknowledgement, then Quinn settles his arm where it was, tucked under Eliot's to leave it free. Eliot just about keeps himself from resting his own hand on Quinn's.
Thirty minutes. He can handle thirty minutes right here.
And he has no sympathy at all when Quinn makes a point of showing him the bruises later.
[+1]
It's not as bad as it could have been. There's a lot of that these days, with Parker's more careful leadership, with two hitters to switch out and share the burden. There are a lot of days where Eliot thinks about how it could have been, how it would have been, when he had to retreat to his apartment to lick his own wounds like he used to under Nate. At least in the early years.
It's not as bad as it could have been. The goons were taken down before they could get very far. Eliot's counting his blessings.
Except that it was Quinn who got hurt this time.
It's fine. It's fine. Quinn teased him for being worried and let Eliot patch him up, let Parker leave a stuffed dinosaur with him for company (vivid green with red spikes, name of Lilah, originally assigned to Quinn when he was flat out with the flu for a week), bickered with Hardison while Hardison got him set up with a spare laptop and their netflix account.
He eventually agreed to the good painkillers—and Eliot's trying not to dwell on that, on how much trust it shows to be woozy in front of them, on how long it took him to trust the others with that—and he's lying in their guest bed already half drifted off to sleep.
Quinn's hair is loose and curling haphazardly around his face. The bruise on his cheekbone stands out livid blue-black. Eliot's fighting the almost physical urge to tuck the blankets around him, check he's not too warm with a hand to his forehead, go back to the kitchen and make him more soup.
To keep him company where he is.
After a minute of just standing there listening to Quinn breathe, Eliot gives in. He sits down with a sigh and starts unlacing his boots.
There are always spare pajamas in the guest room, which is good, because Eliot's long past the years of sleeping comfortably in jeans. This set is dove grey flannel with cartoon bunnies all over, but Eliot can't even pretend to be surprised. He knows the people he's chosen to spend his life with.
He means to just lie down beside Quinn to be nearby if he wakes. He really does. But then Quinn starts to shift towards him, stops with a wince, and mumbles something that sounds like his name—both parts.
"Here," Eliot says, resting a hand on his uninjured shoulder. "Idiot," he adds for good measure.
"Shut up." Quinn's voice is clearer this time. Eliot nestles closer, finding a way to hold him that won't put any pressure on his injuries, and Quinn gives an approving hum that lapses out into something like a snore.
Eliot spends a moment just staring at the hair curling around Quinn's ear before he succumbs to the softness of the blankets, the stresses of the day, the knowledge that Quinn is here and Quinn is safe, and the closeness of someone he trusts.
He sleeps well. He always sleeps well like this.
~
When Eliot slowly surfaces in the morning, his leg's tangled around one of Quinn's, Quinn's been drooling onto the sleeve of Eliot's flannels (that arm now completely asleep), and some of Quinn's hair has found its way into Eliot's mouth.
Eliot makes a face but stays quiet as he begins to extricate himself, not wanting to wake him. Tricky with an arm that feels like a block of wood and Quinn a very steady weight on top of it. He gets his face mostly clear when something tickles his nose and he suddenly sneezes right into Quinn's hair.
Quinn makes a muffled noise and rolls over towards him, batting a hand against Eliot's face. Eliot swears and knocks it away; Quinn swears right back at him, indistinct enough that Eliot can't be sure of the language. When he's gotten himself free enough to risk it, Eliot calls him a jackass for good measure.
The crease in Quinn's forehead suggests he's regretting moving so much so soon—Eliot's first stop will be finding him some more pain relief options—but when Eliot glances back from the doorway, he notes a distinct smugness in Quinn's expression.
Eliot's face goes soft. He feels it happen. He runs his fingers through his hair to tidy it the barest bit, steps outside, and closes the door quietly behind him.