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[ I never noticed Hardison in this scene where Eliot’s getting angry about his sandwich and it’s kiLLING ME ]

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heartwcrn:

They don’t bring guns into a fist fight. At least, it doesn’t come to that with hands that steal the wind and break the grip. What’s next is a common process: the removal of a clip and disassembly. Nice try, good luck on hope for a ‘next time’. Especially with a broken rib and a lack of consciousness.  

But Eliot doesn’t come away with it clean — takes the punches Hardison doesn’t have to. Tactical motion, and an obstruction put in place; Hardison’s distracted, flighty on his feet when pulled into a situation he’s not comfortable with. The hitter knows it, understands, sees it in the roll of shoulders and the movement in fists. 

“ Focus, Hardison! ”

A growl as he feels a weight run into him, try to lift him from his place. He feels it, but doesn’t mean he’ll fall because of it. But there’s always fault here, there’s always mistakes for those caught in the heat of a fight — a lack of control. All it takes to take down a big guy’s a well blacked elbow, a knee, and a good solid punch to the nose. 

Exhale; a curl of fists and the pop of knuckle joints. He looks around. Done. A hand to Hardison’s shoulder, and a squeeze as if he’s ridding him of energy that’s too much. “ Stop that.” 

“ ---- focus. Right. I’m focused.”

Or at least, he is now -- now that everyone’s on the ground but them, laid out cold by Eliot’s precise hits. All except Mr. Injured, over here, who’s rolling around with a hand clutching at a useless shoulder, swearing fit to shock his nana. He shakes himself out, once last bounce, foot to foot -- adrenaline stacked up to his eyebrows, nowhere for it to go.

     “Told you, man. This my niche.”

But they’re not here to fight. Get in, get what they’re looking for, get out. They’d each have their own way -- Sophie would talk her way in, and someone would offer to carry her bags out for her, too. They’d never know that Parker had been there. But he’s with Eliot, so it’s the most direct path, A to B, and it’s a path that involves punching some dudes while they were enjoying a drink.

        ( Sorry, bro. He’d feel worse if they weren’t working for a guy that made          his skin crawl. )

“Basement,” he says. “Should be all the electrics down there. I can piggyback onto the shared access to install a one-way modulator that’ll ----”

              A pause. It’s a sixth sense, these days, knowing when Eliot is giving him               that look. The man ain’t listening; he ain’t even interested. Hardison could               say whatever he damn well pleased right now. Eliot would get all growly and               impatient, just the same.

“ -- reverse the polarity of the neutron flow.” Ah, Doctor Who. Classic.

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@heartwcrn ( mr. punchy )

“ I got an injured guy for you, ” he inclines his head to gesture to a man that lifts a pint of beer to his lips. Doesn’t look like he’s noticed them; doesn’t look like he’s paid attention, just yet. ( Parker’s enough of a distraction as she slides past, skilled hands well placed for a lift — two, then three ). “ Left shoulder, needs operatin’ — football injury looks like. He’ll go down easy. ”

There’s silence, and though they’ve been doing this a long time, he already knows what the hacker’s thinking. “ It’s a distinctive injury, Hardison, he’s got the — ” but just like his geek speak falls on uninterested ears, he’s having none of it, just has that look and that tempt to parrot back words.

The group’s lifted from their seats and they move to the back.

It’s an almost growl before he gestures over again. “ C’mon, ” he’ll lead, as always ( take them all on too if he can ).

He passes the door. A tap. A classic grin. “ Gentlemen. ”

WHAM!

Hardison could pretty much speak along with the words as they come out of Eliot’s mouth, if he wanted to. It’s a very distinctive injury. Of course it is. Of course it is. His haircut probably proves that he’s a club bouncer, and his shoes are distinctive enough for Eliot to say that his mama didn’t like him.

      ( Eliot’s getting fixed with a look. A look. )

But then the look turns to something like panic.

   “ Eliot --- Eliot, man, wait ---- don’t you just ------ ”

But it’s too late for that, because Eliot’s striding away, and Hardison’s got no choice but to breathe out a frustrated noise, shake his head, psych himself up with a bounce from foot to foot, head bent to one side and then the other. Warming up. He follows.

Eliot hits like a freight train, or a tidal wave. 

Hardison hits like he’s terrified he’s gonna get hit first, and there’s a reason for it. It’s cause he is terrified. Still, he gets in a good blow to the shoulder he’d been told about -- trust in Eliot, in his judgment -- and when the man crumples under it, he lets out a whoop.

“That’s right, you like that? You like that?”

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@heartwcrn

   “What?”

It’s falsetto and rising, helium-high surprise and panic plastered across his words and creeping into his face, too. Wide eyes, parted lips, a full-body retreat, three steps back from where Eliot is standing.

      “I’m not --- no. Nu-uh. Nah, man.”

Another step, as if he might be able to remove himself from the situation by ducking out the door; as if Eliot might just let him wander away.

            “C’mon. Injured guys. We agreed that’s my niche.”

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