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He’s got a lot of blood on his hands. It’s a surprise the red isn’t visible after all he’s done since he left home at eighteen to join the army. There’s a reason he doesn’t sleep for more than forty minutes at a time. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees--
Working with the team changes everything and nothing. The moment he, Hardison, and Parker step into that elevator and change into their new disguises, things fall into place like dominos. It’s natural, the way they orbit around each other and flow like they’ve got things all planned out ahead of time when they haven’t. But, at the same time, Eliot’s been tired of the game for a while now. The team just gives him the final push he needs.
Eliot’s position is clear: guard dog. From that first job, conning Dubenich out of everything he had with a bunch of other thieves and one honest man, he knew he would die for them. Even worse? He knew he would kill for them too.
They’re falling apart. It’s Eliot’s job to keep them from crashing out and destroying themselves in the process.
Sophie’s gone. Tara’s here. All this change is throwing off the rest of the team, especially Parker. She hasn’t jumped off a building since this all started. And worse, Hardison is clearly pretending that everything is fine while his anxiety tears him apart from the inside. Nate, well… The less said about Nate the better.
Dalton Rand. A man Eliot would very much like to snap the neck of.
Sophie’s always been the one to talk to Parker when emotions come up, but she’s not here. Tara and Nate try to explain things, but they don’t speak Parker’s language. Eliot shares a look with Hardison. Looks like they’re the only ones left.
“Park,” Eliot says as softly as he can. He hovers behind her as she watches Rand and the other guy get driven away by the police. “Just say the word. He’ll never speak again.”
Parker blinks deliberately. It feels like every move she makes is deliberate. This girl belongs on a tightrope above the city where gravity has no effect on her. It’s creepy, but he’s willing to give her the benefit of the doubt after the week she’s had.
“No. Don’t kill him. Let him rot.” Parker decides suddenly and all at once. Her voice is loud. He sees Tara twitch in his peripheral vision, but by now he trusts her loyalty to Sophie enough to let her eavesdrop.
“You sure?” Hardison asks quietly. “I mean, you know how I feel about violence, but you seemed pretty passionate about getting even with him earlier.”
Parker shrugs. “If he ever does anything like this again, I’ll kill him myself.”
Eliot smiles. He believes her.
“Should I be worried about that?” he hears Tara ask Nate under her breath.
“No, no,” Nate shakes his head. “Sophie’s been working with her on it. Y’know, she hasn’t stabbed a mark in a month. That’s a new record.”
Not really something to brag about, but Parker perks up at the mention of it. Eliot shares a look with Hardison. Sophie better come back soon.
It’s a risky line he’s walking, going against Damien Moreau without telling the team about his past, but he walks it well. For a year.
Hardison’s clothes are wet. There’s a puddle growing steadily at his feet the longer he stands there. The safehouse is cold, the air conditioning stuck on its highest setting after the previous tenant messed with the fuses. Hardison tenses his jaw as a chill visibly runs down his spine.
Eliot doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing. His face remains carefully blank. There’s this feeling in his gut, a sinking feeling that makes him want to claw at his skin.
“What were you thinking when I went under?”
Eliot flinches. He never flinches, but now, he jerks back like he’s been hit. He deserves it.
“Average person can hold their breath from 30 to 90 seconds,” he says, his voice low. “Odds are that you had 60 seconds of air before the buildup of carbon dioxide in your lungs and the reduced oxygen-flow to your brain would trigger involuntary movements like gasping for air. The panic would hit you then, as water entered your lungs. Two minutes in? You’d be calm as you lose consciousness.”
“That’s a whole lotta facts,” Hardison snaps, “and not many thoughts or feelings.”
Eliot swallows hard. “That’s what I was thinking. I had two minutes to get you out of that pool before you… Before. I had two minutes and two options: get the key from Moreau peacefully or jump in to pull you up and get shot to all hell by his guard dogs. My feelings? Those didn’t matter when your life was on the line. They couldn’t.”
“Eliot,” Hardison says slowly, precisely. “Tell me what was going through your head while I was in the water, drowning.”
“Fear.” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath in. God, this is worse than getting fucking tortured. “I was scared, alright? I was terrified out of my mind, but I couldn’t show it because Moreau would have pounced on it and torn me apart. That’s how guys like that work, man. That’s how I used to work. So I thought about the facts, yeah, ‘cause I couldn’t think about how you were dyin’ right behind me and it was all my fault. Is that what you wanna hear? It was my fault. I shoulda’ told y’all ‘bout Moreau ahead of time, but I didn’t. I risked your life. It’s my fault.”
In the dark behind his eyelids, Eliot can’t see how Hardison reacts, but he can hear his breath hitch. This, he knows, is a turning point. This is where Alec sees who he really is, what he’s done to get here alive.
(No matter how Hardison reacts, Eliot knows he will protect this man til his dying day. That won’t change because of something so insignificant as Hardison hating him.)
A hand rests gently, hesitantly, on his shoulder, and he violently stomps down his first instinct to grab it and pull until something pops. He keeps his eyes closed. Then, unthinkably, he’s being hugged. He bites his lip hard enough to bleed and returns the hug with too much force so he doesn’t have to think about all the contact.
“Oh, are we hugging now?” Parker’s voice pops up out of nowhere, making Eliot tense in a fluid motion. He has to consciously relax his grip on Hardison to glare over his shoulder at the blonde thief. She stares at them with wide, unblinking eyes. “Nate’s figured out how you’re gonna kill that general guy.”
He exhales harshly. Cracking his neck, he steps away from the two of them and clears his throat. He can feel his features contort into what anyone else would see as angry, but Parker and Hardison just watch him without fear. He snarls.
“I guess it’s too much to ask for to not kill the guy?”
He doesn’t kill the general. He also doesn’t kill Moreau. They steal a country.
Not even two weeks later, they’re back together again.
He’s gotta be honest, he didn’t think he’d be here , thawing out in a heated car after an adventure up a snowy mountain. He, Parker, and Hardison are packed together in the back seats. His shoulder presses tight against Parker’s. There’s not enough room in this row for the three of them, but they make it work. Nate’s driving, thank God. He’s not sure he could stomach Sophie’s Istanbul taxi-driving right now.
“We couldn’t’ve took different cars?” Eliot grumbles as Sophie squeals and turns the radio up. It’s some pop song that Eliot would rather throw himself out of this car than hear right now.
Parker snorts. “I dunno, I kinda like riding together. All of us packed into one tiny car, pressed together like sardines, knowing that we’re stuck here for the next few hours until we get to the nearest airport. It’s like a straightjacket but with other people. Hmm.”
He can feel Parker’s shiver through all the places they’re connected. His lip curls in a snarl. Does he really have to put up with this for three more hours? Dammit, Parker.
“Though I could do with a burger,” Parker adds.
“What I wouldn’t do for a burger,” Hardison agrees. He leans forward enough that his seatbelt jams. He fusses with it. “Hey, Nate! Can we stop for food sometime soon? All that cold really got my metabolism going. I can physically feel the calories leaving my body. Do you know how much energy it takes to work this brain? A lot. Alright? A lot.”
Eliot growls. He’s jammed between a car door and a thief that’s all elbows and creepy comments. He just wants to get out of here as soon as possible.
“No,” Nate says decisively. “We are not stopping for food. You can eat at the airport.”
Parker leans way too close to Eliot to whisper in a loud, breathy voice, “Almost dying of altitude sickness and alcohol withdrawal makes Nate cranky.”
“Stop it,” Eliot snaps, pushing her away with a palm to her forehead. She goes limp against his hand and flops back into Hardison dramatically. Eliot huffs. He refuses to be amused by her antics. Though he can’t help a small smile when he hears Hardison groan in complaint at the sudden weight on him.
“Woman!”
Eliot sighs. He checks his watch. Just… two and a half more hours. He can get through a car ride without murdering his team.
Eliot doesn’t kill people anymore. Not without a very, very good reason. He killed to save Nate and the Italian from Moreau’s men. He shot a man in cold blood when he had every opportunity to just knock him out and be done with it. And the thing is? He doesn’t regret it, even if the red on his hands weighs him down more and more every day.
So when Parker picks up the phone and Hardison’s on the other end, his voice shaking within the strict confines of a buried casket? Eliot only has one instinct.
“Not yet,” Parker tells him with a jerk of her head. Her eyes are cold. He can see himself in her now, see who he used to be, who he still is on his darkest days. She and him have always been more like each other than the others on the team. It was a good thing in that ice cave with the dead guy. He doesn’t know if it’s a good thing now.
They got Hardison out, safe and sound, but Eliot can’t sleep. It seems neither can Parker. (Every time he closes his eyes, he can hear the pure terror in Hardison’s voice over the comms, hear Parker’s voice crack as she tries to reassure him. “Do you hear me, Alec? I need you!” )
“Why not?” he finds himself asking. His voice is void of emotion. That should scare him, but it doesn’t.
“Hardison can’t know.”
He’s sure she has other reasons. She might think that by waiting his rage will lessen, that she can still save his soul. She should know better by now. He’s not sure he has a soul. Still, he agrees.
“Fine.”
He doesn’t kill the man who put Hardison in that box, though not for lack of wanting to. In the end, it’s not Parker that stops him, nor is it worry about adding more blood on his hands. It’s Hardison. The very next morning, after he and Parker take vigil outside of Hardison’s apartment building to make absolutely sure that he’ll have backup should he need it, Hardison texts them both with a simple, “I’m fine, but come inside if you’re just gonna be stalkers about it.”
Parker drags Eliot up to Hardison’s apartment by his sleeve. She’s surprisingly strong, though she does hang off of buildings with her fingertips, so maybe it’s not so surprising.
Eliot takes one look at the contents of Hardison’s fridge and starts cursing up a storm. “Man, what the hell is wrong with you? How are you still alive after all the crap you put in your body?”
“Don’t hate,” Hardison chides with a smug smile, “appreciate.”
Growling, Eliot shakes his head. His hair gets in his eyes, and he rifles through his pockets as he moves through the kitchen.
“Here,” Parker interrupts. Her outstretched hand holds a hair tie.
“Thanks,” he says gruffly. He puts his hair up into a high bun in familiar movements and rips a piece of paper off of a nearby notepad. He steals a pen from Hardison’s table in the living room and starts making a list. “Parker, go get this from the store two blocks south from here. I’m makin’ breakfast. How can you not even have eggs, man? What’s wrong wit’you?”
The paper is out of his hands before he can blink. He sees long, blonde hair disappear through the now-open window over the kitchen sink. He’ll never understand that woman. There’s a perfectly good door just a meter away.
The pantry is bare too. He’s surrounded by idiots.
“What are we making?” Hardison asks. He perches on a hipster-looking chair that he clearly had shipped in when he got the apartment.
“We are not making anything,” Eliot snarls. “I am making pancakes and waffles, with a side of sausage, bacon, and eggs. I put hash browns on the list, but I don’t know how good your local store is. And who knows what Parker’ll grab that’s not on the list. I might have to make a whole goddamn stir fry.”
Hardison smiles slow and easy. There’s a fondness in his eyes that makes Eliot duck his head, wishing he hadn’t put his hair up so he could hide behind it now. Eliot’s familiar with weapons, more than any person should be, but he’s never imagined Alec Hardison’s smile could make him feel like he’s been tased. Dammit.
He greases up a frying pan that looks like it’s never been used before and sets it aside as he gets himself situated with the rest of the kitchen.
“You don’t have eggs, but you have cinnamon and garlic?” he asks incredulously.
“Of course. Gotta have variety, ya’ know? It’s the spice of life.”
Eliot scowls and mutters under his breath, “Idiot.”
“I resent that remark,” Hardison gasps dramatically, bringing a hand up to rest on his chest. “You’ve gotta be nice to me, man. I almost died yesterday. Like, actually died. Suffocated. You know how traumatising that is? I’m traumatised.”
“I’ve lost count of the times I’ve been buried alive,” Eliot shoots back, only sort of lying. “You ain’t special.”
Hardison scoffs. “Now that’s just rude, is what it is. No respect for a man’s emotions. None at all. I should kick you out of my apartment, right here, right now. Teach you to respect your betters. Special. Hm. I’ll tell you who’s special.”
A smile tucks itself into the corner of Eliot’s mouth. Yeah. Maybe he won’t kill Javier after all.
Parker does indeed return with three full bags of ingredients. She insists he make her a feast ‘fit for kings,’ as she puts it in a wacky voice that sounds more like Arnold Schwarzenegger than anyone she might really be aiming for.
Nate and Sophie actually retire. Like, seriously. Against all odds, they give up the life of crime and get engaged. To each other. He didn’t think they had it in them.
“How long do we really think this’ll last?”
Parker’s suspended from the ceiling, dangling upside down on a sturdy line of braided cable. She sways with the ambient wind from the air conditioning of the Brewpub. Against all odds, Sterling hadn’t come after the Brewpub after everything that went down with the black book files. Though, with the way Hardison’s been talking lately, they might be moving out anyway.
“A year, tops,” Hardison chimes in from his worktable. “You know Nate. He gets grumpy when he follows the law for too long.”
“And Sophie spirals without a new painting to steal every month or so,” Parker agrees. “But maybe together they’ll cancel each other out, you know? They can con each other when they get itchy for crime.”
Eliot sighs fondly. He wipes his hands with a towel and adds a few sprigs of cilantro to half of the appetizers on his tray. Parker throws a fit when she tastes cilantro, but Hardison’s got a real taste for it. Eliot can see both sides, so of course he gets thrown into the middle of their arguments about it constantly. He’s lucky they agree on anything regarding food, with their diets the way they were before he found and fixed them.
“Here, come try some of this,” he offers up to the open-plan floor. He sets the tray down at the table and waits for the inevitable footsteps. Parker drops from her rope noiselessly and pads over with Hardison at her side.
“Ooh, pizza bites,” Parker chirps.
Eliot grimaces, biting back an angry retort. “They’re not pizza bites , Parker! They’re Italian brioche-- you know what? Yeah, they’re pizza bites. Try ‘em. Tell me what you think about the sauce. I’m trying a new recipe.”
He watches with poorly concealed warmth as the two of them take bites in sync. Happy moans from Parker and insistent humming and pointing from Hardison mean the updated recipe is a go.
“So,” he starts when the two of them have stopped shoveling food into their mouths, the heathens, “tell me about that house you found. Does it have space for a garden? I’ve been looking into growing my own vegetables after that job with the carrots.”
“It’s got room for anything you need, baby,” Hardison says. “We could get you chickens if you said you wanted chickens.”
Parker raises her eyebrows. “Ooh! Chickens.”
Eliot sips a glass of water and watches the two of them get into yet another debate. Y’know, it’s funny, isn’t it? Somewhere along the way, he went from being willing to die and kill for these two to being willing to live for them. It’s interesting how things work out like that.