Archive of Our Own

It’s Saturday morning, and everything is currently falling apart.

Which is just so unfair for multiple reasons, Parker thinks. First of all, it’s Saturday! Saturday is supposed to be one of the best days of the week, if not the best. Bad stuff isn’t supposed to happen on Saturdays. Second, it’s a Saturday with an ideal Saturday forecast: Gray and chilly and drizzly, one hundred percent cozy-up weather. And third—and maybe most importantly—the day had started out so perfect.

For starters, the three of them had laid in bed for a whole forty minutes before Eliot started nagging her and Hardison about getting up to have breakfast, and for fifteen of those forty minutes, Hardison had kissed her in that soft, slow way he has while Eliot mouthed at the backs of her shoulders and her neck. They’d only stopped because she’d (tragically) had to ask them to—all of her insides were tingling too hard, and she couldn’t feel her toes. Things after that were still great, though: They’d spent the rest of their time snuggled up all close and comfortable, first analyzing Hardison’s newest and weirdest dream, and then debating—not for the first time—if he actually had the weirdest dreams of the three of them or if she did. Today they decided it was a tie. Then Eliot finally said that if his stomach had to wait for breakfast any longer it’d start eating itself, which made both her and Hardison roll their eyes, but they still got up alongside him anyway.

Breakfast was delicious, as always—Eliot made bagel sandwiches and hash browns, which also happen to be an ideal Saturday food. Then they curled up on the couch and watched cartoons for a while (it was her turn to pick a TV show for the morning), and after a handful of episodes, they got up to start going about their respective activities for the day.

This is where everything started to turn to garbage.

Eliot’s activity was making macarons, and Hardison’s was giving Hardy some much-needed upgrades. (He still tries to insist that the little guy’s name is Parker 2000, but Parker knows better, and so does Hardy.) And what about Parker, you may wonder? If you asked her, Parker had the best activity of all: Hardison had made her a brand-new puzzle box, and she was going to sit on the couch in the living room and work on it. Being in the living room was a crucial part of the plan because not only did that mean she could have the cartoons still playing in the background, but she could also be right between her boys—Eliot in the kitchen to her left, and Hardison at the table they keep in the corner of the living room to her right. Usually Eliot uses that table to work on jigsaw puzzles, but he’d just finished his latest one last night, so it was free for Hardison to work at today.

So it sounds perfect, right? A puzzle box and some cartoons on a cold and drizzly morning with your boys to either side of you? The ideal Saturday. And at first, it was perfect—Parker felt completely sucked into her puzzle, her world and her thoughts narrowing and focusing in the same kinda way they do when she’s cracking a new safe or figuring her way through a complicated laser grid. The ambient noise around her too was a wonderful mix of Eliot humming and making cooking noises, Hardison occasionally murmuring to himself as his tools went tip-tap and click-clack, and the TV chittering and chattering beneath it all. At one point, she’d even closed her eyes and thought to herself, Wow—what a perfect day.

Nope. Wrong. EEEHHHN (that’s a sound like a game show buzzer). Oh, how foolish she was.

If she had to pick an instigating moment, Parker could pretty much pin it to the way that Eliot had said “Oh, c’mon” about an episode into their separate work.

“Okay in there?” Hardison had called to him.

“Yeah,” Eliot sighed, with a heaviness that suggested the exact opposite. “Just— Don’t know if this mixture turned out right. Crap.” He sighed again. “Whatever. Trust the process. It’s fine.” Then he went back to whatever he was doing.

The brief disruption brought Parker out of her trance a bit, but oh well. It was fine. She was able to slip back in and keep puzzle-boxing.

Then, maybe about ten minutes later, there was a bzzzt sound and Hardison went “Ah, jeez.”

“Y’alright?” called Eliot this time.

“It’s fine,” Hardison replied. “Might’ve fried a circuit. I can fix it.”

“Don’t electrocute yourself.”

“Don’t have that kinda power here, babe, but thanks for worrying.”

This time it took Parker a little longer to get back into her zone. Usually when they have their days like this, it’s utterly peaceful. Everyone’s calm and quiet and there’s no hiccups. And sure, today it was only two slip-ups so far. Not really that bad in the grand scheme of things. But something about those slip-ups still wriggled under Parker’s skin. There was a bad taste to them somehow; she hadn’t wanted to get too far ahead of herself, but they’d felt like omens, honestly. An unpleasant feeling was creeping up the back of her neck, wiping away the warmth and the sparks that Eliot had left there with his kisses only a couple hours earlier. That was decidedly displeasing. She tried to swat it away, and she mostly succeeded. Still, she made a mental note to ask Eliot to give her some make-up kisses later to freshen up the good feelings. Then she returned to her box.

From there, it only got worse.

Eliot almost knocked his tray of macaron shells off the counter while they were doing their pre-oven dry. Hardison soldered the wrong wire not once, but twice. When Eliot pulled his shells out of the oven, half of them had deflated and the other half had cracked. And then, just when Hardison thought he’d finished his upgrades, Hardy just… wouldn’t turn on. No matter what Hardison did, the little robot was lifeless, quite literally a shell of his former self.

And that brings us to the present moment. Currently, Eliot’s cussing up a storm in the other room, pans and tools banging around as he apparently takes his frustration out on the kitchen, and Hardison’s swearing just as colorfully and fervently as he tries to bring Hardy back to life. And Parker? Parker’s sitting on the couch with her head buzzing and her hands white-knuckling her puzzle box, trying to resist the urge to hurl it onto the ground and shatter it into a million pieces.

To be clear, she would never actually do that—she loves every single box that Hardison’s given her. She’s even commandeered what had previously been the only empty shelf left on Hardison’s LEGO display bookcase to give the solved ones a home. She refuses to let them hide in some storage box or something like that because they mean too much to her; no one’s ever made her anything like this that’s only for her, purely for her own entertainment and enjoyment. No one but Hardison. That alone means that they deserve a special place. And on top of that, they’re just so pretty. Lacquered wood, shiny gears, glittering gems… They’re all so gorgeous, and so unique too. Sometimes she just likes to sit and stare at them. They’re some of the most beautiful things she owns, and she owns the Irish Crown Jewels.

So no, she’d never actually destroy any of them. But her fingers are still itchy with the urge to break something, because this was supposed to be a perfect day. This was supposed to be cozy inside, perhaps a snuggle sesh in the afternoon when they each needed a break from their activities, and maybe the rain would make Eliot too lethargic to cook something for dinner and they’d order Chinese instead. She’s been craving dumplings lately and was really hoping tonight might be the night for them. Dumplings seem miles away now, though, and it feels like perfection has flown out the window too, replaced instead by rattled drawers and irritated tool-tapping, grumbles and curses, “macarons are just too damn fussy, should’ve made regular cookies instead” and “c’mon, li’l Parker, talk to me, please.” That thing under Parker’s skin is wriggling harder, sinking its tiny teeth into her veins, nipping and snapping and really starting to piss her off.

Listen, she knows it’s not really that big of a deal. But she hates it when her days just don’t work out all of a sudden, okay? It’s like she gets all excited about them and her heart gets revved up, and then someone just slams on the brakes and whoops! Sends her skidding, toppling head over feet, and she never skids, or topples. It sucks. She hates it.

A head full of bees is no good for problem-solving, though, so she closes her eyes and takes a breath to steady herself. Think, Parker. Options. One: Just tell the boys to knock it off. No, that’s just coming to mind because she’s angry. It would bring some temporary relief, but it doesn’t solve the underlying issues of what’s making everyone so annoyed. Yeah, definitely no. So, two: She could try to help fix things. No, no, also a no—when Eliot’s this mad he hates having anyone else in the kitchen with him, and when Hardison’s this frustrated, he can barely hear a word you say because he’s too busy spiraling in his own head about whatever’s giving him trouble. There’s no way she’d be any help to either of them at this point.

Alright, great. Can’t tell them to cut it out and can’t help. Options are looking super so far.

Parker sticks out her lower lip to blow her bangs off her forehead. There’s gotta be something else. The day can still be saved, right? She just wants to have her dumplings, and she’d really like her snuggle sesh too if she can manage it.

Wait—that’s it. That’s it! The number one hard reset for both the boys, and for her too, conveniently. Haha! She’s a genius. Why didn’t she think of that first? Must’ve been all the bees. Well, either way, she’s got it now. Excellent. It’s go-time.

Parker sets her puzzle box down on the living room table and turns off the TV. After she cracks her knuckles and her neck, shaking out her wrists and rattling her head too for good measure, she stands up from the couch. Hardison first since he’s closest—she walks over to the table and puts her hands over his where they’re still trying to fuss with Hardy. Naturally, Hardison doesn’t even register her presence, so Parker says his name.

Nothing. He’s still trying to work underneath her hands, a muttered monologue continuing to pour from between his lips. His voice is too low for her to catch everything, but she hears snatches of “c’mon, now, don’t do this to me” and “you’re alright, baby, Daddy’s gonna fix you right up.” Parker shakes her head.

“Hardison,” she says again, with more emphasis.

Nope. Nada. Alright then—time to pull out the big guns. She squeezes his hands and she says “Alec” this time, and when she does, she makes her voice solid and stern.

Immediately, Hardison stops babbling to Hardy and looks up at her with widened eyes. Ding ding ding—bingo. Her Voice may mostly be for Eliot, but it sure works on Hardison too. Parker’s pretty sure that if she pressed the back of a hand to his cheek, she’d find it warm with a blush.

“Oh. Hey,” Hardison says.

Parker smiles at the way that even just those two words come out as a croak. Him and Eliot are so easy. Too easy, sometimes. Just a touch of the Voice and they’re done for. It’s like taking candy from a baby. Actually, they’re even less work than that—babies have surprisingly strong hands, and they usually don’t like to give up whatever it is they’re holding onto, especially if it’s candy. Sometimes she has to wonder who came up with a dumb saying like that.

“Hi,” she says. “You’re coming with me.”

Hardison blinks. “But Parker 2000 won’t turn back on—”

“Hardy will live. You’re coming with me. Now.”

Hardison blinks. Then he stands up. As soon as he’s on his feet, Parker takes hold of one of his hands and starts walking him to the kitchen. The grumbling and irritated cooking sounds grow louder as they approach, and sure enough, as soon as the room’s within view they find Eliot standing at the counter separating eggs with a vengeance. Judging by the way he’s glaring at them, you’d think they’d burned the apartment down with her and Hardison inside it.

“Hey,” Parker says, already in her Voice because there’s no time to spare now. “Mr. Grumpy Chef.”

Eliot doesn’t even look up from his eggs. “What,” he spits.

“You’re coming with us.”

“For what.”

Parker frowns. That one command should’ve been it, just like it had been with Hardison. Eliot must only be half-listening—or even less than half—for the Voice not to work. And/or he’s really that pissed about the macarons that he can’t think about anything else.

“Just trust me,” she says.

Eliot huffs and gestures at the bowl in front of him. “I just separated these eggs, Park. I gotta do something with ’em.”

“They can go in the fridge.”

“I’ve gotta make the buttercream, gotta do something with these dumbass shells—”

“Eliot!”

That brings Eliot to a stop and makes him turn away from his bowl. What is it today with the terrible listening skills? Whatever. When their eyes meet, Parker gives Eliot a significant look.

“Eliot,” she says again, turning the Voice up to Extra Powerful. “Put the eggs in the fridge. You’re coming with us.” She raises her brows. “Don’t make me tell you again.”

There—the Voice has clearly registered now, because Eliot’s eyes widen just like Hardison’s had and his cheeks turn pink. His mouth drops open like he might say something, and then he shuts it. He stares. He stares, and he stares, and he stares. Finally, he washes his hands, dries them carefully, puts the eggs in the fridge, and walks over to where her and Hardison are standing. He stops, and he stares again.

“Done?” Parker asks.

Eliot nods, wordless.

Parker nods back and offers Eliot her free hand. Eliot returns the gesture—their palms touch, fingers interlacing. She squeezes once.

“Good,” she says. “Good boys. Now come—follow me.” And she starts down the hallway.

Thankfully, Eliot and Hardison are both quiet and obedient as they walk—she doesn’t even need to tug them along or anything. They follow right behind her as she heads for the last room on the left, and when they get there she nudges the door open with her foot since her hands are otherwise occupied. At the sight of their familiar California King, she sighs with relief.

“There,” she says. “Alright—get in.”

Neither Eliot nor Hardison move. They just stand there on either side of her. When she looks at each of them, they look… puzzled.

“What?” she says. “You look confused. Why do you look confused.”

The corners of Eliot’s mouth turn down in the tiniest of frowns. “The macarons” is all he offers.

“And Parker 2000,” Hardison adds.

Parker shakes her head. “No,” she says, “nuh-uh. You guys were getting too grouchy. You both started huffing and puffing like the Big Bad Wolf about to blow all the little piggies’ houses down.” She demonstrates said huffs and puffs, and a tiny green shoot of happiness bursts up through her chest when Hardison loses his mystified look and snorts instead. Pleased, she bumps her elbow against his own, and that tiny green shoot flowers bright blue when he bumps back. “I think we all need a break,” she goes on. “Desperate times call for desperate housewives. I’m invoking SOS Protocol Number Seven: Emergency Snuggles. You both know the rules, right?”

“‘Drop everything and cuddle up’” Eliot and Hardison both recite, Eliot more woodenly than Hardison. Still, she kisses his cheek when they’re done just as proudly as she kisses Hardison’s.

“That’s right,” she says. “And I decide when we’re all set. So get in, alright?” She smacks them both on the ass before whistling and pointing to the bed like she’s a flight attendant indicating aisleways and emergency exits, first two fingers extended and aiming straight ahead. Again, Hardison snorts, and to her delight, Eliot finally seems to be fighting a tiny smile as well. Very promising—progress seems to be happening.

With the bed, they have to pull back the covers first because Eliot made it right after breakfast, just like he always does. He’s scary-good at it—all he needs is a minute flat to get the corners of the sheets hotel-sharp and the pillows plumped and organized. Sometimes it makes Parker briefly sad to have to undo his beautifully meticulous work, but then that sadness quickly disappears when she remembers that his work is being undone so that she can get into bed, and at that point, very little else matters. Their bed is the comfiest she’s ever slept on, bar none, and there’s few things she loves more than climbing into it, whether it’s just for a brief nap or for a full night’s sleep.

Once the covers are pulled back, the boys turn to look at her expectantly. Parker finds that adorable. The Voice must’ve done a number on them if they’re needing this much direction. That’s fine—she’s great at giving directions, especially to the two of them. She’s totally got this. To start, she figures she’ll actually get into the bed herself first. Once she’s hopped in and settled onto the mattress, she pats the sheets to either side of her and holds her arms open.

“C’mon in,” she says with a dose of welcoming Southern charm in her voice. “The water’s just fine.”

Eliot huffs and shakes his head the same way he always does when she or Hardison put on a country accent, but he still gets in. Hardison does too, pulling the covers up and over them as he goes. Once they’re both in her arms, she tugs the boys close.

“Good work,” she says, “that’s it. Now,” she continues, pitching her voice to something robotic instead, “assume the positions.”

Both Eliot and Hardison chuckle at that, which would have her kicking her feet if her legs weren’t currently being commandeered. See, when she’s the one in the middle, “the positions” are this: On one side of her, Eliot tangles their ankles together as he rests his head on her shoulder and tucks his face into her neck, while on the other side, Hardison sandwiches one of her thighs between his own and puts his head on her chest. They both drape their arms over her stomach too, hands sometimes coming to rest on her hip or her waist, or sometimes they land on each other’s arms. All good options. Either way, the main goal is this: She becomes something for them to hold onto, and in return, she gets to have her two favorite people in the world holding her in place, keeping her steady and safe.

Which is kinda funny, because before they all became what they are now, being held in place wouldn’t have equaled steady or safe. Being held in place would have equaled BEEP BEEP RED ALERT YOU ARE TRAPPED MUST GET OUT. Honestly, that was still kinda what it equaled at the very very beginning. It wasn’t being “in place” yet back then—it was more like being held down. It did feel like being trapped. She’d known—and she still knows—that Hardison and Eliot would never ever do anything to hurt her, and she also knows she’s stronger than she looks and she can take care of herself. Even so, they’re two big guys, and it’s no small thing to have them laying even kinda on top of you.

But after having some time to adjust, and especially after Eliot and Hardison gave her lots and lots of reminders that she could get up any time she wanted to, she realized that this was nice, actually. As a matter of fact, she didn’t want to get up at all, even though she knew she could. And she definitely didn’t want the boys moving either. It felt good to have their weight over her—it was like she was being pressed back into her body, reminded of her edges and exactly who and where she was. It also reminded her of where they were, of course, and where they were was right next to her, snuggled in as close as they could be. In other words: The exact most perfect spot in the world.

Even though she can’t kick her feet into the mattress, Parker still has to let the happiness out somehow, so she wiggles her hips and her shoulders as best as she can under Eliot and Hardison’s lovely heaviness. They must know exactly what the movement means because they both shift in closer, Eliot’s stubbly jaw scratching gently against her collarbone and Hardison’s arm curling tighter around her middle. Parker grins up at the ceiling. She starts rubbing gentle, even circles into their backs.

“My boys,” she says.

Said boys both hum at varying pitches. Parker kisses the top of Eliot’s head, then Hardison’s.

“Are we feeling better now?” she asks.

Hums again.

“Mmm,” Hardison sighs. “Y’r warm.”

“Mmhm,” Eliot says. “And smell good.”

Hehehe. The Voice really did do a number on them—they haven’t even been in bed two minutes and they already sound like they’re down for the count, voices slurred and words mushy. Usually it takes longer than that; she’s even better than she thought. And the gold medal for Boy Wrangling goes to… Parker! Not that it’s really all that hard (again, even easier than taking candy from a baby)—Hardison’s weakness for cuddles is hilariously profound, and even though he tries to act like he’s the opposite, Eliot’s extremely weak for them too. Together, they’re almost certainly the biggest snuggle monsters in the whole universe. Parker’s positive she wouldn’t even have to hold a competition or anything to prove it because she just knows. Still, even if the Boy Wrangling isn’t all that hard, she still thinks she deserves a gold medal just because she wants one. They’re so nice and shiny.

Thrilled all the way down to her toes by her snuggly boys (and the thought of her shiny new medal—she’ll have to ask Hardison to make her one), Parker gives them each a scritch between the shoulder blades. They both let out soft, low groans at that.

“I know,” she says. “You guys are warm and smell nice too. We’re perfect together. Like a puzzle.” That word makes her suck in a tiny gasp as soon as it’s out of her mouth. “Ooh, that reminds me—I still have my puzzle box to finish later. This one is really good, Hardison. I mean, they’re all good, but this one is really good.”

Hardison makes an appreciative sound. “Anything for you, mama.”

“You’re the best. When you’re not causing a ruckus, that is.”

“Weren’t causin’ no ruckus,” Eliot says.

Oh my god. Did he not hear himself earlier? “Yes you were!” Parker says. “Huffing and puffing, remember? I think the whole building could hear you complaining about your macarons.”

Eliot growls and tucks his face further into her shoulder. “Mmfph. Don’t talk about those. ’M gonna throw those away.”

“Thought you were making buttercream for them?” Hardison asks.

“Mm-mm. Changed my mind. Gonna toss ’em. Cursed little bastards.”

Parker sucks in a big gasp at that. He couldn’t. How dare he. “No you are not,” she says, swatting his back in reprimand. “I still wanna eat them!”

“Me too!” Hardison chimes in.

“But they’re not good,” Eliot protests. “I can make ’em better. I studied those in France, y’know. Madame Berót’d be disgraced.”

Oh, good grief. Eliot gets so picky about his food. Parker guesses she kinda gets it—it’d be like someone telling her at the end of a job that accidentally tripping a few alarms along the way wasn’t a big deal as long as she got the goods and didn’t get caught in the end. That just wouldn’t be acceptable. And that’s how Eliot is with his food: If it’s anything less than ten out of ten—or even eleven out of ten—it’s not acceptable, and he’s not willing to serve it to other people. He might have it on his own, sure, but he only gives other people the best. Which is noble, kinda, except for the fact that she always wants to eat anything Eliot makes. The mere fact that he made it means it’s good. But somehow he still doesn’t get that, which means that she really has to wheedle and whine sometimes if she wants him to share his sub-par (to him!) creations.

“Well, Madame Berót isn’t here,” she tells Eliot. “And no one has to know that your shells deflated. I won’t tell. I’m sure they still taste yummy and I wanna eat them.”

“Maybe you could make, like, deconstructed macarons,” Hardison suggests. “Smear some buttercream on a plate. Crumble the shells on top. Eat it with a spoon. Boom.”

Oooooh, yes. That sounds delicious. Parker loves eating buttercream with a spoon anyway, so then if you sprinkle some crunchy cookie parts on top? She’s really not sure if it gets better than that.

Eliot, on the other hand, scoffs.

“I can’t believe you’d even say that,” he says, suddenly sounding fully awake. “It’s all about the texture, Hardison. The texture of the shells. The experience of the texture of the shells. They’re supposed to be delicate, and crisp, and they’ve got the little feet—”

“Alright, man, sorry. I didn’t know about the feet.”

“Yeah, there’s feet, Hardison. You have to have the feet—”

They start carrying on like this, bickering in that way they do. Normally, Parker would find this cute, so much so that she’d even try to actively encourage it. But right now it’s giving her that feeling again of something wriggling under her skin. Maybe because it’s too close on the heels of the near-utter failure that was The Events of a Mere Ten or Fifteen Minutes Ago That Will Not Be Named. Close enough, in fact, that it feels like with one wrong move, one toe stepped on or one word that hits too close, everything could go whoosh—up in flames.

Beneath the bickering, Parker clears her throat. “Um, boys?” she says. “I thought we were feeling better.”

Both Eliot and Hardison stop, and they heave great sighs. They do apologize, though: Hardison says “Soooooryyyyy,” and Eliot concedes with a “Yeah, alright.”

Ahhh. That’s better. She might bring this one back up later, because an Eliot rant about macaron feet does sound entertaining, but for now, the peace is preferable.

“Thank you,” Parker says. “We’re snuggling, not arguing.” She pokes them both. “Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You got it, boss.”

“That’s what I thought.” Parker nestles her head further back into her pillow. “And by the way, you are keeping the macarons,” she tells Eliot. “You can still make more if you really want to. But you’re not throwing the other ones away. If you do, I’ll kick your ass.”

Again, Eliot scoffs. “Like you could kick my ass,” he says. But when Parker looks down at him she sees that he’s failing to restrain a smile.

“She could,” Hardison says. “And I’d pay to see it.”

“Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence, sweetheart.”

“I didn’t say who’d win! Or that you’d get your ass whooped. I just said she could kick your ass. And that I would like to see it.”

Mmmm. Parker likes the sound of that. Not that she really wants to beat Eliot up, or even hurt him—she just likes sparring with him. It’s a chance to be up close and personal when he gets all sweaty and tough, AKA Super Extra Handsome, and she always likes the proud glint he gets in his eyes when she puts to use everything he’s taught her. Yeah, they might need to make this happen.

“We’ll have a smackdown next week to see who’d emerge victorious,” Parker declares. “After we finish the job we’re on.” She smirks. “I don’t think Nate would like it if you showed up to work with two broken legs.”

“Uh, hello—let the record show that Parker said that,” Hardison quickly points out.

“I did,” she says. “And I think I could definitely whoop your ass, even if Hardison doesn’t want to say it.”

Eliot’s not-smile twitches like he’s trying to turn it into a scowl instead. “Hey, can we not talk about beating me up in bed? ‘I thought we were feeling better,’” he parrots in a snotty voice. “‘We’re snuggling, not arguing.’”

Parker has to hand it to him—technically, he’s right. He beat her at her own game. Smart boy. And as much as she’s enjoying her current daydreams of up-close sweaty Eliot, she can put those on pause for a second and save them for something to lull her to sleep instead. First things first, she does indeed still want some snuggles. She kisses Eliot’s forehead.

“Okay,” she says, “yes—snuggle time.”

“‘Thank you,’” Eliot replies, still snotty.

“Oh, shut up.” Parker knocks her knee against his. “You’re dumb.” She kisses his forehead again. “I love you.”

Eliot pinches her hip, but he also slips his hand beneath the hem of her shirt so he can palm her bare waist. “Love you,” he says back.

“And I love you both too,” Hardison announces. “Love you love you, even. Hah. I win.”

A spark of competition flares to life in Parker’s chest, fanned to flame by the fact of Hardison’s love (a fact that she’s long known, yes, but it feels so very good every single time she hears it). “Oh, yeah?” she says. “Well, I love you love you love you.”

“Oh, no,” Hardison says, “not all this. I love you love you love you love you.”

“And I love you love you love you love you love you—”

“‘We’re snuggling, not arguing—’”

“Shut up!” Parker and Hardison both tell Eliot at the same time.

Eliot makes a sound like you dared to tell him his chili was “just alright.” That makes Hardison bust into a laugh, and then Parker busts into a laugh, and then even Eliot’s laughing too, snickering into Parker’s throat. Parker feels like she could genuinely launch right off the bed and zoom a million laps around the city in probably no more than a second. For all that perfection had felt like it’d flown out the window earlier, it’s overwhelmingly close now—it’s jammed up against either side of her body, warm and heavy, clutching at her and shaking, giggling madly into her skin. A feeling burns in her ribs like that one you get when you see a baby animal that’s just too cute, that kinda thing where you just ooooooh you just wanna squeeze ’em. Actually, y’know what? She does squeeze. Her boys are big—they can handle it. She squeezes and she squeezes and she squeezes, so tight that Hardison ooofs and Eliot says “damn, Park.” But neither of them stop her, so she doesn’t let up. She squeezes her boys whom she loves so very much, because she loves them so very much. And because they’re hers to squeeze.

Only when her muscles start to cramp does she lighten her grip. She still keeps her arms right around them, though, slung over the smalls of their backs, and when they try to nudge in even closer as their laughter dies down, Parker feels like she could do another million laps. She simply has no choice but to give them both approximately a billion kisses to the tops of their heads, even after all the ones she's already given them today. This gets another one of those low, soft groans out of Hardison, and Eliot makes that rumbly purring doggie noise he does. After their billionth kiss each, Parker sighs.

“Love you love you both,” she says, so full of the feeling that her skin almost feels too tight on her body.

“You too,” Eliot mumbles into her neck. “Love you love you.”

“Mmhm. Love you love you.” Hardison starts trailing his fingers up and down her side. “You really knew just what to do, huh? To keep Eliot from blowing up the kitchen and me from having a breakdown.”

“Uh-huh. I know all your buttons. Beep-beep beep boop.” She keys in an imaginary sequence between the notches of Hardison’s spine.

Hardison lets out another little laugh. “You really do.” He nuzzles into her chest. “Good thing we’ve got you then,” he says, softer now.

“Yeah,” Eliot says, just as soft. “Wouldn’t be anywhere without you.” He pauses. “Wouldn’t wanna be anywhere without you,” he adds in a whisper.

“Nuh-uh. No boys without Parker.”

Oh. That makes Parker’s throat tighten. She really had meant it when she said she knew all their buttons, because she does, but she was also being funny about it because Hardison had been funny about things first. But there’s no funny now. Now they sound completely serious, like they really mean it. Like she’s really that important to them. Like she’s that much of a fixture in their lives. And that hits her weird—good weird, but still weird—because she’s never fit into anyone’s life like that. She’s been useful, and she’s been a good tool, but those were always temporary things. As soon as she wasn’t useful anymore, she was gone.

Except here. Except with her boys. And with Nate and Sophie too, but the boys are really the big ones. They’re the ones she spends all her time with, after all. And they truly seem happy to have it that way—they always smile when they see her, and they’re always keeping themselves in her space, and there seems to be no end to how much they want to cuddle up to her during movie nights or bring her little trinkets or talk to her about whatever pops into their heads. And that’s all because she’s important to them, apparently. Because they don’t wanna be anywhere without her. Because without her, there’s no them.

Parker’s vision blurs. She squeezes her boys in tight again, and when her next exhale comes out choppy neither of them say anything, which is nice, because she’s not sure if she wants to talk about it right now. Instead, Eliot simply sandwiches her calf between his, claiming more than just her ankle now, and Hardison’s drifting touch shifts over to her belly to start tickling nonsense shapes into her shirt.

Parker clears her throat. “Well, there’s no Parker without her boys either,” she says firmly. “Okay? You promise?”

She’s not even sure what she’s asking them to promise. Technically, she’s the one that just made them a promise. Still, the words come out anyway, and the boys must know what she means, because they both lean up to kiss her—Eliot’s lips land at the corner of her mouth, and Hardison’s brush over her jaw.

“Promise,” Eliot says.

“Promise promise,” Hardison agrees.

Parker sniffles. “Good. If either of you take it back, I’ll kill you.”

This does exactly what she’d been hoping for and makes both Hardison and Eliot laugh.

“I’d sure hope you would,” Eliot says. “If I ever do you wrong, somethin’ ain’t right.”

Hardison nods. “Same. Someone would’ve had to have, like, put some kinda worm in my brain.”

“Eeew.” Parker wrinkles her nose.

“I know. You’d have to dig the worm out and then probably burn it, or kill it in some kinda ritual sacrifice. Y’know, so it doesn’t crawl away and infect some other host.”

“And how the hell did we get on this lovely topic?” Eliot asks.

“You started it!” Hardison fires back.

“I didn’t say nothin’ about worms.”

“That’s because you’ve got no imagination.”

“Psh. I’ve got more imagination in my little finger than you’ve got in your whole body,” Eliot says. And then he yawns. “Listen, not that this isn’t fun, but gettin’ into bed gave me the impression we’d be having a lie-down. Are we takin’ a nap here?” He nudges his nose into the underside of Parker’s chin. “You’re the mastermind, sweetheart.”

Parker considers. Naps aren’t a requirement for SOS Protocol Number Seven; moving things to the bedroom had really just been an instinctual matter of practicality, because the bed is the place where they all fit together best. Don’t get her wrong, their couch is great too, but the bed’s got a better shape for sprawling. Et voila, here they are. Although… Now that the suggestion has been made, a nap does sound nice. Gray and drizzly chilly Saturdays are just begging for naps with the boys. Yeah, okay, twist her arm—a nap can happen.

“Good idea, cowboy,” she says. “Nap time it is.” She reaches to pull the sheets up higher, and once she feels like they’re appropriately covered, she settles her arms back around her two most special guys. It comes to her attention then that a wonderfully cozy warmth has built up between them beneath the sheets, one that only gets warmer now that they’re more tucked in; it’s strong enough to make her feel instantly drowsy. All of a sudden she can’t fight a yawn.

“Oh, yeah—I’d definitely say it’s naptime,” Hardison says with a clear smile in his voice.

Parker just makes a happy sleepy sound and nuzzles into the top of his head.

“Should we set an alarm?” Eliot asks.

“Noooo,” Parker says. “Just sleepy. Shhhh. Sleepy-sleepy.”

Eliot snorts. “Aye-aye, cap’n.”

“Mmmmm. Good. My good boys.”

The room goes quiet then. Hardison does a big exhale, one of those heavy, juicy breaths that feel so good to let out; Eliot purrs again. Outside, very very softly, the rain pitters against the roof.

Parker wishes she could keep her eyes open. She wants to stare out through the blurry window, wants to watch Eliot’s back rise and fall steadily beneath the blankets and admire the curl of Hardison’s lashes against his cheek. But her eyelids have quickly become so heavy that she can’t hold them up any longer, so she lets them fall. Everything goes dim, even quieter than it was before; she breathes in, breathes out. She holds her boys. The morning’s disaster feels a lifetime away. They’re gonna take their nap, and they’ll be all cuddled up, and this afternoon and evening will be much, much better.

Oh, wait—that reminds her. She has two important things that still need to happen at some point this afternoon and evening.

“Boys,” she starts. It takes some effort to open her mouth, but she manages it.

Eliot and Hardison both groan softly, as if to say I’m barely conscious, why are you talking to me? Parker waves away the concept of their discontent.

“It’s important,” she insists. “Eliot—kiss.”

This time, Eliot’s groan is more confused than protesting.

“Now?” he asks.

“Nuh-uh.” Parker shakes her head. “Later. The feeling went away.”

“What?”

“The feeling went away.”

“The hell does that mean, Park?”

Parker pats Eliot’s back. “It’s okay. I’ll explain later.” Okay, good—there’s her thing taken care of. Oh, nope, wait—there was one more. Woof. She really is getting sleepy. With more effort than it’d taken before, she opens her mouth again: “One other thing,” she says. “Dumplings.”

Eliot digs his forehead into her chest. “What about ’em,” he grumbles. Parker can tell he’s getting grouchy about being kept from his nap, like he’s a big ol’ bear that’s being kept from hibernation, but she knows he’s fine. He’ll live. This really is important.

“Think dumplings are pretty self-explanatory,” Hardison says.

Parker nods. “Mmhm.”

“No, they ain’t. Thought we were napping. M’goin’ to sleep.”

“Noooooo,” Parker whines. She slaps at Eliot’s back. “It’s important. Dumplings. For dinner.”

“Oh,” Eliot says. “Well, why didn’t you say that?”

“Why didn’t you say that?”

“Jesus,” Eliot swears. “Go to sleep, darlin’. We’ll worry about your dumplings later.”

When Parker manages to peel up one leaden eyelid, she sees that despite Eliot’s exasperated tone, he’s also smiling. She smiles too.

“Yaaaaaay” she cheers. “Dumpling dinner.” Hallelujah. She can practically taste them already. She’s got big plans: By the time they finish said dinner, she’ll be more dumpling than Parker. It’s gonna be awesome.

“Probably for the best,” Hardison says, his voice bringing her out of her dumpling-related fantasies. “I think if Eliot gets back in that kitchen today he might burn it down.”

“Don’t even joke about that,” Eliot says, heated. “I’d never let anything happen to her.”

“Oh, ‘her’? She’s a ‘her’ now? Awful close, don’t you think? Parker, did you know we had a fourth in this relationship?”

Parker ponders. “Eliot does get kinda stroke-y with the countertops when he’s cleaning sometimes,” she says. “Almost like they’re alive.” He really does—this isn’t the first time Parker’s wondered if Eliot has a crush on their kitchen. Sometimes he talks to it too while he’s cooking. It makes her a little jealous, but it’s also very cute.

You can practically hear Eliot grinding his teeth. “I’m gonna go sleep in the damn guest room,” he says. “Swear on my life, y’all are taking years off me. Years.”

“We’re keeping you young,” Hardison says cheerfully. “And on your toes.”

“Keep me on them toes too long and they’ll just break right off, won’t they?”

“It’s okay,” Parker says. “We’ll buy you new toes.”

“I’ll build you new toes,” Hardison offers.

“I’m getting up—”

Parker and Hardison both whine when Eliot attempts to move, latching onto him to hold him in place. He tries to fight it for a good ten or fifteen seconds, but then he collapses back down with a huff.

“Sometimes I wonder why I stick around,” he grumbles.

“Because you loooooove us,” Parker says. She pets his hair. It’s especially wavy today because he’d slept in the braids she gave him after his shower last night. He’s so gorgeous she could eat him up with a spoon. “And we love you too,” she adds.

“Uh-huh.” The hand that Hardison had fisted in Eliot’s sleeve loosens its grip, but it doesn’t move—it stays on Eliot’s bicep, stroking slowly up and down now. “Our pretty Eliot.”

“That’s what I was thinking!” Parker says. She twirls a lock of Eliot’s hair around her finger. “Pretty.”

Eliot’s cheeks glow pink. “Quit it,” he says, but there’s no disguising the pleased note in his voice. He ducks his face as if to try to hide it, but Parker can still feel the warmth in his cheeks, even through the fabric of her shirt.

“You are,” she tells him. “Pretty.”

“Hmph.” Eliot digs his face beneath Parker’s collarbone, so when he says “Well, you two are ones to talk” it’s muffled. It’s not inaudible, though.

“Oh, we know,” Hardison says. “You really lucked out, man. Ending up with two gorgeous supermodels like us.”

Eliot snorts, but he also looks up at each of them briefly, first Hardison and then her. There’s something soft and fond in his eyes, so soft and fond it makes Parker’s stomach hurt. She just has to do something about it. Before Eliot can duck back down, she catches him by the back of his neck and pulls him up close for a kiss.

A small, surprised noise escapes the back of Eliot’s throat, but he melts in the same second—he drapes over her just like he should, parting his lips obediently when she nips at the bottom one. He must’ve taste-tested one of the macaron shells earlier because he’s sweet at the corners, hints of sugar on his teeth and his tongue. It’s so good that she’s already thinking about having him eat another one later so they can do this all over again. She flips them so he’s on his back and she licks the flavor out of his mouth as best as she can until he’s whining and writhing, and only when she feels him start trembling does she pull back, dialing down to tiny pecks on his cheeks and his jaws, listening all the while for his breathing to lose its ragged edge. He needs this sometimes, needs a wind-down after a big moment; Parker knows that, and she’s happy—thrilled, even—to give it to him.

When his breathing does lose its edge, she bumps their foreheads together. Then she looks at him. He’s even prettier than before—his eyes are glazed over and the flush in his cheeks is deeper. Belatedly, Parker realizes her hand is caught in his hair, tugging gently. She goes to release the pressure, but Eliot immediately whines and butts back into her palm. Grinning, Parker gives him a pull at the roots. Eliot hiccups on a moan and crumples into the bed.

Parker cackles and tickles his ribs, cackling harder when Eliot fails to nudge her hand away. She loves making Eliot crumple. Obviously it’s very attractive when he’s all Big Man In The Field, Mr. Muscles Being Scary And Intimidating, Rah-Rah I’m Gonna Eat All Your Bones, but she really loves when he gets like this too—he melts like marshmallows and goes all gooey and delicious, thick and sticky enough to glue your teeth together. You might not think it just from looking at him, but there’s a hidden part of Eliot that wants to be small while someone takes care of him. A part that wants to be handled, and tended to, and cared for. Eliot keeps that part of him under lock and key because it directly contradicts everything else he is (to him and the rest of the world, at least—Parker thinks it makes complete sense), but that’s okay. She doesn’t mind that. It makes that part of him her own little Secret Eliot that no one gets to see but her and Hardison, and that makes it feel special. She wishes she could put him in her pocket just like this and carry him around with her wherever she goes. She loves Secret Soft Gooey Eliot; he’s so secret. And soft. And gooey. Yum yum.

Speaking of Hardison, though—Parker registers then that there’s a warmth against her back, pressing close but not intruding. After one more tickle of Eliot’s ribs, Parker leans back into that warmth. Heat swirls through her when Hardison immediately curls around her, his face tucking into the curve of her neck and an arm wrapping around her middle.

“Hi there,” she says. Any breath that was left in her lungs has promptly disappeared now that Hardison’s covering her all big and strong.

“Hey, baby,” Hardison murmurs, lips brushing over her skin as he does.

“You comin’ to join the party?” she asks hopefully. She does hate to have a moment with just one of her boys when the other one’s there too. That’s what happens when you date two people—you’ve gotta keep things even.

Hardison chuckles. “You know it.”

Parker feels her eyes crinkle up at the corners. “Good,” she says. And then she turns and she tips Hardison’s chin up, and she doesn’t waste another second before she kisses him too.

He’s sweet like Eliot was, fruity instead of sugar (oranges, of course), and it sets off sparklers in her stomach when she can taste his moans all the way back in her molars. Unlike Eliot, though, there’s more of an even push and pull between them. Hardison loves it when she’s in charge too, very much so, but he doesn’t need as much of a break with this kinda stuff as Eliot does. And that’s totally okay. Parker’s pretty sure that Eliot’s been the in-charge one for just about forever—let him have a rest. Instead of touching and leading let him be touched and led. It’s important to Parker that she can do that for him.

Hardison’s different. As much as he likes hanging back and letting her take care of him, he also likes being up front too, because that gives him a chance to do what he does best: He gives. He gives and gives and gives, because he’s wonderful like that. So it becomes a dance when she’s giving too, the two of them going back and forth—Hardison sucks at her lower lip and slips a broad hand beneath her shirt to slide up the length of her back, and Parker gets him back by pressing her tongue against his own and hooking a leg over his thigh to keep them pressed close; Hardison lets her mouth a bruise into the hollow of his throat, and Parker arches her back so he can kiss at the swell of her chest better. They move and shift and work in perfect synchronicity, so easy it’s dizzying. Seriously—when they finally part, Hardison wobbles in her vision. It’s a good thing she’s already laying down, because she’s not sure if she could stand up straight like this.

Hardison beams down at her, his breath coming faster than usual. The sound of that is very distracting. It’s also very distracting how beautiful he is. Huge sparkly princess eyes, smile like the sun. Handsome nose. Flawless skin that practically shimmers in the right light. Lips so sweet she just has to trace their outline with her finger. Hardison must like that, because he beams wider and chases the tip of said finger to kiss it.

“Alright?” he asks.

Alright? What is he talking about? She’s more than alright—she’s out of this world. She’s up in the clouds. The whole planet and the galaxy and everything else are hers and hers alone. She flings her arms around Hardison’s neck and yanks him down, and when he’s forced to flop on top of her, she relishes the way it squeezes all her breath out and makes her lungs sting.

“M’great,” she wheezes. “Love you.”

“Love you too, cutie. Don’t let me crush you, though.”

“Can’t,” Parker says. “Wouldn’t. Like I said—great.”

“Alright,” Hardison says. He doesn’t sound like he believes her, though, and sure enough, he tries to shift off to her side after a few seconds. “Hold on, kittygirl,” he says when she hisses at him, “ain’t goin’ far. Just— Here.” Hardison settles down at her side, and as an apparent compromise, he shuffles half his body back over top of hers. Not the same, but still good. Parker will take it.

“That work?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Parker says. “I guess so. Hey, Eliot, can you do the other side—”

But Parker’s words die on her tongue when she looks back at Eliot. Because when she looks back at Eliot, she sees that he’s rolled onto his front and fallen asleep. And he’s not just asleep, but asleep—his face is smushed gracelessly into his pillow, some stray waves of hair washing over his brow. Wow. Being mad at the macarons really must’ve tuckered him out. Worst of all is that where his lips are slightly parted, he’s— God. It’s almost too much. But where his lips are slightly parted, he’s actually drooling a bit. Right into a tiny wet spot on his pillowcase.

“Oh,” Hardison squeaks. “My god.”

“I know,” Parker whispers. “It’s— Is this the cutest thing in the whole world? And, like, the history of the universe?”

“Very possibly.” Hardison pauses. “You realize we can’t ever wake him up again.”

Parker nods. “Oh, I know. He has to stay like this forever.”

“We’ll take shifts, right? To make sure he doesn’t move?”

“Um, duh. He’ll always have to have eyes on him.”

“Good. Same page.” Without even looking, Hardison meets her held-up hand for a (very gentle and quiet! Baby Eliot is sleeping) high-five.

They watch Eliot for another few moments. Those waves of hair have come down to waft over his cheeks now, and he’s still drooling. It’s absurd. Parker’s heart is going to blow up.

“We’ll have to drug him to keep him asleep, right?” Parker eventually asks, because she knows they were both thinking it.

“No,” Eliot says. “No drugs.”

Parker and Hardison startle at the sound of his voice. His breathing hadn’t changed. He hadn’t even shifted.

“Jesus, dude!” Hardison claps a hand over his heart. “How long have you been awake?”

“Long enough to hear you start talking about drugging me.” Eliot rolls back onto his side and he peels his cheek up, swiping away the thin string of spit connecting the corner of his mouth to his pillow. When he settles back down, he opens his eyes halfway to squint at them. “What is wrong with you two?” he asks.

“You were the cutest thing in the history of the universe,” Parker says. “We were gonna keep you that way.”

Eliot closes his eyes again, like he just wants to go right back to sleep. Or maybe like he wishes someone would just knock him out right on the spot because he’s suffered for too long. It can be hard to tell sometimes. “I can’t keep living here,” he mutters, like he’s talking to himself. “I’m gonna wake up one day and one of you’s gonna be wearing my skin.”

Hardison fakes a throw-up sound. “Gross. I wouldn’t do that.”

“I would,” Parker says.

Even with his eyes still closed, Parker can tell that Eliot just rolled them.

“’Course you would.”

“I bet it’s warm,” she goes on. “And then I could finally have your hair.” She’s always wished she could have Eliot’s hair. Not that she doesn’t want him to have it himself—she just wants some of her own also. She’s considered collecting all the strands he sheds and turning them into some kinda wig, but that seems like a lot of fiddly work, so she’s pretty sure she’ll never actually do it. But the thought is nice.

Eliot doesn’t seem impressed: “Gonna ignore that ‘finally,’” he says. “Anyway, what are you two yappin’ about? Do I need to remind you again that we’re supposed to be taking naps?”

“Mmmm,” Parker hums. She brushes Eliot’s hair back and tucks it behind his ear. “Hardison wanted to kiss too. We got him all riled up.”

“Mmhm. And it was good, babe. Real good. You missed some hot stuff.”

“Ain’t nothin’ I haven’t seen before,” Eliot replies, but Parker thinks she hears a note of genuine disappointment in his voice, which tickles her. She likes that Eliot likes watching her and Hardison. It’s fun to show off for him.

“Don’t worry,” she says, “we’ll do it again later.” Then she’s surprised by another yawn that stretches her jaw particularly wide. Apparently, Eliot reminded them just in time—they need to return to their plan. “First we actually do need to nap, though. Tired again.”

“You started it earlier,” Eliot says. “No more distractions, yeah?”

“Mmmmm no promises.” Parker wriggles back down into her spot on the mattress, and she opens her arms. “Alright, my boys—get back here.”

The boys re-assume their positions, and after some minor fussing to get the blankets back in the right place, they all bed down and settle in. It’s begun raining harder, more of a drum than a pitter; maybe it’s actually for the best that her and Hardison got distracted from naps for a sec. Even better sleeping weather now. She lets the rhythm of it start to lull her back to drowsiness.

“Well, my angels,” she says, “sleep tight. We have dumplings to eat later. And Eliot, you still owe me a kiss.”

“‘Still’? What the hell did I give you earlier?”

“Different kind of kiss. I’ll explain. But not now. Now it’s sleepy-sleepy. Shhhhhhhh.”

She presses a finger to Eliot’s lips, and to her delight, he nips at her skin. “Delight” because she loves biting and chewing on Eliot herself (he’s just so bite-worthy and chewable, y’know? So good between her teeth), and she’s always privately hoping he’ll play with her and bite or chew back. It’s happened before, but only when she was the one initiating in the first place. So now when he’s both playing and initiating? She could just about die. It’s gleeful instinct for her to grab one of his hands and nip at the heel of his palm in return. He growls and pinches her cheek, but he doesn’t pull his hand from her mouth; satisfied, she gives the inside of his wrist a lick.

“Y’all puppies done roughhousing?” Hardison asks. The words stumble cutely out of his mouth like he’s already three-quarters of the way back to tired.

“Uh-huh,” Parker says. She presses her teeth into Eliot’s skin one more time, just for good measure, and then she brings his hand down to rest on the top of her chest, just above where Hardison’s head is laying on her. His fingers are sturdy and strong, thick and certain. When his thumb starts rubbing slow arcs back and forth into her skin, her heart jumps. In return, she traces over the bumps of his knuckles.

“Alright alright alright,” Hardison says. “Night night, then. Or… afternoon afternoon, I guess? Since it’s not night.”

“Ooh, I like that. Afternoon, afternoon,” Parker says back. “Sleep good.”

“You guys too,” Eliot mumbles.

And then, for the last time, they’re all completely quiet.

It hardly takes any time for the boys to drop off. Parker can tell: After a few minutes, Hardison slouches against her in that way that means his brain has hit snooze and told him he could stop holding himself up, and a few minutes after that, Eliot makes one of those tiny noises like doggies make when they dream, a sound he only makes when he’s fast asleep. To feel and to hear both those things makes something in Parker’s chest settle down and curl up. Good—they’re resting. And she made it happen. She helped her boys. They were all kinds of cranky before they got to their room, and now she has them tucked into her sides and dozing.

She’s got it, doesn’t she? She knows just how to fix things. Because she knows her boys, and she knows how to take care of them. Which is funny, sorta, because for a long time she’d felt like she’d never known—and never would know—how to understand people, much less take care of them. But maybe it was just a matter of finding the right ones.

Parker takes a moment just to watch those right ones. She can do it this time because even though she’s tired, her eyelids aren’t as heavy as before, so it’s not as hard to keep them up. Eliot’s back does indeed rise and fall steadily beneath the blankets, and Hardison’s lashes do curl against his cheek; she notices too that Hardison’s hand is resting near Eliot’s elbow, fingers looped loosely around what he can get of forearm. Between that and her own arms holding them, they’re a flawless circle, all tied together. Their own little circuit just like always. Parker and the boys, the boys and Parker. No one without the others.

The image of Hardison’s hand on Eiot wobbles as Parker’s vision blurs again. A couple tears trickle out of her eyes this time, rolling down toward her temples, and she quickly wills the rest to stay right where they are. She hates when her face gets all wet, and there’s nothing she could do about it if it happened right now because there’s no way she’s releasing her boys. Maybe she could use Eliot’s hair as a towel, but that would probably wake him up, and waking him up would be unacceptable. The only option, then, is not to cry all over herself.

She supposes she can let the achy feeling growing in her chest swell up, though, let it work itself out. Which is pretty bananas that she can do that, because if she had still been the Parker of a few years ago, she would’ve tried to fight the feeling down—it would’ve been too big, too scary, too tender. Aching means you’re soft, and soft is not okay. You need to be iron if you want to be protected.

Well, not anymore. Turns out you don’t need to be iron when you’ve someone else—two someone elses—helping you watch your back. Those someones give you room to breathe, room to feel. Room to learn what it’s like to know you’re safe. And Parker does know she’s safe. As long as she’s here, as long as she’s between her boys, she’s okay. And since she’ll always be here between her boys, she’ll be okay forever.

So she lets the feeling swell, lets it make her heart hurt. It’s alright—she’s got Hardison’s head resting right over that same heart and protecting it from anything truly bad. And as if that wasn’t enough, Eliot’s hand is right there too, close enough to jump in and help. She’s alright, really. Everything will be fine.

Parker closes her eyes. She kisses the tops of Eliot and Hardison’s heads one last time, and then her hands find their hips and she holds on carefully, gentle enough that they won’t stir but with a good enough grip that she knows she’s not going anywhere and neither are they. She takes a deep breath, and when she exhales, it’s actually steady. That makes her smile.

Together. They’re together. And at the end of the day—at the end of the week, the month, the year, the world—that’s all that ever matters. None of them without the others. It’s everything. And they’re having dumplings later. Ugh. Finally, everything’s coming up Parker again. Perfect Saturday restored.

The rain’s gone from a drumming to just shy of rumbling now. And there might even be actual rumbling behind it too—has this become a thunderstorm? Oh, even better. The only weather more fitting for a nap than rain is a thunderstorm. She better drop off quick so she can really take advantage. Hastily, Parker closes her eyes and reminds her brain it’s time to rest. As if it heard her loud and clear, she feels her body grow heavier, a fog descending over her thoughts. Sleep slips toward her with a hand outstretched, and she follows it as it walks her toward Dreamland, but she keeps her hands to herself because they’re already very much full at the moment. Nice offer, but no dice.

The last thing Parker hears before she drops off is another roll of thunder. As if they heard it too and aren’t big fans, Eliot and Hardison both shift closer, tucking further into her embrace. That ache in Parker’s chest compounds. Her boys. She’s got them. She’ll take care of them.

Nothing more important in the whole world.