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Breaking Promises Like Bones
He's never disobeyed a direct order. Not even when the thought of doing what he'd been asked made his hands sweat and bile rise hot and thick in his throat. Not even when the person at the other end of his weapon didn't deserve the world of hurt coming for them. Remembers with a shudder the ones who begged and the ones he couldn't save, any more than he could save himself. Told himself there was a rotten sort of grace in the act, because the result would have been the same, no matter whose hands were on the loaded gun.
He trusts Nate, maybe even more than any other commanding officer, but there's a black and bloody and ruthless streak in the other man a mile wide he'd be a fool to ignore.
And Eliot Spencer is no fool.
So he notes the little, speculative gleam in Nate's eyes when he puts down the first gun he'd picked up in years, walking away covered in blood and oil and the stink of cordite. Tucks the thought that Nate would ask him to kill again away, in the vault in his head with everything else he can't think about, and goes back to business as usual.
It stays that way, until there's a scared little girl and a gang of mobsters and Nate says the magic words - do your worst- that unlock the blackest parts of Eliot's capabilities. And it's worth it, to give back life to balance all the one's he's ended. Brings a scared little girl back home safe, so the balance swings in the right direction.
But he can't help wondering, after that, when Nate's going to decide someone else needs to die. It's a dirty feeling, one that takes him back to the bad old days of working for Damien Moreau. Back to the days of being a mercenary, of not caring how much ruby blood was spilled as long as he had a bunk to lay his head and a pay cheque at the end of the month.
They fall into an uneasy sort of equilibrium. It lasts until a plan goes to shit and Nate's in the hands of a thug big enough to give the hulk a run for his money. There's a sleek black handgun on the floor, at Nate's feet, and the goon's hands are around Nate's throat.
"Eliot," Nate grinds out, and Eliot thanks God he doesn't have enough breath to make it an order, because the gun would already be in his hands despite the fact every shot he sends down the barrel feels like it takes a chunk of his soul with it.
It's a brutal and bloody fight. Leaves Eliot doubled over, one hand pressed against his ribs, gasping for breath, blood dripping from his busted lip and brow. His left shoulder is throbbing again, arm full of pins and needles, joint full of ground glass. The goon is worse off- out cold on the floor, though Eliot knows that won't last.
He stoops lower and scoops up the gun. Sees the question in Nate's eyes and looks away, under the pretense of breaking the weapon down.
"Eliot-" Nate starts, and starts when Eliot throws the disassembled gun down the hall to land with a clatter on the white tile floor.
"Never again," Eliot grinds out, teeth clenched so hard his jaw aches from the pressure. "Never ask me that again." Because I will do it, and there's enough blood on my hands to drown me already.
Nate nods. "Okay," he says, like it's a done deal, but the little speculative gleam hasn't left his eyes.
The unease creeps back into Eliot's gut, and lodges there like a stone. He locks it away, in the vault with everything else he doesn't want to think about and does his job, gets them both out of the building. Gets them home, and drowns out the screaming in his mind with a stiff shot ir five and a few hours in the kitchen.
Never again, Eliot said, but he knows there will always be another desperate situation, because that's just the life he'd signed up for for. Because that's how men like Nate and Moreau operate, on the edge of the possible and the reasonable. Because, like it or not, a lethal weapon is what he'd spent his life training to be.
Never again, he'd said, like it was a promise he'd never break.
But promises break easier than bones, and Eliot knows if he wants to keep his people safe, he'll go on breaking both.