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They’ve been calling it “The Great Freeze.” That’s what all the headlines say. “Great Freeze” this, “Great Freeze” that. “The Great Freeze is Coming Our Way.” “Portland’s ‘Great Freeze’ is Imminent.” “Not sure what to stock up on ahead of the Great Freeze? Here’s a list of fifteen essentials.” “Great Freeze,” “Great Freeze,” “Great Freeze.” At this point, it’s nauseating. You wanna know what Eliot thinks? You wanna know what he’d call it? Eliot thinks it’s hell, utter hell, so that’s what you can call it: Hell.
’Cause if there’s one thing he hates, see, it’s being cold. Pisses him off quicker than just about anything. Cold makes his muscles hurt; cold makes his bones hurt. Cold makes his jaw hurt when his teeth get to chattering. And trust him, he knows how to bundle up for the weather, but that don’t mean he likes it. Not when it’s at this level of extreme. When it’s so cold out that you’ve gotta put on thermals, fleece-lined jeans, a long-sleeve, a sweater, a jacket, a heavy hat, and one of Hardison’s biggest scarves just to take even the briefest of steps outside? No. Nuh-uh. He’s not interested, thanks very much. Shouldn’t have to go through all that just to enjoy the great outdoors. And even then the frigid air still burns your cheeks and numbs your lips. Hell, it’s cold enough to freeze the goddamn hairs in your nose. He’ll admit that he misses his walks (his “hot girl walks,” as he’s continually begging Hardison to stop calling them), but not even his walks are worth all that.
At least it’s not so bad when you’re indoors with nowhere to go. The team’s between jobs at the moment, so him and Parker and Hardison have been holed up in the apartment for as long as the storm’s been going with only the occasional jaunt outside to grab essentials from the corner store. Emphasis on “occasional,” because you better believe he stocked up on everything they could possibly need before this thing hit. And luckily neither Parker nor Hardison have made him be the one to make said jaunts—usually it’s Parker who’ll run out. Apparently she actually likes the cold (which checks out, Eliot supposes, because she’s Parker and she’s nuts), plus she likes worming her cold fingers and toes under Hardison’s clothes to warm them up when she gets back in (and not his clothes, you’ll notice—she tried that once and swiftly learned never to do it again. No double-chocolate cookies for those who try to freeze their already-frozen boyfriend).
Well, fine by him. He’s certainly not complaining. If Parker wants to do it, she sure as hell can. That means that he just gets to spend the storm entirely inside instead of out, buried under blankets on the couch with one or preferably both of his living space heaters buried in beside him and keeping him thawed while they watch TV, or while he reads and Hardison plays video games and Parker picks at her Box o’ Locks, or while they just plain ol’ cuddle with nothing else going on. That, he will admit, has been great.
But y’know what’s not great? What’s not great is waking up in the middle of the night because you’re cold, which is what’s happening to him right now and is immediately putting him in a bad mood.
It just feels like there’s no way this should’ve happened, y’know? When he’d gone to sleep, all three of them had been tucked securely under the sheets, and he’d had a Parker clinging to him, practically vacuum-sealed to his side. He’s currently wearing a long-sleeve and long pants too, plus socks, and they’ve got their winter standard blanket-blanket-duvet combo goin’. How the hell is he cold?
When he pushes himself up onto his elbows and opens his eyes to peer at their bed through the dark, he finds his answer: In her sleep, Parker has rolled the other way and is now clinging to the Hardison laying on her other side. And not only that—in her roll, she’s also taken most of the blankets with her. At the moment he’s only got just the edge of them covering him. Ain’t that just great? Oh, and one of his socks has fallen off too, now that he notices it. Perfect. Juuuuust perfect.
Eliot lets his head fall back to his pillow with a gentle thump. He knows he should just wake Parker up and ask her to give the blankets back. And he would have to actually wake her up to get them back, because if he tries to be subtle and simply take them from her, she’ll just hold on harder. Even in her sleep she’s still the world’s greatest thief. The thing is, though, that when he’d glanced at her just now, she’d looked so comfortable all cuddled up to Hardison. Just because his sleep’s been interrupted doesn’t mean hers needs to be too, right? Right. He should just let her rest. Hardison too. They need their rest.
So, okay: What choices does he have? He could go sleep in the guest room. If he slept in the guest room, all the blankets would be his. That could be nice. That thought is immediately dashed, though, both because he doesn’t wanna give up the body heat of his two sweeties (even if none of it is pressed up against him right now), and also because…
Okay, he knows it’s corny. But he hates sleeping without them two. Unless it’s unavoidable—e.g., they’re in separate locations for work stuff, or one of them’s out of town for something, or Hardison’s once again up too late playing video games and he can’t wait for bed any longer—if he can be in bed with them, he will. He’s just too used to it, alright? He needs the white noise of Parker’s soft snoring, of Hardison’s barely intelligible mumbles. He needs the weight of their limbs flung over him because they both sleep like goddamn octopi. And he…
Eliot swallows. He needs to have them where he knows they’re safe while they’re most vulnerable. Even now, even still. And he needs to be where he knows he’s safe too, if he’s being honest. He knows that might sound like a bit much for a guy like him, but at this point he’s just had to give up and admit it. He does feel safer in himself when he’s got them two. Nothing will ever get to them as long as he’s around, and nothing will ever get to him as long as they’re around either. When the three of them are tucked in together, things are alright. Everyone’s right where they should be.
Admittedly, that’s maybe a little sentimental for something like this; he’s just chilly and considering sleeping somewhere the blankets won’t get stolen from under his nose (quite literally). It’s not that serious. They’ll be all of a few dozen feet from each other! Ain’t like they’re halfway across the city.
And yet. Even knowing that, the thought of going to the guest room puts a sour taste in his mouth. Alright, fine then. He nixes that. No guest room. What are his other options?
Feels more like “option” singular, really. He’ll just have to make the best of his current situation. New socks will be needed, obviously, because there’s no way he’s rooting around to find the one he lost—it’s almost certainly been swallowed by the blankets, plus he doesn’t wanna risk waking up Goof and Goofier by shifting around. While he’s in the closet he might as well grab a sweatshirt too, and another blanket. Or he could detour to the living room for that. They keep that big purple comforter out there because Parker loves it so much, and that’d definitely keep him warm. And if he goes as far as the living room he’d be halfway to the kitchen, which is where he could make himself a quick cup of cocoa to kickstart the de-icing process. Hmm. Okay. He’s still not being happy about being woken up by this goddamn unending cold, but this is turning into something that feels almost manageable.
Alrighty then—just gotta get up. No sense wasting more time. C’mon, Spencer, you can do this. You spent a day walking through the Siberian tundra once. This is nothing. And a-one, and a-two, and a-three—
Eliot pushes himself up to sitting and swings his legs to the side of the mattress so he can stand up and out of bed. In the very same instant that he does that, quick, agile fingers steal his wrist with unerring accuracy, wrapping iron-tight around him.
“Where y’goin’,” comes a sleepy mumble from behind him.
Eliot turns around, and as he would’ve expected, Parker looks like she’s still asleep, eyes still shut and face still tucked into the top of Hardison’s spine. Her hand holding him fast is the only thing that gives her away.
“I’m cold,” he answers in a whisper. “Goin’ to fix it. Go back to sleep.”
On the contrary, Parker’s brow furrows, her face scrunching up in clear confusion. “‘Cold,’” she repeats.
“Yeah, cold. You do realize it’s, like, basically zero outside, right? I’m just gonna go grab a sweatshirt. And another blanket,” he adds in a mutter, “seeing as someone stole mine. It’s fine, sweetheart. I’ll be right back. Just go to sleep.”
But Parker doesn’t give up—she makes a sound of protest, and when Eliot attempts to pry her fingers from around his wrist, she just squeezes tighter.
Eliot sighs. “Parker.”
“Eliot.”
Even though Parker’s not even looking at him, he tries not to smile. “What are you doing?” he asks. “I told you I’d be right back.”
Parker either nuzzles her face into the back of Hardison’s neck or shakes her head, or maybe both; whatever the gesture, it’s done in a manner so unfairly cute that Eliot almost forgets to keep trying to release her grip on him.
“No,” she says. “No go. C’mere. ’F y’r cold tha’s our job t’fix.”
Ah. Okay. That’s— Those words alone put some warmth back in Eliot’s bones. He’d never been anyone’s “job” before he met Parker and Hardison. Feels… still kinda weird, honestly. But also really, really good. He’s big enough to be able to admit that he likes a little attention like that. And anyway, even though he’s not sure what ideas Parker has about fixing the fact of him being cold, he’s pretty certain he’ll like any and all of them.
But it’s the middle of the night, he reminds himself. She needs her sleep. He should just let her rest; she needs her rest. So he attempts one more protest: “Parker,” he says, “I told you, I’m f—”
The words die in Eliot’s throat when Parker suddenly sits up and reaches for the hem of her top. He’s about to ask her what the hell she’s doing, but before he can, she strips off the sweatshirt she’s wearing—it’s one of his, actually, a plain olive green crew neck—and tosses it at him. This leaves her in just a long-sleeve that belongs to him too, it turns out: original Red Wings from when they won the Cup against the Flyers.
“There,” she says, sounding more awake now. “Put that on.”
For a moment, Eliot stares at the bundle now in his lap. Not even a second of hesitation—just gave him her clothes (his clothes? (their clothes)) just like that. He can still feel Parker’s warmth in the fabric. He’s certain that if he held it up to his nose, it’d smell like her too. It seems like none of this should hit him the way it’s hitting him—heavy, sweet, enough to make the back of his neck tingle—because none of this is anything new: Parker puts him in her clothes all the time. So does Hardison. And yet here he is, being hit. Maybe it’s the late hour making him soft; maybe he’s just gotten too soppy; who knows. What he does know is that this offer, this offering, makes something in his chest feel squishy and a little naked. And it absorbs his attention enough that it startles him when a finger pokes at his bicep.
“Put it on, cuckoohead!” Parker hisses. “You’re not allowed to be cold. Eliots always need to be warm. Otherwise they get grouchy.”
Again Eliot has to fight down a smile. “That so?” he says.
“Uh-huh. And grouchy Eliots are cute, but we don’t need one right now. Right now it’s sleepy-sleepy night-night.”
He has to admit that the woman’s not wrong—it is sleepy-sleepy night-night. Better follow orders, then.
As instructed, Eliot pulls the sweatshirt on, and it makes his heart skip a beat to feel that baked-in Parker warmth surrounding him now, covering him and insulating him. And whaddaya know: The thing does indeed smell like her, vanilla and jasmine wafting up from the collar. Under the guise of adjusting the fabric over himself, he brings it closer to his face so he can get a good whiff. Ah, yeah—that’s the stuff. God. Parker and Hardison both smell so good that he has to stop himself from drooling sometimes. If he could coat the insides of his nose and his lungs with their scents, he’d be a happy man.
A finger pokes his bicep again, gentler this time. “Better?” Parker asks.
It is indeed better. He already feels less cold (and less pissy), to the point that cocoa no longer feels necessary. And hey, since Parker’s already awake now, he can ask for the blankets back. Things are comin’ up Eliot.
“It is better,” he confirms. “Now can I have the blankets, Miss Expert Blanket Thief?”
Parker giggles an evil giggle and wriggles gleefully at the name before holding those very blankets out for him. Once he’s back in and settled, she immediately vacuum-seals herself back to his side with an arm and a leg thrown over him and her hips locked into his. As she puts her head on his chest, she sighs.
That smile finally wins out on Eliot’s face. “Happy?” he asks.
“Very,” she replies. She nestles into his sternum. “Need anything else?”
Lazily, Eliot starts dragging his fingertips up and down the length of Parker’s back. There’s still the sock, of course, but that’s starting to feel less and less important with every passing second. That tends to happen when you’ve got a Parker on you—the rest of the world fades until all you know is her. Her heaviness, her heat, her happy, idle sounds she makes, all the hums and chirps and purrs. She makes one of those purrs when he pauses to scratch over her tailbone. He can’t help but smile wider, and he also can’t help but tip his face down to kiss her forehead.
“Nah,” he tells her. “I’m good. Good now,” he clarifies.
A chirp this time. “Yay,” Parker says. And then, in that already-knowing-but-fishing-nonetheless way she gets, because sometimes she just wants to hear out loud she’s done something right: “Good ’cause of me?”
A tightness grows in Eliot’s throat. He wonders if Parker knows the whole truth of that. Because it is true, and not just for this moment—it’s true for all the other moments in his life too. All the ones they’ve known each other and all the ones that still have yet to come. Everything’s good because of her, for as long as she’s around (which’ll be for forever, according to her, to which he says: thank God).
Gently, Eliot tucks his face into Parker’s hair. “Yeah,” he says. “’Cause of you.”
Everything in his life—even all the horrible, terrible, no-good-very-bad stuff—suddenly feels entirely worth it for the way that Parker responds to this by wiggling herself even further into his side. He can feel the joy rolling off her in waves, licking at his face and his throat and the ends of his hair. It tastes like sunshine and clear blue skies, strawberry-sweet and syrupy.
“Yay,” she says again. “Good. Warm boy.” She wraps her arm even more tightly around him and squeezes his hip good and solid. “Back to sleepy-sleepy night-night, then?”
He feels like he barely needs the encouragement—now that he’s warming back up and he’s got someone to hold onto again while he dozes, he feels like he could pass out at just about any second. Amazing what a mere few changes will do.
“Mmhm,” he hums. “Sleepy-sleepy night-night.”
“Okay. It’s our job to make sure you get your sleep too, y’know, so.” She pecks a kiss over his heart. “Sleep good, my Eliot.”
There’s that “our job” again. And a “my” too. That’s another one of those things that Eliot feels like he shouldn’t get got by anymore, because Parker says it at least a dozen times a day, maybe two dozen: “My Eliot,” “my boys” (of which he’s one half, obviously), “my baby,” “my sweetiepea.” “My puppy” when she wants to rile him up and/or tick him off. (These days it’s more “rile up” than “tick off,” because there’s something about the thought of being that kind of “good boy” for her—for both of them—that makes him feel electric in a way he hasn't quite parsed yet, but don’t tell her he said that ’cause then she’ll never let him live.) Mine, mine, mine. He’s already more than aware of who he belongs to, obviously, but if he wasn’t, all those declarations would undeniably be enough to tell him. So it shouldn’t knock him sideways then, right? If he hears them all the time. It shouldn’t put him off-kilter.
Well, if that’s the case, then his insides either don’t know or don’t care—they always go all hither and yon to hear Parker say it, to hear her claim him. Hardison too, for that matter. It’s just— It feels nice to be claimed, alright? By someone good, specifically. By someone he loves, someone he knows loves him back. Makes him feel… Yeesh. Like with that want to be safe, he knows it’s probably a bit much for a guy like him—he knows he shouldn’t need this word, because he’s supposed to be the one who does it for everyone else—but it makes him feel protected. Every “my” and “mine” and “our” is another layer of armor over him, insulating him from what the world had wanted to make of him before, and what it still wishes it could make of him now. As long as he’s Parker’s, as long as he’s Hardison’s, he’s alright. Just like when he sleeps at their side. He’s sheltered here. Guarded, even. Ain’t that something?
Eliot kisses Parker’s forehead again, and then instead of pulling away, he lets his lips linger there at her hairline. He breathes in the floral notes of her shampoo, that smell of her skin that’s unnameable but so uniquely Parker. Even though his heart’s already beating slow, he feels it start to beat slower.
“Mmm. Sleep good, my Parker,” he murmurs.
Parker trills quietly, and she lets out a breath. Then they’re silent as they aim for rest.
Of course, that’s exactly when the body behind Parker’s would start to stir, the sheets rustling as that body moves. Eliot doesn’t even get a chance to wonder if maybe Hardison’s just tossing and turning because a few seconds after the rustling first starts, a low, sleep-raspy voice says, “Y’all up?”
Parker yawns big and wide. “Mmph, barely,” she mumbles. “We were just goin’ back to sleep.”
“Oh. Gotcha.”
Eliot reaches out a hand to feel for Hardison among the blankets, because now that he’s not at risk of causing any disruptions, he needs to touch his man. “You up?” he asks.
“Eh, not really,” Hardison says. “Don’t feel like I’m fully awake. Just— Somethin’ got me, I guess.” His hand finds Eliot’s, and he braids their fingers together and squeezes tight. “What got you?”
“Eliot was cold,” Parker answers. “I gave him my sweatshirt and some of the blankets back.”
“Ah. Warm now?”
“Warm now,” Eliot says, and when Parker hehehes at that, he jostles her in acknowledgement.
“Excellent.” Now Hardison yawns too. “We goin’ back to bed then?”
“Yessir. Actually,” Parker says then, like she’s just had an idea, “you should come over here. Help keep Eliot warm.”
“But I’m so comfy,” Hardison whines.
“You can be comfy over here! C’mon, mister.” Parker lets go of Eliot’s hip briefly so she can pat the mattress next to him. “Get on over here. Now,” she specifies, dabbing a smidge of her Voice onto the words.
And there you have it—unsurprisingly, Hardison’s unable to ignore the command. Neither Hardison nor him can ignore The Voice. Hardison does grumble a little bit as he clambers over him and Parker (there’s a few bonked knees and elbows in the process, and when Eliot quarter-heartedly snaps in protest, Hardison just says “shh, shhh, quit whining”), but once he’s on the other side of the bed, he vacuum-seals himself right along the length of Eliot just like their girl had, tangling their legs together and slinging an arm over his hips. His head rests on the pillow next to Eliot’s too, face tucked into his jaw, and when he sighs, it’s impossible for Eliot not to sigh with him. Don’t get him wrong—just having Parker was great. He’d never, ever complain about that. But when he can have both his loves right next to him at the very same time? He’s pretty sure that’s everything that’s ever been in Heaven. Hardison’s got even more heaviness to him and just as much heat, and while he doesn’t purr and chirp like Parker does, sometimes he makes these tiny hums in the back of his throat that are just as good. He makes one of those now as he settles in.
Parker reaches across Eliot to pat him on the arm. “Thank you,” she says. “Was that so hard?”
“Nooooo,” Hardison says. “Guess it wasn’t too bad. And it’s worth it, I s’pose.” He noses into the underside of Eliot’s chin. “You’re not so bad either, man.”
Eliot rolls his eyes. “Gee thanks, man,” he says dryly, but his heart suddenly feels too big for his chest. Hardison’s such a pill and he loves him to death for it. He tugs him in closer, and he appreciates the breadth of his back against his arm, the way he can feel his muscles play and tense as he shifts. Jesus—Hardison’s just so big. Big and strong and reassuring and comforting and comfortable. He’s perfect. He’s a dream. God sure spent a lot of time on him, huh? “You’re not so bad either,” he adds.
“You’re too kind,” Hardison says with a tender, chaste kiss to his neck.
Everyone falls quiet after that. The only sound in the bedroom is that of the heating coming on, a soft rumbly whrrrr through the vents. Parker’s cheek rubs against the fabric of her—his—their sweatshirt, and Hardison’s legs tangle up further with his. As they shift their feet brush, specifically Eliot’s bare foot against Hardison’s own, and at that Hardison makes a questioning sound.
“Lose one?” he asks.
“Lose what?” Parker pipes up.
“Sock.”
“A sock? Oh. Hang on. Lemme—”
There’s movement at the end of the bed as Parker sweeps her leg back and forth like she’s a metal detector on the beach. After a few passes, she A-ha!s, and she wrestles her leg out of the blankets and sticks it up in the air with Eliot’s sock clutched victoriously between her toes. Hardison whistles, and Eliot snorts.
“How do you do that?” Hardison marvels.
Parker shrugs with fake nonchalance. “It’s my special talent.”
“One of many.”
“Awwwwww.” Parker cranes over Eliot’s chest to kiss the top of Hardison’s head. Then she grabs the found sock and drops it onto Eliot’s face. “There y’go.”
Good Lord. The things he goes through.
“Thanks,” he says, dry as a desert again.
“You’re welcome! Are you gonna put it on?”
“No, Parker. I was gonna leave it just like this.”
Parker smacks his stomach. “Oh, don’t be a baby. Just put it on so we can go sleepy-sleepy night-night.”
“Yeah, Eliot. Put your sockies on so we can go sleepy-sleepy night-night.”
Good thing Eliot had to free the arm he had around Hardison so he could put on the aforementioned sock, because it means he’s got a spare hand with which he can pinch the bridge of his nose. “I hate you both,” he grumbles, and when that makes both Hardison and Parker burst into wild, chaotic giggles, it’s a true test of his willpower for him to put his energy into getting himself re-socked instead of kissing them both stupid right into the mattress.
Actually, y’know what? Screw it. Even though it isn’t what he woke up for, he feels like causing trouble, so once he’s indeed re-socked he goes for Hardison first and then Parker: He trails his lips over Hardison’s skin in that light, drifting way he knows drives him crazy, and once Hardison’s hiccuping softly at every touch he strands him for Parker, whom he immediately puts his teeth on, nipping at her neck until she starts yanking at his hair. Then he strands her too and lays himself back down in his spot. Ha-ha. And now to wait…
Yeah, he only has to wait about half a second for the retaliation to begin: Them two start swearing at him, telling him what an asshole he is for getting them high and leaving them dry, and then they’re descending, kissing frantically at his cheeks, his throat, taking turns with his mouth. He just lets it happen and kisses them back when he can, grinning all the while like the proverbial cat who caught the cream. It’s almost funny, how easy they are—apply just the littlest bit of pressure and they fold like clean laundry. They’re adorable. He’d do anything for either of them, and everything for them both.
By the time they finally start winding down, Parker and Hardison are both panting, and Eliot’s skin feels deliciously raw, stirred up to what’s almost certainly a bright pink by the tickle of Hardison’s facial hair and the sharpness of Parker’s own teeth. God, he hopes he’s all scraped and bruised in the morning. Is that sick? He doesn’t care if it’s sick. It’s what he wants, and desperately. And if he looks at himself in the mirror and isn’t thoroughly impressed by what he sees, he’s sure Parker and Hardison will volunteer to make up for it.
Hardison’s still breathing heavy as he lays back down on the pillow next to him, Parker a little less so as she digs her face into his shoulder.
“How’s that for warmed-up, huh?” Hardison asks.
Eliot laughs. He definitely does feel warmer now, warmer than he did before this little display. He reaches for Hardison’s ass and squeezes.
“Plenty warm,” he says, and shoot, is his voice wrecked. Oh well—nothing to be done.
“We were supposed to have sleepy-sleepy night-night,” Parker says, “and now look what you did.”
“What, like you didn’t like it?” Eliot retorts.
Parker picks her head up to look at him. She manages to hold a glare for all of about five seconds before her expression cracks down the middle and she’s beaming.
“Yeahhhhh, I did,” she admits as she bunny-bumps the end of her nose against his. “Yay for Eliot Kisses.”
“Amen, mama. But hey.” Hardison pokes Parker’s cheek. “What about Alec Kisses?”
Parker’s face scrunches up like Hardison said something funny. “Duh. All you need to do is ask, silly,” she says, and then she’s craning over to kiss him on the lips this time.
If Eliot hadn’t already been warmed up by this point, the thing that’s now happening just over top of him would certainly do the trick. If he’s telling the truth, the only thing he likes better than kissing Parker and Hardison himself is watching them kiss each other. For the most part they’re pretty equal about it, pretty give-and-take with who’s in what you might call “control,” but there’s always one person who’s got the slightest edge and it’s always a toss-up as to who it might be. Today it’s Parker: She’s the one who’s got her fingers curling around the back of Hardison’s skull so she can hold him where he is, the one who kitten-bites at his lips and presses her tongue into him and bears him back just enough to be able to loom over him a bit. And Hardison, meanwhile? Hardison soaks it all up like a sponge. Takes and takes and takes it all, kisses Parker back but clearly lets her run the show and do her thing while he focuses more on running his fingers through her hair and moaning softly every so often.
All of it makes Eliot’s head spin. Makes his stomach cartwheel too. His two favorite people in the world, and he gets to watch them love on each other. Is there anything better? No, there’s not. It’s so good, in fact, that he can’t not reach out to touch it, to feel for himself that it’s real—he just has to get one hand over Hardison’s, weaving his fingertips into Parker’s hair alongside Alec’s, and the other over Parker’s where it cradles Hardison in place. When both of them make throaty sounds of approval as he does, it turns his spine on like a string of Christmas lights.
After Parker pulls away, she sprinkles kisses all over Hardison’s face, sweet, quick things that Eliot knows from experience feel like the feather-light land of butterfly feet. Through them all, Hardison’s grinning one of his big cheesy grins, and after Parker bunny-bumps his nose too, he laughs.
“Sweetiegirl,” he says. “Love you.”
“Love you too, mister,” she says, slightly breathy. One more kiss to the bridge of Hardison’s nose, and then she’s flopping back down to the bed, right on top of Eliot. When he groans, she says, “Shh, you’re a big boy. You can handle it.”
“Sure,” Eliot wheezes, but she’s not wrong—he can (and will) always catch Parker, no matter what. Matter of fact, he might even like it when she flops onto him like that, like he’s just an extension of the couch, or a chair, or—in this case—the bed. That’s just how comfortable she is with him. Doesn’t need any permission, doesn’t need to prepare him. She knows she can just plonk right down because he’ll catch her and he’ll let her be right where she is. He wouldn’t want it any other way.
There’s also something nice, though, about the way that Hardison, by contrast, carefully cuddles back up to him. He’s always like this with his touch: He’ll slip close to you the way a cat will sidle up and brush against your legs, and then he’ll curl around you so gently and with such tenderness that it feels like— Well, it feels like he’s trying to envelop you with love. Yes, that’s cheesy. No, Eliot doesn’t care. ’Cause it’s true: Hardison holds you like he wants to envelop you with love. That’s just the way it is.
With the two of them back at his side he pulls them in close, relishing in the pressure of their bodies against his, the way they burn like radiators. “Cold” is definitely the furthest thing from what he’s feeling right now; he feels like you just popped him in the oven at 400, left him in there to cook. A man could get used to this kinda thing. Parker and Hardison’ll be lucky if he ever lets them out of bed again. Oof, especially now that Hardison’s slipping a hand beneath the hem of his shirt too. That big, wide palm is so solid against his stomach, fingers spread to their full extent. He tries and fails not to arch up into the touch. Hardison laughs at that, so he has to smack at Hardison’s hip, of course.
“Shut up,” he says, aiming for irritated and missing by about a mile. Hardison clearly hears that because he starts laughing harder.
“Man, I hate to break it to you,” Hardison says between chortles, “but you ain’t scary at all. You’re like when puppies learn how to howl. It’s precious.”
On principle, Eliot knows he should not feel all funny and squirmy over Hardison calling him “precious,” but here he is anyway. It’s not like Hardison needs to know that, though. So with an aim at a more convincing note of menace in his voice, he says, “I’m terrifying, Hardison,” and he honestly thinks he nails it, but his guy just keeps on laughing.
Ain’t that great. Y’know, some day Hardison’s gonna regret underestimating him. He’s not sure when that day will be, but… It’s out there somewhere. He’s pretty sure of it.
“Uh-huh,” Hardison says, “sure you are. Whatever you gotta tell yourself, babydoll.” Then he rubs his hand over Eliot’s stomach in a way that definitely does not make him arch up again. “Well, at least you’re warmer, right? Sure feel warmer, at least.”
Another hand slips beneath his shirt, quick fingers skittering up past his ribs since his middle’s already been commandeered.
“Ooh, you’re right,” Parker agrees. “Very warm. Warm puppy.”
If you’re wondering, no—Eliot absolutely does not whine at that. The sound he makes is a high-pitched noise of frustration.
“I’m gonna kill y’all,” he says, but as soon as the words are out of his mouth they’re out of his head and also his personal dictionary too, because Parker’s squeezing at his chest now at the same time that Hardison’s found his waist, and that’s just playing goddamn dirty. He hates both of them. Despises them. So much so that he’s sure as hell not already planning brunch for them in the morning. No way is he thinking about maybe a frittata and some pan-fried potatoes, and cheddar biscuits to boot. Nope, uh-uh. Them two don’t deserve it. Not for the shenanigans they’re getting up to right now. No way, not a chance.
Parker and Hardison never end up coming to a stop with said shenanigans, exactly, but they do at least slow their roll—Parker dials down to just drifting her fingertips back and forth across his chest instead of squeezing at it (she’s slipped back to lay at his side now, presumably to give herself more real estate to work with), and Hardison simply holds his waist with only his thumb skimming arcs over his skin. And thank God for that, because that finally gives Eliot time to breathe. Time to breathe and time to think. Once he’s swum to the surface of his thoughts, he takes a deep breath and clears his throat.
“You two,” he says, “are terrors.”
There comes more of that wild, chaotic giggling. Hardison manages to give him a “thank you,” but Parker just goes and goes. Sometimes Eliot thinks she should’ve been born into a comic book, because she’s got the laugh of a supervillain. All she needs is the creepy, mysterious hideout and the fluffy white cat she can stroke while she talks. Maybe he should get her one. A toy one, of course. She’s never one to turn down a new stuffed animal for the collection, and she’d go ham with the villain thing. He can just picture her whipping out the cat any time she wants to ask him and Hardison for something. Yeah, okay—this has gotta happen. One fluffy stuffed white cat coming right up.
“You know you love us when we’re terrors,” Hardison says, bringing him out of his feline-related ponderings.
Eliot sighs. Unfortunately, he does. He really, really does. Like, more than he ever could’ve anticipated. It’s actually a bit much sometimes. It’s a lot to feel. He finds Hardison’s hip again, but not to smack it this time—this time he just puts his hand there, lets it rest. He turns his face on his pillow so he can nudge Hardison’s forehead with his chin.
“If you tell anyone, I really will kill you,” he murmurs.
“Too late,” Parker says. “There’s a lot of things you’re good at hiding, but that’s one you’re really bad at. Like, really bad.”
Now that grips at Eliot’s heart, because this, he knows, is also true. At this point he’s lost track of the number of times he’s had someone come up to him while he’s been watching Parker and/or Hardison do something bonkers and say “You really love them, don’t you?” And not even just people he knows, like Sophie or Nate, or Amy or Danny down at the brewpub, or Mrs. Anderson on the first floor or Mr. Davies on the third—strangers have started doing it to him too. Just a couple weeks ago the three of them had gone to the store, and at one point as he’d stood watching Parker and Hardison improvise a dramatic sword fight with tubes of wrapping paper, a woman pushing her baby in a cart had paused at his side and said, “They’re yours, aren’t they?” Although he could feel he was smiling at them, he’d shrugged his shoulders vaguely as if to say Yeah, I guess so, because Parker and Hardison had just picked up huge teddy bears and were using them as shields and they looked like utter clowns. At that, the woman had shoved lightly at his arm and told him, “Oh, you can’t fool me—I can see it in your eyes. It’s the same way my wife looks at me.”
When he’d turned to look at the woman then, she’d given him knowing smile. At first he’d been too stunned by being caught out by a stranger that he hadn’t known what to say; then once he’d gotten his bearings he’d figured there hadn’t been any point in trying to disagree with her because she was absolutely right: They’re his, and he’s theirs. It’s the one thing he knows will never, ever change for the rest of his life. He still didn’t get to say anything to her, though, because the wife in question had suddenly joined them, saying something about finally finding the right kind of light bulb they’d been looking for. After that the two women walked off.
It’d stuck with him, though. They’re yours, aren’t they? You can’t fool me. He can’t fool anyone, apparently. Sometimes he wonders if he should be worried that he can be read so easily now. Then he figures he doesn’t really give a crap. So what if everyone knows? He’s in love. He is loved. He’s spent long enough waiting for both those things that he kinda wants everyone to know. He’s taken, and his two fools are taken too. It’s the three of them and no one else. Let ’em know; let ’em talk. Long as he’s got Parker and Hardison, he doesn’t care about much else.
When Eliot shifts away from Hardison to get his face against Parker’s forehead instead, his throat is tight. “Yeah, well,” he says. “Doesn’t mean you need to go around spreading it. See if people figure it out for themselves. Maybe I’ll be able to fool ’em.”
“Uh, not a chance,” Hardison says, and at that Eliot smiles, because he knows Hardison’s right.
When they fall into quiet again, it feels final this time, solid. There’s not even any idle movement—everyone’s still, Parker and Hardison still tucked into his sides but staying right where they are, hands flat on his chest or static on his hip. The only motion he feels is their backs and stomachs rising and falling against him as they breathe. God, it feels good just to be still, specifically with them. Yet another thing he feels like shouldn’t get him anymore but does anyway. Used to be that it wasn’t often he got to really, truly relax. Never had much room in his life for it. And then even when he did it was just him, which he figured was all he could expect. Never had much room in his life for it to be any other way. But he doesn’t live that life anymore. Now he lives a life where he has people to relax and be still with. Now he lives a life where he loves and he’s loved. And y’know what? If he ever does get used to that, smack him upside the head or something. He doesn’t ever wanna take any of that for granted.
Carefully, Eliot scoops his sweethearts in a little closer. He kisses Parker’s forehead one last time, then Hardison’s. “Alright,” he says. “Sleepy-sleepy night-night?”
Hardison snickers into his chest. “It should be illegal for you to say something that adorable.”
“Hey, I’m just sayin’ what Parker said to me earlier.”
“He’s right,” Parker says. “It is sleepy-sleepy night-night.”
“Mmhm. So shut your trap, maybe, yeah?”
“All you are is mean to me,” Hardison says, but the fresh yawn he says it on severely undercuts his words.
“You know you love me when I’m mean to you,” Eliot parrots.
Hardison hikes a thigh up to lay over his and nuzzles into his chest. “‘If you tell anyone, I’ll kill you’?”
That familiar back-and-forth. Something in Eliot’s heart flowers. “Love you too,” he murmurs.
“And I love you both,” Parker interjects. “Love you love you, in fact.”
Ah, so that’s how it is. This, he knows, is Parker’s official announcement that she’s ready for bed, ’cause that’s always gotta be one of the last things they say to each other.
“Think that’s our cue,” Eliot says to Hardison. Then, to Parker: “You ready for sleep, missy?”
“Uh-huh. Sleepy-sleepy night-night,” she says meaningfully.
“Ma’am, yes ma’am,” Eliot replies. Never let it be said that he’s ever kept his woman from her rest. “Well, night-night, y’all. Love you love you, punkin, and love you love you, sweetheart.”
“Night-night,” Hardison says on another yawn. “Love you love you, E, love you love you, P.”
Parker writhes ecstatically against his side. “Night-night, my boys. Love you love y— Oh, wait. One more thing.” She pokes a finger into his chest. “You promise you’re warm enough now?”
Both the question and the firmness in Parker’s voice—you better tell me the truth or else—make Eliot’s chest feel like Jell-O, wobbly and utterly see-through. It’s really no wonder everyone’s catching him mooning over his two clowns, he supposes. He’s got nothing hiding his heart. And he is, he’s perfectly warm: He’s warm in their sweatshirt, and he’s warm under the blankets, and he’s warm with both his socks on now, and he’s warm with his two personal living space heaters tucked right against him. Warm, warm, warm, warm. And safe. Things are alright. Everyone’s right where they should be.
“Yeah,” he says. “I promise.”
Parker makes a pleased sound, and she squeezes his tit in what he just knows instinctively is a gesture of both approval and satisfaction. “Okay,” she says, “good. Love you love you, then. Love you love you, my Hardison; love you love you, my Eliot.”
Again with the “my.” Again, again, forever and always. He’s never been so goddamn lucky.
Those are the last words anyone says. The heating comes back on to rumble through the vents, and almost as if it’s trying to sing harmony, a wind kicks up outside too, wavering between whistling and howling. They’ve got the curtains drawn almost all the way shut, but there’s still a little sliver of window that Eliot can see through them. Past it there’s snowflakes dancing in the swirling air, shining when they catch the streetlights. Even though he can’t feel any of that, goosebumps crop up along his arms. He scoops Parker and Hardison in that much closer.
Now that he’s thawed out, no more chill keeping him awake, he can feel sleep threatening to swallow him. A quiet drapes over him too that’s separate from the literal quiet of the bedroom. It’s a quiet in his thoughts, a quiet in his heart. Everything’s still, and he knows he can relax. And boy oh boy, will he—he can just tell he’s gonna pass the hell out, and he’ll sleep all the way through the night too. There’s not really much else you can do when you’ve got a Parker and a Hardison on the case. Merely being next to them in bed could practically be prescribed as a sleep aid, plus…
The corners of Eliot’s eyes start to sting. Plus there’s the fact that he knows that Parker and Hardison will protect him. Nothing will ever get to him as long as they’re around. And that means something to him, because maybe being the one protecting everyone runs you down after a while, even if you love doing it. Maybe you need a break from it sometimes. Maybe you wanna set down your responsibilities and become someone else’s for a change, just for a little bit.
If you’re cold, that’s our job to fix. It’s our job to make sure you get your sleep too.
Listen—if they wanna take him on he still can’t exactly say he understands it, but it’s just another one of those things he’s gotten too used to by now. Plus both of them are stubborn as a couple of mules, so far be it from him to try and stop them. He’s not sure he could even if he wanted to.
Almost certainly best to just let them do their work, then. Judging by the way his thoughts are starting to drift further and further and further apart, connected by only the thinnest of spiderweb strands, they’re doin’ as good as always. Truly, where would he be without them? Nowhere, that’s where.
Lucky thing he’s not without them, then.
Finally, Eliot shuts his eyes, the swirling of the snow outside lost to him. He listens as the heating ends its cycle, as the sounds of Parker and Hardison’s soft, soft breathing become the only sounds in the room. Oh, scratch that—Parker lets out a tiny mrrp in her sleep as she tucks her face into his shoulder, and Hardison makes another one of those back-of-the-throat noises, the very distinctive kind he does when he’s dreaming. Then there’s no other sounds but their breathing. Everything’s quiet. Even though he knows he’s laying in bed—and anchored where he’s laying, at that—there’s a feeling like Eliot’s floating. The edges of him are smudged and fuzzy; he feels like he’s seconds away from melting into nothingness. He’s kept and he’s warm and he’s kept warm, and he knows it’s safe to let go.
The thing that ultimately does him in is Hardison scooching in closer to him, bringing his heat even nearer. From there it seeps into Eliot’s body, warmth pulsing outward from every point at which Hardison’s touching him, and the power of it is precisely enough to finally flick the switch in his brain to OFF. He feels almost sun-drunk, pleasantly baked through. That warmth will carry him through ’til morning, he knows that for sure, so he settles in to let it do just that. Parker and Hardison are already sleeping deep to either side of him; after a few minutes, he’s there too.
The wind rushes outside. Snowflakes still dance through the air like someone’s stirred them with a spoon, pinpricks of white against the dark sky. The Great Freeze presses on, unrelenting, but in the bedroom of that top-floor apartment in the middle of Kayser street in Portland, you’d never know—the three bodies under the blankets are completely oblivious to the weather. Because it’s just them, see. Them and no one else. Again, again.
Forever and always.