Work Text:
2 Weeks Before Prom
Text from B to Alec:
911, can I come over?
“Uh, guys?” Hardison looks up from his laptop, a sudden, desperate look on his face. “I gotta go.”
“What’s the matter?” Sophie asks, reading him like a book. Motherly concern is in her tone when she says it, but he knows she’ll let it go if he asks her to.
Hardison pauses in packing up his things, scrunches up his face. “Actually, I’m not sure, but I gotta…” he waves towards the door to Nate’s apartment, as if to say I gotta go. Now.
“What about-” Nate cuts off, makes an impatient gesture towards the half-finished briefing, the big screens fizzling with static.
Sophie and Hardison both start to say something at once; Sophie lets her voice drop as Hardison stumbles over his words. “Oh,” he says, one foot already out the door. “Eliot can finish.” He tosses a thumb drive in Eliot’s direction, appreciating the snap of Eliot’s reflexes as he snatches it out of the air.
“Eliot will do what?” he growls, but Hardison is already in the hallway. He pauses against the wall to shoot a quick message:
Text from Alec to B:
Be there in 5. Hold on.
It’s hard to speed in a 15-passenger van, but Hardison manages it. Breanna doesn’t text him out of the blue like this. Ever. Once, she did, and by the time he got there the gash in the side of her head was bleeding all over the pavement and the SOB that did it was long gone. Hardison shudders at the memory, pushes the accelerator down.
So when Hardison pulls up in front of Nana’s, tires squealing, he’s not sure what he’s walking into. The first thing he notices is that she’s not dressed for the chilly evening. He has a windbreaker pulled around his shoulders, a knit cap on his head. But Breanna, when she emerges from the shadows, is only wearing a t-shirt and leggings.
“Bre-” he exclaims, jumping from the van before the engine’s even done whining. He pauses mid-stride, one foot still in the air, when his eyes focus on her face. A dark purple bruise is blooming over her right eye and blood is crusted to her nose. He can’t tell, but it looks like she’s been crying, too. “What happened to you?”
She scoffs, and even as the movement causes her to wince in pain, she keeps up the bravado. “I know it’s a cliche and everything, but really, you should see the other guy.”
“What other guy?” Hardison has spent too much time around Eliot. On autopilot, his hand has found the small of her back and he guides her to the bench swing on the front porch. He doesn’t have anything with him; he doesn’t carry a first aid kit on his person, unlike some people. But the blood doesn’t bother him the way it used to.
“This guy at school,” she says, and her voice is shaking a little. That’s what scares Hardison the most. Breanna never wavers. “We got in a fight and he said some dumb shit-”
“Language,” Hardison corrects, but she waves him away with an impatient flap of her hand. It’s an old habit, back when they were both new at being siblings and didn’t quite understand their relationship to one another.
“What did he say?” he asks.
“Just-” Breanna falters, and he can see the pride and the vulnerability fighting on her face. “He said foster kids can’t go to prom cuz we’re too poor.” Heat rushes to her cheeks, and Hardison doesn’t know if it’s shame or anger. Maybe both.
He sighs. Thinks for a minute. Regroups. “How many fights is that this year?” he asks.
She doesn’t look at him.
“Breanna.”
“Four.”
He sighs. Nana never had much tolerance for violence when it came to her foster kids. She knew they came from rough backgrounds, most of them, but that was no excuse to beat the crap out of other people. At least according to her. “Is Nana going to let you go?”
Breanna shrugs, doesn’t say anything.
“Wait,” Hardison says, backpedaling suddenly. “I didn’t think you even wanted to go to prom.”
A blush creeps across her cheeks. “I didn’t. But I got asked.”
“By who?”
“Aubrey,” she says, looking down at the worn wooden slats beneath her feet.
A smile rises on Hardison’s face despite the circumstances. He knows how long Breanna has been crushing on her. But it falls away as he asks the obvious question: “Did you ask Nana about prom?”
Breanna shakes her head. “Not yet.”
He knows what her answer would be, though. He knows that as much as Nana loves each of her kids and looks out for them, there’s never enough money to go around. Plus, there’s the issue of those four fights.
“How about this?” he asks, an idea popping into his head. Suddenly his mind is whirring faster than he can talk. He feels his heart rate pick up the way it always does when he sets his mind to scheming. “If Nana agrees to let you go, and you agree to not beat the crap out of anyone for the rest of the year, I will make the rest of it happen.”
“I make no promises,” Breanna says, but there’s humor in her voice and he knows she’ll do what needs to be done. Or at the very least she will try her best.
Prom Night
“Who did you say these people are again?” Breanna asks for the millionth time, seated beside Hardison as he maneuvers Lucille 3 (or is it 4? He’s lost track) through the busy streets. It’s not quite evening yet, but rush hour traffic is steadily picking up. Hardison grunts in concentration, then risks a glance at his passenger.
“Coworkers.”
“Right,” she responds, not at all convinced. She’s still in a bit of a sour mood, though most of it is self-pity. While the other kids are getting ready with their friends, going out to eat at fancy restaurants, and taking pictures together, she’s sitting in the passenger seat of her foster brother’s kidnapper van that smells like fast food and body odor.
“We’re here,” Hardison announces suddenly, flawlessly pulling the van into street parking.
Breanna looks up. They’re outside a bar. Through the window, she can see a couple people sitting around the bar, laughing and talking. The bartender laughs at something, pours a patron another drink. It looks cozy.
“I don’t think I’m old enough-” Breanna starts, but Hardison cuts her off.
“You really think I was going to bring you to a bar? Who do you think I am?” That indignant squeak is back in his voice.
Breanna points to the sign with barely enough self control to keep in an eyeroll.
Hardison sputters something that might be English, might not, and propels her around back and up a dark, slick staircase.
“Am I about to be murdered?” she asks.
“Probably.” Hardison opens the door at the end of the hall without knocking. They’re hit immediately by a wave of voices arguing over the top of one another. Breanna can’t pick out any one individually, that’s how loud they’re being.
“Funny,” Hardison says, low enough for only her to hear. “They don’t usually get that worked up unless I’m around.” He gives the room a look that seems to say really, guys? Again?
As if on cue, four faces turn towards the open door. Their argument dies in the air, leaving a sudden quiet in its wake.
A pretty woman with long dark hair gets up from where she was sitting on the couch and approaches them. “You must be Breanna,” she says.
Breanna’s not sure what to say, so she only nods. Shyness usually isn’t part of the Breanna Casey package, but she’s uncomfortably aware that she doesn’t belong here. Alec let slip that these people are wary of outsiders, and though she’s known Alec for years, she still doesn’t know what he does or with whom, and these people, they almost look like-
“Oh, good,” the woman says, taking Breanna by the hand and leading her into the room. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
“You must be Sophie,” Breanna says. It’s a safe enough guess based on the process of elimination. There’s only one other girl in the room, and Alec described her in so much detail and with so much love there’s no way she could be mistaken for anyone else.
Sophie smiles warmly. “I must admit, I’m very excited. It’s been ages since I had the chance to help anyone get all dolled up like this.”
Breanna surveys the room. Parker, the blonde woman Alec wouldn’t shut up about, is perched in the corner, watching them through narrow, curious eyes. Two men share the kitchen, a soft argument flowing between them. They’re disagreeing over something but there’s no venom behind their words. The smell of dinner in the oven hangs in the steamy air.
Laid out over the back of the sofa are several styles of prom dresses. On one end is a puffy pink dress, complete with a swooping neckline and rhinestones. Next to it is a sleek, navy blue piece with a halter top and a slight sparkle to the skirt. There’s a lacy green two-piece with a semi-full skirt and a corset back. On the other end is an 0ff-the-shoulder style dress, with a burgundy body and a full, floral skirt.
Breanna can feel her eyes go wide. She’s never seen such beautiful dresses in all her life. She fumbles for something to say, but Sophie saves her.
“I pulled out a few of my old dresses from past jobs,” she says. “I don’t like to get rid of any of them until I’m sure I won’t need them again.”
One of the men in the kitchen- the older, curly-haired one- mutters something about how she has way too many clothes, and she shoots him a dirty look. But Breanna’s glad for it. Parked under each style of dress is a matching pair of shoes.
“Do you want to try them on?” Hardison asks. He knows the team can be a little overwhelming if you’re not used to them. The argument rising and falling in the kitchen; the steady, uncertain stare coming from Parker; the way nothing really adds up if you think too hard about it- it’s all a little much. But Breanna nods, and he hands her the first dress on the couch.
“Bathroom’s around the corner,” the younger man says from the kitchen. His dark hair is tied up in a ponytail and there’s a sheen of sweat on his face. His movements are quick and precise, never faltering even as he looks up to point her in the right direction.
“That’s Eliot,” Hardison supplies, earning himself a half-hearted glare from the man in question.
Breanna hefts the huge pink skirt into the tiny bathroom. She’s not sure how to handle so much material and eventually ends up climbing into the thing from the top. She stands up, holding the back of the dress closed with one hand, and looks at herself in the mirror.
No.
“We don’t get to see?” Hardison complains the second she emerges from the bathroom, the putrid pink thing draped over one arm.
“Nobody should have to see that,” she says, a small, embarrassed smile creeping onto her face.
“Here, try this one,” Sophie says, handing her the green two-piece. “It’s one of my favorites.”
Breanna obliges, though she’s not sure how she feels about a two-piece prom dress. Beggars can’t be choosers, she thinks to herself as she slips the fabric over her head and lets it fall around her body. She risks a glance in the mirror. Not as bad as last time, but she would really like to try on the blue one.
Breanna shrugs out of the second dress, folds it neatly over her arm. By now the clanging and arguing that was coming from the kitchen has nearly subsided. Both men have a drink in their hands and they’re sweeping crumbs from the countertops and loading the fancy, high-tech dishwasher.
“Can I try one more?” she asks quietly.
“Of course,” Sophie assures her.
Breanna takes the blue dress from the back of the couch. It’s made of soft, cool material and it makes a soft rustling sound when she moves it.
In the bathroom she knots the straps behind her neck and lets the extra fabric fall down her back. The dress is cool against her bare skin. She looks in the mirror.
The bruises on her face are nearly faded and that cut on her temple Alec patched up is nothing more than a thin line. If she squints she can’t see them at all. The dress has a high halter neckline that sits perfectly against her collarbone and shows off her toned, tan arms. Her braids fall down her back, tickling her exposed skin where the fabric of the dress falls away. The skirt is lightly pleated, falling to the floor and pooling over her feet. With shoes on it will be the perfect length. She lets herself out of the bathroom.
“Damn, girl,” Hardison exclaims, his voice rising an octave. Or two.
“Language,” she corrects.
“That dress is perfect,” Sophie exclaims, and Breanna can’t help but agree. “Here’s the shoes that go with it.” Sophie hands her a pair of low silver heels. She takes them though she knows she’d break her ankle if she tried to wear them.
“Food’s almost ready,” Eliot announces from the kitchen.
Suddenly, Parker is standing beside her, pulling on her arm. Breanna throws a look towards Alec, but he’s talking with Eliot. Something about the vegetable-to-dessert ratio of their meal. So she shrugs and allows herself to be pulled down the hall and into a small storage closet.
“Here,” Parker says, thrusting a pair of shoes into her hands. The shoes are all black, converse-style with silver eyelets. They smell brand new.
“Thank you,” Breanna says. She pulls the tongue of one out to check the size; they’re exactly right.
“You can’t move in those things,” Parker says, wrinkling her nose and gesturing towards the heels Sophie had given her.
A sheepish grin creeps across her face. “I didn’t want to say anything, but I couldn’t walk in these.” Even though the heels are low, Breanna’s walking-in-heels-skills are nil.
“Neither can I,” Parker says. And just as suddenly as she appeared by Breanna’s side, she’s gone. Alec warned her about that.
Breanna heads back into the bathroom to change out of the dress. She doesn’t want to risk staining it. Or worse. As she slips back into her oversized sweatshirt and jeans, she hears a knock on the door.
“Just a second!”
It’s Sophie on the other side, armed with a makeup bag and all the skills Breanna lacks.
“A lot of my products won’t match your skintone, but luckily you don’t need much.”
Breanna isn’t sure what to say to that, so she just looks down at the dress in her arms.
“Sit,” Sophie says, gesturing towards the lip of the bathtub. She flips a switch near the vanity and a bright light blinks on.
“Geez,” Breanna exclaims, shielding her eyes. It’s like staring into the sun.
Sophie smiles. “Eliot put that in when he got tired of trying to patch us up in sub-par lighting.”
“Patch you up?”
“Some of us tend to get hurt a lot,” she says, and unzips the makeup pouch.
True to her word, Sophie doesn’t need much makeup at all. A little eyeliner, a dab of mascara, and some lip gloss, and Breanna’s prom-ready. She stands from the lip of the tub and hazards a look in the mirror.
“Damn,” she says under her breath, then she swears she can hear Alec scold her for her language from the other room.
“Food’s ready,” Eliot announces from the kitchen. Nate- the curly haired guy from the kitchen- sets a plate in front of each chair while Parker pours drinks in the kitchen and brings them two at a time to the table. Eliot sheds the apron and arranges their dinner on a large serving platter.
As she sits down to dinner with Alec’s “coworkers,” Breanna wonders how she could have started this evening feeling sorry for herself. The food is delicious, and though her head is spinning trying to follow the convoluted, animated story Parker’s telling, it doesn’t matter. She feels beautiful for the first time in a long time, and she can’t wait to meet Aubrey at the prom.