Archive of Our Own

In hindsight, deciding to walk to the bakery was a mistake.

As they say, though, hindsight is 20/20. The forecast had been just fine when Eliot left the apartment. A bit chilly, sure, but he’d put on his lined jean jacket and one of Hardison’s beanies before he left, and he knew the walk itself would warm him up. Plus, it was only a ten minute trip to the store—he’d barely have time to be cold. And the ten percent chance of rain? Nothin’ at all to worry about. He wasn’t even gonna bring an umbrella just in case.

Well. Egg on his face. After all these years, he really should know better than to put that much faith in Portland’s weather.

To Mother Nature’s credit, at least the rain and the wind didn’t start until he was stepping out of the bakery to make his way back home. Of course, it was kinda six of one, half a dozen of the other at that point, because even though he only had to deal with the bad weather for half the walk, it was the half of the walk where he was traveling with a box of cake. Still, ten minutes of crappy weather is better than twenty. Although, maybe not by much—for fear of coming home with soggy sweets, he’d unbuttoned his jacket to tuck the box safely inside, which meant the journey back included the sharp night wind slithering past his shirt collar and down his sleeves.

He’s trying not to let it affect his mood. Is he being very successful at that? Up for debate. Seeing as he’s almost always cold anyway, the intrusion of the wind is very much not welcome, and then of course the beanie’s doing nothing to shield him from the rain—the thing’s soaked and chilled and sticking to his head in a way that’s very much unpleasant. His shoes are soggy too since he’d skipped his work boots for sneakers instead (again, far too much faith in Portland’s weather), his jeans are growing leaden on his legs, and his fingers are numb and stinging from being out to hold his jacket closed as best he can around the cake box. And oh, yeah—besides the wind, another unfortunate result of his jacket no longer being buttoned up is that the front of his shirt is starting to get rained on, so that’s sticking to him too, the fabric heavy and icy-cold.

Alright, fine. It’s affecting his mood. He’s not happy about this. Not one bit. Which feels like nonsense, because one time he had to drag himself through Venice in the dead of night in the middle of winter after getting dunked in a canal. He’d also been trying to staunch a gash in his side while he dragged himself. Clearly, he’s had worse. Nevertheless, in this very moment, that night in Venice feels about equivalent to his current state of being. Maybe he’s getting too soft, maybe he’s getting too old; who knows. What he does know is that he hates being cold, and he hates being wet, and he hates being cold and wet, so this is definitely not his best moment.

As he finally arrives at their apartment building and walks through the front door, though, crossing the lobby to the elevator and nodding at their doorman Steve as he goes, he tries to remind himself what he’s coming home to: Warm apartment, dry clothes, maybe a hot toddy if he’s so inclined. Most important of all is the fact that he’s coming home to a Parker and a Hardison who’ll be waiting on the couch right where he left them. And, more specifically, a Parker and a Hardison who’ll light the hell up when he walks in with not just the requested individual slices of their favorite chocolate orange cake, but a whole three-damn-quarters of the cake. He’d arrived at Mixed Results with twenty minutes ’til close, and while Georgie had claimed they were simply happy to give away the extra cake because they know how much Parker and Hardison love it, Eliot also suspected they were relieved to have fewer leftovers to pack up at the end of the day.

Parker may very well kiss Georgie next time all three of them go to the bakery together. Hell, Hardison might too. He wouldn’t blame them—Georgie’s cute. Not as cute as Parker or Hardison themselves, but still cute. And they can make a damn fine dessert. “Mixed Results” is definitely just a good pun and not at all a descriptor of the baked goods you’ll get if you stop by the shop.

Although… Even if he wouldn’t blame them, the thought has a green tint to it. Parker and Hardison are his two clowns. It’s the three of them and no one else, right? Right.

…Right?

Eliot’s not sure why his brain puts a small flag in that thought; it was just a random passing joke. For some reason, though, it sticks. Probably ’cause he’s soggy and cranky and this is one of those times where pretty much anything is liable to tick him off. And maybe…

Maybe he’s a little bit of a greedy bastard. Or a lotta bit of one. And maybe as such there’s something in his chest that raises its hackles and bares its teeth at the thought of sharing his people, even as a random passing joke. His “People,” as Parker likes to say with clear emphasis. And it’s true, they’re his People. His—emphasis His—People. And he wants them for himself. All those years waiting for something just like them and knowing he’d likely never get it because everything he was meant it was everything he couldn’t—shouldn’t—have, and then being stuck watching the two of them from afar and figuring that was the best he’d ever get and he had to be content with that, and then somehow two became three and he still regularly has spikes of fear that this’ll all just leave him one day. He’ll wake up and it’ll all be gone, because of course someone like him couldn’t hang onto something like this. He still hasn’t really earned it and he likely never will. Makes him wanna grip it all tighter, hold his two clowns even closer out of something like spite for the universe. Not so close or so tight that they’re trapped, because he’d never do that to them, not if they really wanted out. But enough that it’d only be by their decision that they’d go. Because the universe ain’t slipping in between them. No way and no how.

The elevator dings then, pulling Eliot from his thoughts. He steps into the car, and after he presses the button for the top floor he leans against the far wall, letting his head tip back to rest against the metal. He picks away a few strands of hair that are clinging wetly to his cheek. That thing in his chest has started growling softly now that he’s reminded it of the possibility of a no-Parker-no-Hardison future, and he tells it—politely—to sit the hell down. He doesn’t need to be worrying about anything like that. Despite the efforts of the cynical side of him to convince him otherwise, he’s pretty sure it’ll never happen, and even if it did at some point in the future, he can’t steal from today by worrying about tomorrow. Just enjoy the now, alright? Don’t go gettin’ your boxers in a bunch over something that ain’t even come to pass.

In an attempt to distract himself, he peeks inside his jacket to see how the cake box held up. Thankfully, it’s dry as a bone, not a drop on it. Phew. Amen. Not that soggy cake would stop either of them two—they’re his sweet little raccoons who’ll eat anything as long as it’s got sugar in it—but it’s the principle of the thing. If his woman makes a late-night decision that she needs a piece of chocolate cake to go with their movie night RIGHT this second or she will DIE (Parker’s words, and also Parker’s emphasis), he’s gonna make damn sure he delivers, and that he delivers good.

When the elevator gets to their floor, Eliot lets out a sigh of relief. Always good to be home, even if he ain’t even been gone that long. Sometimes he wonders if that sensation will ever stop feeling foreign; they’ve been here for years now, so it seems like he should get used to it. Somehow he doesn’t. He’s got a home—and a home that really feels like home, at that—and even more importantly, he’s got people to come home to. People to come home to. Ain’t that just the funniest thing?

Once he gets inside, he’s barely past the front door before a shout of “CAKE!” comes from the couch. If their life was some kinda wacky animated adventure, there’d be a cartoonish NNNNNYOOM sound that accompanies Parker as she races over—giggling madly the whole time—and snatches the cake box from beneath his jacket before turning on her heel and racing in the other direction to the kitchen.

“Hello to you too!” he calls as he toes off his squelching shoes. He’s unable to tamp down a smile, though, because it’s all so predictable. Parker and her chocolate. There’s basically nothing else she gets so single-minded about; the only real competition he can think of is maybe a new Glenn-Rieder. It’d be ridiculous if it wasn’t so cute.

“Hey there, big guy.”

At that greeting, a flush comes to Eliot’s cheeks that has nothing to do with him getting into a nice warm apartment fresh off a walk through a cold and rainy night. And as if that wasn’t moony enough, his stomach flips right over too when he looks up and sees Hardison coming his way. Listen, what else is he supposed to do? He’s cold and he’s wet and he feels more than a little bit like a drowned rat, and approaching him is the personification of warmth and comfort. Already his whole body is itching, practically shouting at him go go go Hardison go warm go get close go Hardison Hardison Hardison, despite the fact that he’s still dripping and he really shouldn’t be anywhere near his man and his perfectly dry and handsome joggers and sweatshirt. Eliot tries to swallow it down, to tell himself that he can wait a goddamn second, but both his brain and the command he’s trying to give it short-circuit when Hardison’s broad palm comes to cup his cheek. The touch almost feels hot against his rain-and-wind-chilled skin.

“Damn, you got soaked,” Hardison says with a frown. “We were hoping maybe you missed the worst of it.”

“Uh, no,” Eliot says. “That definitely didn’t happen.”

“Hm.” Hardison’s frown deepens. “Well, we’ll get you figured out. Hey, Parker!”

“What!”

Even with the distance to the kitchen standing between them and her, it’s easy to hear how garbled even just that single word is, which can only mean that Parker has already broken into the cake. Eliot and Hardison both smile and roll their eyes at each other.

“Girl, are you serious?” Hardison says.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Parker calls out, still garbled.

“Yeah, uh-huh. Listen, can you put down the cake for a sec and go grab some towels and some clothes? Eliot’s all wet.”

“Wet?!”

Here there would be another NNNNNYOOM as Parker rushes back in and comes to a stop just inches from the two of them. Her eyes are wide as she looks Eliot up and down. Chocolate is smudged at the corners of her mouth.

“Ooh, you are wet,” she says, like she hadn’t even noticed it before. “Pretty.” She looks him up and down again, and a wicked glint shines in her eyes. “Your boobs look good.”

Now Eliot’s cheeks aren’t just flushed—they’re burning. He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head as Hardison busts into a laugh.

“What!” Parker says again. “Your shirt’s all stuck to you. You can really see ’em.” She pats his chest, the wet fabric making a plap-plap-plap sound beneath her palm.

Hardison’s still dying, but he cuts through it just enough to say, “She’s not wrong. They do look good.” He pats Eliot’s chest too before he gives the right side a squeeze.

Kill him. Someone just kill him. Right here, right now. These two are just— They’re gonna be the death of him. He’s cold, he’s wet, he feels like a drowned rat and he’s already trying not to jump all over Hardison, and now he’s trying not to jump all over Parker too because even though he feels like he shouldn’t, he really, really likes that she apparently likes his tits so much. And he likes it just as much that Hardison apparently does too. It’s just too much, though. It’s too much. He’s a guy, and no one’s supposed to care about a guy’s tits (even though he cares very much about Hardison’s). But Parker and Hardison care, and he cares that they care, and when you’re cold and wet and a drowned rat that’s just a lot to take in, and—

“If you don’t quit thinking so hard, your head’ll blow up,” Hardison murmurs, his mouth suddenly very close to Eliot’s ear. Warm lips brush over Eliot’s cheekbone, tantalizing, and then Hardison’s (unfortunately) pulling back to smile at him. “Listen—you just stay right here, and I’ll just stay right here, and Parker’s gonna get us some stuff to dry you off, alright?”

Eliot knows he should probably answer, say something like “yeah, sure” or “sounds good,” but his tongue is currently glued to the roof of his mouth. All he can do is nod.

Hardison’s smile grows even wider, probably for a reason that Eliot doesn’t wanna know about because it’ll have his cheeks dripping right off his face. If he keeps living with these two, there’s almost certainly gonna come a day where he won’t even have a face. The sheer force of their tomfoolery will just melt the whole thing into a puddle.

Is it sick that the response Eliot’s brain immediately comes up with to that is “Well, so be it”? Probably. Honestly, though, there’s really not a whole lot to be done. It’s too late for him at this point. He’s in and he’s in deep, and he doesn’t see that changing. Ever. So, yeah—if his face turns into a puddle because of these two, so be it. Definitely worse ways to go.

Out of the corner of his eye, Eliot sees Parker dash off to the bedroom. That leaves just him and Hardison, and while he’s still frozen staring at his very warm and very comfortable and also comforting boyfriend, Hardison takes another step closer, and oh, no—that’s not helping with his concerted effort to not jump all over him. Hardison starting to take off his jacket is not helping at all.

Eliot blinks. “What are you doing?”

Hardison pauses and raises a brow, looking at him like he just asked him something in Greek. “What am I doing? I’m taking off your wet clothes, that’s what I’m doing. Were you planning on staying in these?”

Eliot shakes his head. “No,” he says. “But—”

“‘But’ nothin’. Listen, I can see the way your eyes are bugging out from trying to keep yourself right where you are—oh, quit scowling at me, I can read you like a damn picture book—and trust me, I’m not gonna let you get all over me and get my clothes wet. But we can at least get this stuff off, right?”

Well, yeah. It might be torture for his sense of self-control, so it’s a very different question of whether they should. But sure, it’s something they can do. In the end, Eliot figures they’ll have to do it anyway regardless, and it’ll have to happen right here at the door too ’cause he ain’t tracking rainwater through the apartment. He grunts in allowance and shrugs his jacket off.

“There we go,” Hardison says, and the note of pride in his voice definitely does not send a shiver up Eliot’s spine.

He catches Eliot’s jacket as it comes off his arms and hangs it up behind them, and then he reaches for the hem of Eliot’s shirt. Even though Eliot literally just gave him permission to do this, his hands shoot out to cover Hardison’s. Again, Hardison raises a brow.

“Did you forget that I’ve already seen you naked before?” he asks. “Several times. Like, ten, at least.”

Eliot snorts, but he also feels his jaw clench. Yes, Hardison’s seen him naked, and definitely more than ten times. But it’s not about Hardison seeing him naked—it’s about Hardison being close and warm when he’s so frozen to the bone, Hardison being so big and soft and reassuring to hold when he’s cranky from the weather and that dumbass thought he had about them and Georgie earlier. He’s fully aware he’s a grown man and he should have more command over himself than this, but he really is worried that if he’s not one hundred percent careful, he might launch himself at Hardison as soon as he gets even a millimeter too close. Then he’ll get Hardison soaked too, which is rude, and he’ll also never get his own soaked clothes off because his brain and his body will have both decided that this is their spot for the night and they ain’t budgin’.

Another one of those wide smiles takes over Hardison’s face. Immediately, it feels like a taunt. “Are you really that ready to jump my bones?” he asks, sounding utterly delighted by the possibility.

Okay, if no one’s gonna strike Eliot down where he stands, he’s gonna do it his-damn-self. Come on. This is just— This is unbelievable. Hardison’s losing it again, positively gleeful, and Eliot’s entire upper half is now ablaze, cheeks and neck and chest and somehow even his stomach, all of it blushing and flustered. He would just love to be swallowed up by a great big hole. Send him ten feet deep, twenty, thirty, a hundred, he doesn’t care. He’s done for. He’s ruined. This is the end.

“I’m sorry!” Hardison says as he laughs, not sounding sorry at all. Jesus, he’s wiping at his eyes now. That’s just great. “I’m just— I’m not laughing at you, babe, I just—” He doubles over with a wheeze, and Eliot just barely pushes down the urge to smack his shoulder.

“Sure sounds like you are,” he says, fully aware that he sounds childish and huffy and not giving a damn about it.

“No, no, promise I’m not. You just—”

After another few moments, Hardison straightens back up, and he chokes down whatever was left of his amusement. He’s still smiling widely, but it feels fond now, not taunting. Some of the prickly feeling that’d been growing within Eliot fades when Hardison cups his cheek again.

“You… You’re cute,” Hardison says. “And I love you.” Then his smile widens so much that his eyes go crinkly at the corners. “And I’m gonna get you outta these wet-as-hell clothes ASAP so I can snuggle you right to death.”

At that, Eliot almost whines. God, that’s exactly what he wants. Again, way worse ways to go. Honestly, that might even be the best way to go. Death by snuggles. Incredible. The Eliot of even a mere five years ago probably would have thrown up in his mouth to hear something so nauseatingly cutesy, and the Eliot of today at least still has the decency to be a smidge embarrassed by it. Mostly, though, he feels like a dog panting and wagging its tail at the promise of a treat, which is equally embarrassing, but if anyone has anything to say about it, he’ll deck ’em. A man’s allowed his pleasures, is he not? Anyway, he manages to restrain himself from whining. What he doesn’t manage to restrain is the urge to lean into Hardison’s palm when Hardison starts stroking a thumb over the skin just beneath his eye. That lack of restraint is totally worth it for the way that it earns him Hardison leaning in to kiss his forehead.

After that they make quick work of his clothes, even with them being as wet as they are—the beanie and his shirt and undershirt are peeled off, followed by his jeans and his socks. Then Hardison takes a brief break to try to rub him warmer, those strong, deft hands of his working over his legs, his arms, his own hands. It’s so thoughtful that Eliot’s genuinely momentarily worried he might swoon. Luckily Parker rejoins them before he can pass out, and he’s revived by the act of piling up his wet stuff onto one of the towels she’s brought out, so all of it can be carried to and dumped right in the washer when they’re done.

That just leaves him in his boxers at that point. He tries to protest that they’re really not that wet and he can keep them on, it’s fine, but Hardison makes such a big show of pawing at them and Parker babbles so much about “but what if you get, like, groinal frostbite and then your dick just falls off or something, that would be so sad” that he finally just throws his hands up and says “Alright, fine, take ’em off! Couple of perverts.” Horrifyingly, these two goofballs celebrate their victory by rubbing their hands together and cackling like witches. Then his boxers are off, and Parker’s kneeling down to kiss his left asscheek and Hardison’s smacking him on the right, and that’s when he officially dies. Right then. Right there. RIP.

Good Lord. Seriously, he’s gonna smother them in their sleep one day. Unhinged. Both of them. And there’s something seriously wrong with him too for managing to find the whole display rather charming. It’s appalling.

Once he’s fully de-clothed, he’s rubbed dry from neck to toes by Parker and her towel, and Hardison uses a towel of his own to pat away what little rain is left on his face and to gently squeeze the worst of the water from his hair too. By the way, he’s being literal about the toes—Parker dries off every individual one, and even gets the in-betweens as well. The whole time this production is happening, Eliot’s thinking about how he should feel like a moron. And he does kinda feel like a moron. He’s pushing forty and he’s being dried off the same way his ma used to do when he was really little and they were coming home from the community pool and she didn’t want him getting even a drop of that chlorine on the fabric of the car seats. But if he’s being honest, he only feels like a little bit of a moron, because for the most part, he feels… touched. And grateful. And warm, despite the fact that he’s standing here with his ass in the breeze.

He remembers getting back to his hotel during that Venice job and feeling acutely alone as he wrestled his sodden clothes off and showered the sweat and the grit and the seawater away. He’d considered wandering down to the hotel bar afterward in an attempt to chase away that loneliness by picking someone up—and okay, maybe he wanted some warmth too while he was sore and sour, some touch—but that damn slice in his side had quickly dashed the thought. Even if it’d stopped bleeding once he stitched it up, it still wasn’t exactly painless to be moving around, which wasn’t ideal for… certain activities. So instead he’d settled for ordering up a bottle of booze and some room service dessert and nursing both while he half-watched some spaghetti Western he’d never seen before. None of this did anything for the loneliness, of course. In fact, he’d say it made the loneliness decidedly worse.

Funny—he’s still got the dessert now, and the movie will be coming soon (Parker declared earlier they’d be watching Ocean’s 8 yet again), and that hot toddy’s starting to sound better and better, so there’s the booze. But the acute loneliness is nowhere to be seen. On the contrary, he’s nearly too not-alone, what with the way these two chuckleheads are hovering and mothering him like there’s no tomorrow.

And y’know what? That’s exactly what he wants.

He wants them all up in his business, manhandling his clothes off him and drying off his damn toes, even though he’s perfectly capable of doing both himself. He supposes he can be a big enough boy to admit that he’s always liked a little fussing. Of course, there’s never been much opportunity for it, not with the way that his life—and, more specifically, the love-adjacent part of it—operates. Or used to operate, at least. Now? Now he’s got enough opportunities to make his head spin. Another one of those things that he sometimes feels compelled to grab at and grip tight so it can’t get yanked away. If he ever lost this… He can’t think about it. Don’t steal from today, sit the hell down, thing in his chest, etc. Ain’t nothin’ to worry about right now.

When Parker and Hardison apparently determine that he’s dried off enough, Parker produces the stack of clothes she’d procured from the bedroom. Eliot’s secretly very pleased to see that it’s not solely his own stuff: The fresh boxers belong to him, but then there’s some sweats that belong to Hardison, and an oversized long-sleeve that’s one of Parker’s. And oh—there’s a pair of socks too, and they’re mixed. One each from her and from him.

Parker’s always doing that, putting him in their clothes whenever she can. They’ve never exchanged any words about it, but it seems to have become one of those things that she just understands about him without them needing to talk. Somehow, she knows it makes him feel better when he’s bruised, wearing something from each of the two of them. Because it does. Makes him feel—

God. It’s corny. He knows it is. But it makes him feel held. Even when he’s also got the two of them too, even when they’re physically there with him as well; it’s like an extra set of arms, an extra hug. Plus, he’s never gotten to be the one to wear someone else’s clothes—up until now, it was always his sweats getting stolen, his long-sleeves getting lifted. Initially, he’d figured Parker and Hardison would probably operate the same. Turns out they’re absolutely equal-opportunity offenders. Just as much as Parker loves to steal his flannels, she also loves to make him wear hers, and Hardison tosses him his sweatshirts when he gets cold just as much as it goes the other way around. And he hopes that never changes. At the very least he’s gotten too used to it, but most of all, it just means too much to him. Yeah, yeah, he’s sentimental like that. Just can’t be helped. Oh well.

Parker and Hardison help him get dressed the same way they’d gotten him naked, and once his second sock’s been successfully pulled on, the last stitch of clothing that’d been left, Parker straightens up and stands next to Hardison. They both look at him, Parker with her hands on her hips and Hardison with his arms crossed over his chest. Parker looks appraising while Hardison’s got a hint of a smile playing about his mouth again.

After a full fifteen seconds of them just staring, Eliot scowls. “What are you lookin’ at?” he asks.

There’s a momentary pause, and then—as if they’d planned it—they both say “Pretty boy” at the same time. When Eliot rolls his eyes, they both do those weird witchy cackles again. Then they’re throwing their arms around him and making a sandwich out of him, Parker jammed up against his back so hard that she’s more or less shoving him into Hardison’s front. They squeeze him so tight that his breath is forced out of him in an undoubtedly unattractive wheeze, and when their grips loosen, the sudden lack of rigidity surprises him into going boneless. He slouches against Hardison’s chest, and when Hardison hums and kisses the top of his head and Parker nips at the top knob of his spine and burrows into the back of his neck, he feels like he somehow managed to do exactly the right thing.

He gets his arms around Hardison in return, stuffing his hands beneath the bottom of his sweatshirt to thaw the last bit of cold from them with the heat of his lower back, and there—there’s that closeness and warmth, there’s that softness and reassurance. It’s like the man was made to be held, and by him specifically. Eliot’s never really been one for snuggling stuffed animals or anything (although Parker’s really trying to change him on that front), but he has always been one to enjoy having people to hold onto, and Hardison and Parker are pretty much the best people in the world for that. Yup, this is where he’s staying for the rest of the night. No question.

Eliot’s not sure how long they stand there for; he’s too woozy to think about time. Between the fresh, dry clothes and the fact he’s wrapped up between two living space heaters he’s become dizzyingly toasty, and as if that wasn’t enough, they both smell so damn good, and Parker’s doing that thing where she drags her fingertips in light, lazy circles over his stomach while Hardison hums something or other into his hair, some tune that he’s too out of it to try to place. Could they just stay here forever, actually? He doesn’t need anything else. He doesn’t need the cake or the drink, doesn’t need to sit down. All he needs is this. This is what life’s all about.

Of course, that’s exactly when Parker would wriggle against him and say “Can we go sit on the couch and have our cake now? I wanna watch the movie.”

Eliot grumbles and digs his face into Hardison’s chest. No, they can’t. They’re supposed to stay here forever—doesn’t she get that? What doesn’t she get about that?

“We’ve watched that movie, like, fifty times, Park,” he says. “It doesn’t get old?”

“What? No,” Parker replies, sounding genuinely confused. “Why would it get old?”

Eliot sighs, a hint of a smile tugging briefly at his mouth. “Never mind,” he says. “Just—” He sighs again. And he tries to say his next words at an audible pitch, he really does. But they just… don’t come out. Literally. They don’t go past his lips. Well, whatever. That’s fine—they can just pretend that didn’t happen. Wasn’t important—

“‘Just’ what?” Hardison asks.

Or they can’t just pretend that didn’t happen. Dammit, Hardison. Damn him and his frickin’ bat ears.

Eliot tries again: “Just…”

He chews on the words. Rolls them around in his mouth. Considers swallowing them in favor of finding some others, but when he tries that, that just doesn’t work either. They stay right there on his tongue, abruptly eager to springboard off it and sail past his lips. Great. Well, not much else to be done.

“I just… Don’t wanna,” he finally says.

There’s one heartbeat of silence. Two. Three. Four. Six. Eight. Crap. Maybe that was— That sounded childish, didn’t it? And his voice had said the words so small. Yeah, no, not good. Not good. Abort, abort. How’s he gonna fix this. Maybe he can brush it off like haha, so funny, just kidding. We can actually go sit down.

To his surprise, Parker makes a frantic, growl-y sound then. She also squeezes her arms tight around him once more.

“GRRRRrrrrrr, you’re just—!” She yelps, and this time when she bites him, she goes for his shoulder. She even tosses her head side to side like she’s a dog with a chew toy.

“Yeah, you said it,” Hardison agrees. “Eliot Spencer, did you know you’re the cutest goddamn thing in the whole goddamn world?”

Something tells Eliot that he should try to protest that, but he’s currently suddenly too busy melting into soup between the two of them. The fondness in Hardison’s voice is real powerful, alright? There’s really not much else he can do other than wilt against Hardison’s front and tuck his overheated face into Hardison’s sternum (man, Hardison really does have good tits. Just, like, perfect). He’s a middle-aged man, and middle-aged men aren’t supposed to be cute, but whenever Parker and/or Hardison call him as much he damn near dissolves. Maybe it’s because he’s had to be so sharp and so hard for so much of his life. Feels good to be something… smaller. Softer. Something so far from sharp and hard it can’t even see sharp and hard on the horizon.

Parker’s still chomping on his shoulder as he pools at their feet, and Hardison’s gotten a hand cupping the base of his skull so his fingers can rub gently through his roots there. It’s nearly approaching “too much”—the goosebumps on the back of Eliot’s neck are starting to feel painful after being raised for so long. Thankfully—but also unfortunately—there finally comes a moment where Hardison presses a kiss to his hair that feels decisive.

“Listen,” he says. “Not that I don’t love this, but I do kinda wanna have cake and a movie now too.”

“Yayyyyyy,” Parker cheers, the word muffled by Eliot’s shoulder still in her mouth.

“And I did tell you I was gonna snuggle you right to death, didn’t I?”

This is true. Hardison has a promise to fulfill. Eliot sighs a put-upon sigh just on principle, just because he has to give Hardison a hard time, but he also pulls back from Hardison’s chest and looks up at him. The naked affection on his boyfriend’s face makes him feel like he’s got cartoon birds twittering in circles around his head, but he’s had worse. He’ll manage.

“Yeah, alright,” he says. “Could use a sit-down.”

“Good,” Hardison says. Then, after one more kiss—another one to his forehead this time—Hardison takes both his and Parker’s hands and walks them off to the kitchen.

Slices of cake are cut and drinks are poured; Parker likes milk with her cake, but Hardison perks up when Eliot pulls out the whiskey and honey, so he makes him a hot toddy to match his own. Then it’s off to the couch, where they all park themselves as Hardison get the TV all set. While he does, Eliot can’t help watching Parker—that single-minded focus is back as she works her way through her piece of cake bite by bite. She cuts off each piece with her fork very deliberately, and when she chews, she closes her eyes and alternates between sighing and mmmmming, looking like she’s caught in some kind of dream. It’s not until she’s halfway through her slice that she finally glances up and catches him watching.

She blinks. “What?” she asks, the word garbled again by her full mouth. There’s more chocolate smudged around her lips now, and it’s so adorable that Eliot’s chest hurts a little.

He shakes his head. “Nothing. Cake’s good?”

Parker nods emphatically. “Sooooo good. Just like it always is.”

A twinge of that jealous feeling comes back to Eliot, but he attempts to bat it away. “Yeah, Georgie really knows what they’re doing,” he says. And he means to leave it at that, but then more words just tumble right out of him, like when you’re reminded of a bruise and then you’ve just gotta test it, press against it harder to feel if it still hurts: “They gave me all that extra cake because they know how much y’all love it.”

Parker moans quietly. Eliot assumes it must be because of the bite she just took, but then she says, “What an angel. They’re the best,” and he feels another twinge, stronger this time.

It’s just as unnecessary as it had been earlier. Eliot knows that Parker almost certainly means the words entirely casually. She says it to all kinds of people he knows she don’t have any kinda capital-F Feelings for of the sort that she does with him and Hardison—she says it to Sophie when she brings her an envelope of fresh bills from whatever country her and Nate were just weekending in, or to Nate himself when he finds her a job with some brand-new, state-of-the-art security system she can go nuts with. Hell, she even says it to the postwoman when she delivers her monthly sampler box of chocolates from that artisanal place that him and Hardison signed her up for. Just because she says Georgie’s “the best” doesn’t mean she’s in love with them or anything.

And yet. Eliot’s next bite of cake catches when he tries to swallow it. It takes some effort to get it down his throat. Even when he manages to do it, he feels like he needs to clear the thing to be able to speak. He taps his fork tines against his plate, and then he says, “You’re not gonna leave me for a better baker, right?”

The words are an instant regret the second they’re out of his mouth. He’d attempted to inject them with a laugh, like “haha, so funny, right,” but that sound—he couldn’t even call it a laugh, it was just a sound—came out horribly stilted. He can hear the genuine thread of concern in his voice too. Where is that goddamn hole. He needs to be all the way down in the center of the Earth, right now.

Once again, Parker and Hardison are silent for long enough that he starts to feel mildly panicked. He refuses to look at either of them because he absolutely does not want to know what’s keeping them quiet. He tries to make his hand lift another bite of cake to his mouth but he’s frozen. None of him wants to cooperate. He really needs to learn to keep his big yap shut because one of these days he’s finally gonna say something that ends things; even after how long it’s been, he still feels like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for his too-long-borrowed time to run out.

“Eliot?” eventually comes from beside him.

At the sound of his name, Eliot’s heart throbs. Parker’s the one who said it, and when he turns to look at her, her expression only echoes what he’d heard in her voice: She’s sad. Not amused, not even annoyed—just sad. He can see it in the downturn of her mouth and the sheen of hurt in her eyes. His heart throbs again at that, because he’s not supposed to make Parker feel that way, not ever. After he abandons his cake to the coffee table, he reaches for her face and cups her cheeks.

“Hey, hey,” he says. “What’s wrong?” Probably a dumb question, because there’s only one thing it could be, but he still feels like he should ask.

Parker’s frown deepens. “You,” she answers. “You’re wrong. Why would you say that?”

Eliot blinks. A tiny crack forms in his heart. “I—”

“Yeah, man,” Hardison echoes behind him. “Did the rain make you sick? You got a fever scrambling your brain?”

Hardison reaches around to press the back of his palm to Eliot’s forehead, and it’s everything Eliot can do not to lean into the touch. Instead he swallows, and he tries to distract himself with rubbing his thumb over the softness of Parker’s cheek. “I—”

He takes a moment to try to figure out what he should say. What he wants to say. He knows Hardison is being silly, but Parker’s not—she hates any kinda suggestion that the three of them might not be permanent. When she loves you, she loves you, and when she loves you, she clutches on tight with both hands. Hazards of growing up with almost zero stability. He’s aware of that, has been aware of that. He should’ve known better.

In the end, there’s really only one thing for him to say: “I’m sorry,” he offers. “Just… had a weird thought earlier. Got in my own head. Got… stuck.” He leaves it at that; he doesn’t feel like getting into the whole of it. Not now. “Not trying to suggest I really mean it.”

Parker scoffs. “Yeah, I hope not.” Briefly, she turns toward his palm to nuzzle her nose in. Then she looks back at him. “You’re literally always gonna be here, okay? You’re never going anywhere. I won’t let you, and neither will Hardison. Right, Hardison?”

“Right,” Hardison agrees.

Parker nods. “See?” She sets her plate on the table next to his and then lifts a hand to cover his where it’s still holding her cheek. “You’re our Eliot,” she says, her voice softer now. “Our Eliot. We don’t want anyone else. Ever.”

“Nope.”

“Just you. You’re ours. Until the end of the world. And even past then, probably,” Parker adds, “’cause Hardison will turn us into computers or make some kinda super-serum or something and then we’ll never die. So, you’re ours for forever.” She squeezes his hand and looks at him with those big sad wet kitten eyes that are always so devastatingly lethal. “Okay?”

Well. Okay. Okay. That’s— That’s only everything he’s ever wanted, isn’t it? Initially just in general, from anyone, and then specifically from Parker and Hardison once it came to his attention that that was something he could have from them, if he was willing to complete their little group. And listen, let him be clear: It’s not that he didn’t already know he was theirs. There’s no way he couldn’t, really, considering the fact that Parker and Hardison are always saying it. Still, it just… There’s a particular kind of certainty in Parker’s voice—and in Hardison’s too—when she says it this particular time that’s bowling him over a bit. Maybe he’s also wobbly and vulnerable to this sorta thing on account of being worn down by the weather. Whatever it is, it’s all hitting him especially hard, and he just— He just has to kiss Parker about it, okay?

So without another second of hesitation, he gets his arms around her and hauls her into his lap, taking only the briefest of moments to appreciate her squeak of delight before he’s all over her. He wants to go right for her mouth but he feels like she deserves more attention than that so he starts with her jaw instead, kissing his way from the corner all the way to her chin all slow and dragging and damp, just the way he knows she likes it. Sure enough, her next breath snags on its way in and her hands fist in the back of his—her—shirt as he works. When he reaches her chin he still opts to drag it out further, taking a few moments to brush his lips over her cheek instead. But then Parker’s abruptly making a sound of impatience and deliberately taking hold of him and moving him so their mouths finally meet, and alright, fine—he supposes he can let the woman have what she wants.

Parker tastes sweet and rich, dark chocolate with that underlying hint of citrus. He tries to lead at first, and at first she lets him, but then she’s grabbing and pushing and (lovingly) bullying him into place, and Eliot lets it happen because she’s Parker and she’s bossy and he loves it. And being good for her still counts as being good to her, doesn’t it? If it makes her happy? He thinks it does, and there’s no doubt in his mind that it makes her not just happy, but ecstatic—he can tell from the way that she makes a high, pleased sound in the back of her throat when he opens up to let her lick into his mouth, and from the way she sighs with obvious satisfaction when he obeys her gentle shove and topples back against Hardison’s chest, the change in angle allowing her to tower over him and crowd him in. By the time they finally part, she’s the polar opposite of how she’d looked moments ago: She’s pink-cheeked and beaming, and her eyes shine not with hurt, but with joy.

God, she’s beautiful. And she’s also still got chocolate all around her goddamn mouth. Before he can convince himself not to follow the impulse, Eliot brings her face down and finally just licks it right off her, just because he knows it’ll make Parker laugh (the tragic thing these two have turned him into. He loves it). Sure enough, she bursts into giggles and snorts, and when he’s done and he punctuates his efforts with one more big, smacking kiss to her cheek, she collapses on top of him and does something he can’t even call one of her happy wiggles—she writhes in absolute bliss, feet kicking into the couch cushions and her hips shifting ceaselessly over his in a way that should be unbearably sexy but is instead, somehow, deeply comforting. That’s just his wiggly Parker making it clear how much she loves him; she’s the sweetest thing he knows (besides Hardison, of course). With a sigh, he wraps his arms around her and squeezes tight, and that thing in his chest purrs and curls up when she snakes her arms around him and squeezes right back.

They take a few beats to come down after that. As they do, Eliot—now that he’s no longer got Parker’s kisses to steal all of his attention—becomes aware of his boyfriend’s presence once again. He realizes that Hardison’s hands have slipped beneath the hem of his shirt and are framing his bare waist, thumbs rubbing slow circles into his skin. Damn, that’s good. Overwhelmingly good, actually. There’s goosebumps prickling along the back of his neck again. Hardison’s also got a cheek pressed to the top of his head, and occasionally he noses into his hair. At one point, Eliot tips his head back to look up at him, and when Hardison meets his gaze—adorably upside-down—Eliot grins.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” Hardison says back. “Y’all are nasty. All that licking each other’s faces and stuff.”

Eliot rolls his eyes. “Pffft. You’re just jealous. I’m gonna get you next.”

“You better,” Hardison says with a familiar mischievous sparkle in his eye. “That a promise, cowboy?”

“Uh-huh.”

Eliot stretches up a smidge, and when Hardison meets him halfway for the kiss, his stomach does what he could only describe as a somersault. It’s only a press of lips, but having Hardison crowding him in now so close on the heels of Parker doing it herself is dizzying. Plus his nose is kinda tucked beneath Hardison’s chin at this angle, AKA closer to his pulse point, and that means he can better smell the cologne he’d spritzed on after his shower earlier. The light floral fruitiness doesn’t help with the dizziness either. In fact, when they part, he has to duck and tuck his face into Hardison’s arm with his eyes closed for a moment to try to stop the room from spinning.

“Good?” Hardison asks him.

“Uh-huh,” he says again.

“We do a number on you?” Hardison very clearly sounds smug when he says this, and it’s annoyingly hot.

“No.”

“Mmhm.”

“Yeah, we did,” Parker says. She finally pops her head up then, and she’s still flushed and beaming. “You’re so easy.” She kisses his cheek. “It’s cute.”

“Excuse me, I am not easy—”

“Y’know what else you’ve got on Georgie? Besides literally everything about you.”

Eliot tries and fails not to preen under the compliment—he can feel his grin tugging even wider when he says “What?”

“Your boobs,” Parker says with an admiring sigh. And then she dives right into them and starts rubbing her face back and forth and mmmmming like she had while she was eating her cake.

That cracks Hardison up all over again. Eliot can’t find it in him to be irritated this time. He does sigh, and he does shake his head, but when he says “Quit motorboatin’ me, babe,” there’s a distinct lack of heat to his voice. In fact, in its stead there might even be some tenderness.

It’s fitting that the act of Parker shaking her head is the exact same gesture as the motorboating. Or maybe she’s not actually shaking her head and she’s just continuing to do what she’s doing. Both possibilities are equally likely.

“Hmm… No,” Parker says, simple and certain. “It’s so cold and rainy out. Eliot boobs so warm and soft.”

Lord in starry heaven. Well, he tried. Hardison’s still snickering. Eliot swats at his cheek without any real menace.

“Shut up. S’not funny.”

“Still not laughing at you, babe. She’s just right. I’m gonna need to take my turn later after she’s done, y’know.”

Jeez, okay. Twist his arm. If Hardison wants to get all up in his tits, fine. Who’s he to stop him? Obviously he can’t let Hardison think he’s won so easily, so he grumbles and pretends to think about it for a few seconds, but eventually he huffs and says “Alright, fine—if it’ll shut you up,” and when Hardison cheers and kisses him again, with tongue this time, mouth open so that he can taste the chocolate on him too, Eliot’s brain shorts out and goes offline.

When he comes to, he finds that they’ve all shifted to be stretched out on the long end of the sectional: Hardison’s sitting up against the back of the couch, he’s sat between Hardison’s legs and leaned back against his chest, and Parker’s taken the same position with him. She’s got her plate in her hands again. When he shifts behind her, she grabs his own plate off the table and holds it back toward him.

“Want your cake back?” she asks.

Eliot blinks and shakes his head to clear the cobwebs. Woof. That happens more often than it used to, him just losing himself to the two of them like that, and it’s real disorienting every time. As soon as he has that thought, Hardison’s arms wrap around his middle and he sits up straighter behind him. The hold and the additional support help to steady his spinning thoughts; Eliot sags back against him with a grateful sigh. Sometimes he genuinely wonders if another manifestation of Hardison’s genius is that he can read minds. It wouldn’t surprise him, honestly. If anyone could, it’d be him.

“Hey, baby,” Hardison says, warm and low. “You good? You got kinda out of it there.”

Eliot nods. He’s not good, not right this second—he feels lightheaded, and there might be a mild ringing in his ears—but he knows from experience that it’ll fade in a few minutes, so he just goes ahead and answers for Future Eliot: “Mmhm,” he says. “M’fine.”

“Alright. If you say so.”

“I do.”

“Okay.”

Hardison mostly sounds like he believes him, but he also tightens his grip and tucks a grounding kiss just behind his ear, so maybe he’s still seeing all his thoughts. Far be it from Eliot to complain about that, though. As a matter of fact, on the contrary: He lets his head loll to the side with the hope of encouraging Hardison to give him an encore. And when Hardison does just that, lips lingering on his skin, sweet and soft, heat ripples through Eliot.

The moment doesn’t last for long—it can’t be more than ten seconds before Parker’s elbow knocks against his knee, followed by her reaching even further behind herself to wave his plate with his half-eaten slice of cake on it in his face.

“Uh, hello?” she says. “Cake? And when are we gonna start the movie?”

Eliot and Hardison both chuckle. Their sweet girl. So impatient.

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” Eliot fake-gripes. He takes his plate from her, and then he kisses the top of her head, smiling when Parker trills happily and does her best to scooch back even further into the V of his legs. “You got the remote, darlin’?”

“On it,” Hardison says. “Plate, please?”

Parker passes it to Eliot who passes it to Hardison, and then they’re all caked and cuddled and ready to go.

“Ready?” Hardison asks.

“Ready!”

“Ready.”

“Alright alright.” Hardison hits play, and the movie starts rolling.

Parker’s finished with her cake all of about thirty seconds in, and as soon as she’s done and has relinquished her plate once again to the coffee table, she heaves a huge, happy sigh and snuggles even further down into Eliot’s lap. She comes to rest with her head on his hip and her arms wrapped around his thigh, holding on comfortably. Well, that’s almost too much for Eliot’s heart to handle; as soon as he’s done with his own dessert, he simply has no choice but to start running a hand through Parker’s hair in return, with no intention of stopping for the rest of the time they’re sitting there. Hardison also starts playing with his hair a couple minutes later, which is nice. He tries to get him back by putting his free hand on Hardison’s knee and rubbing slow arcs back and forth with his thumb, and that must have Hardison’s approval, because his man hums and scritches at the nape of his neck.

Eliot exhales, and he closes his eyes for a moment. If he listens just hard enough, beneath the movie—and beneath the sound of Parker quoting all her favorite lines (which is most of them) alongside it—he can still hear the rain drumming softly on the roof. Thankfully, the cold and the wet seem a million miles away now. After all, it’s hard to feel anything less than perfectly cozy when you’re sandwiched between your two favorite people. Especially when your two favorite people are also the two warmest people in the world. How he managed to score that, he still doesn’t know.

He also still doesn’t know how he managed to score the world’s biggest… Well, “lovebugs” is the only word he can come up with. Cheesy, maybe—no, cheesy definitely—but true. They’re the world’s biggest lovebugs, and they’re his, somehow, just as much as he’s theirs. And it’s “for forever,” apparently, if you can believe it. Sometimes that’s too bright for him to look at and he has to limit himself to using his peripherals. Now, though, he looks at it head-on. Takes a seat in front of it, even, and basks in its glow, lets it shine through him all the way to his very marrow. Forever. Forever. He gets to do this for forever. He gets to eat cake with his two favorite people and sit crammed between them while they re-watch the same movie for the fifty-first time for forever. And that seems like such a small, pedestrian thing for someone like him to love, much less actively want, but he does both.

Lucky him that he gets to have it then, huh? Lucky him.

Just as he’s almost starting to feel drowsy, lulled halfway to sleep by the rhythm of Hardison’s hand in his hair, Parker damn near throttles his thigh as she tells him and Hardison both to look, look, it’s her favorite part! (She’s already said this three times so far.) Obediently, he peels his eyes open once more and looks, although the movie only holds his attention for a second—almost of its own accord, his gaze drifts down toward Parker instead. It makes him feel profoundly soft to watch the half of Parker’s face that he can see from this angle: There’s a grin tugging at her mouth, and that joy’s shining in her eyes again.

Okay, never mind on the sleeping—he can’t miss a second of this. He can sleep when they’re all tucked into bed together. Gently, he tugs on a lock of her hair, and he smiles when she replies by nuzzling into his leg. Then he gets his eyes back on the movie, and he lets his world fade to nothing more than that, nothing more than that and Parker’s weight against him and Hardison holding him up.

The last thought he has before the familiar story sucks him in is that he wonders if Parker knew just how right she was earlier—he’s never going anywhere. And not just because her and Hardison would never let him, but because there’s nowhere else he’d ever want to be. This is right where he belongs. This is right where he’s meant to stay.

The universe ain’t slippin’ between them. No way, and no how.