#could take place before or after Hardison gets stuck in space

[reinanova]

Consider:

Harry walks in on Parker kissing Eliot to comfort him (or vice versa) and he backs out of the room in a panic because this poor precious child is unaware of polyamory and the leverage OT3. So, in support of the Bro Code, he goes to Breanna and asks her to send a message to Hardison so he can talk to him.

Now Breanna, the wonderful little sis she is, asks Harry what’s so important that he feels the need to contact Hardison immediately. So Harry confesses that he just saw Parker cheating on Hardison with Eliot and that he needs to tell Hardison about it.

You cannot tell me that Breanna, our gay ace gen Z icon, is not aware of her brother being in a polyamorous relationship. And okay yes, maybe she “accidentally” found evidence of their relationship when she “accidentally” hacked into their phones but that’s hardly her fault. That was just the proof for her suspicions.

Back to Harry. Breanna is just holding back laughter at Harry’s obliviousness and of course she’s here for the drama (and listening to Hardison rant about the interruption) so she sets up a video call with Hardison, secretly sharing the video screen to the room Eliot and Parker are in.

So Hardison shows up on the call, visibly busy with lots of chaos and going ons behind him and is all, “Breanna, what’s wrong?”

And then Harry is all, “Hardison, I gotta tell you something” and tells him what he saw and is very apologetic that he’s informing Hardison that his girlfriend is cheating on him.

Hardison stares into the camera like he’s on The Office, visibly annoyed before going “Really man? Really??? You interrupt me while i’m dealing with [lists like five things he’s got going on right now] for this?”

And then turns to Breanna and says, “You let him call me for this?”

And she gives no fucks about it and just shrugs and is all “I thought it would be funny.”

Now Harry is growing more and more confused and he’s like, “Umm excuse me, are we just ignoring the whole girlfriend cheating on you thing?”

At this point, Parker drops in from the ceiling or something behind Harry and is like, “It’s not cheating when they’re both my boyfriend.”

And Eliot also pops up and says, “I should hope I’m able to kiss my girlfriend when our boyfriend isn’t around to kiss us.”

After Harry recovers from his mini heart attack after getting startled twice by Parker and Eliot, he’s like, “Cool, cool. Wait, what??”

But Eliot and Parker have already wandered off and Hardison is distracted with his stuff and Breanna shrugs at Harry before picking up her laptop and leaving to go catch up with Hardison while she has him on the call. So Harry is left standing there in confused but supportive spirit.

[be-gay-do-heists]

OKAY finally finished with eliot hand pain hurt/comfort fic, and i couldn’t actually decide whether i preferred it in second or third person POV. this is the version with the third person POV, otherwise nothing is different from the other version !

------

Contrary to what the four crazy people he spent his time risking his life for nowadays thought, Eliot didn’t like the pain.

There was nothing cleansing about it, nothing satisfactory. A ringing hit to his jaw didn’t feel like penance. The actual protection aspect was a different story. Standing like a wall between your people and danger, there was nothing that made Eliot’s ribs ache with pleasure like that; a wall didn’t feel, didn’t think, it was just an immutable fact. He was an immutable fact. The problem was that the wall-as-Eliot, or perhaps the Eliot-as-wall, had to become human again sometime after the last man went down and the last dollar bill was stuffed into a duffel. To hurt was human, and not just to hurt but to remember the wound long, long after, for it to live in your knees and wrists and between the vertebrae in your spine. Some days— and this was a product of how long after a job it had been, how hard he had pushed—some days were worse than others. The fact that some days the first sound out of his mouth wasn’t even a groan, but a whine, or worse the half-awake pleading for please please make it stop i’ll do anything just make it stop—

No, Eliot didn’t like the pain.

Comparatively, today was a good day. Today, he could get out of bed. His head and body were blessedly in agreement that it was in his best interests to swing his twinging knees to the side of the mattress, push himself up onto legs that were sore but stable, with arms that shook only slightly. But compared to Eliot’s best days, the ones where except for the old shoulder injury which would never let him forget it and the scar on his hip that put a falter in his giddy-up in all kinds of weather, the days on which except for those he sometimes even forgot the pain, this didn’t hold a candle. Today his hands were so beat and weak that the ache radiated up to his mid-forearm, settled into him all familiar-like and made its home in him.

In the bathroom, Eliot used his wrist to turn on the faucet and stuck his mouth under the water to drink. Holding a cup was off the agenda. His morning routine was interspersed with winces, not unusual for his post-job bathroom adventures, and if it took Eliot longer to shimmy on the sweats he knew he wouldn’t be getting out of today, it made him appreciate the comfort of wearing them a little more.

Going handless was fine until he was face to face with the fridge, and resisting the urge to growl at it, like that would solve anything. Taking a deep breath, he put a hand on the stainless steel handle, testing his grip. A light flex had Eliot drawing it back like the metal had burned him, like someone had snapped a tight clothespin onto each ligament. He took a moment to pace a couple steps, let out a loud but cathartic expletive, and then wedge his hand between the handle and the door so he could open the fridge with his elbow strength. The feeling of triumph behind his collarbone faded quickly as the hitter scanned its contents and realized there was nothing he wanted to eat, or at least nothing he wanted to hold and eat. The thought of grasping a fork brought another growl to his throat, and he slammed the fridge door to stomp to the couch and throw himself down, cradling his hands in his lap.

Eliot knew the drill: in an hour, he would grit his teeth and get to up to try and fumble open his bottle of painkillers, and if he succeeded, he would wait another hour for them to truly kick in so he could handle the tv remote, put on whatever game was on, and vegetate on the couch until further notice. The phone he had left on the nightstand rang loudly, fully audible from the other room, blaring out the chorus to “Macho Man” that Hardison had put as his ringtone and Eliot hadn’t figured out how to get rid of yet. If it was important, whoever it was would call again, so he ignored it. His ire rose when the same noise sang out from the bedroom a couple minutes later, a bit-off groan escaping from his clenched teeth as he levered himself up to get to it as fast as he could, awkwardly accepting the call and maneuvering the phone between his shoulder and ear. “What?”

“Man, we haven’t heard from you since we split yesterday, I thought we were gonna get a beer downstairs last night?”

He rubbed his eyes with his wrist, frustrated that he had forgotten he was supposed to get together with Hardison the night before. Getting home, washing the sweat and blood off, and falling into bed had seemed like the only goal in his mind. “Look, sorry, I’ve been busy. And if this ain’t important, you—“

“Bullshit. Absolute bullshit, you’re using your tough-guy, bullshit voice. And you actually apologized, so something is double wrong.”

Eliot snarled. “I don’t have— Hardison, I don’t know what you’re talking about, just leave me alone.”

“Too late, we’re already at your place.”

Before he could open his mouth, his doorbell rang, drawing a groan from him. If he was correct about who the “we” was, it seemed silly to even ring it. His suspicions were confirmed thirty seconds later as the door clicked open anyways and Parker and Hardison came in, having the decency to at least look slightly sheepish. Eliot had already moved back to the couch, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. “Make yourself at home, why don’t you,” he growled.

“Excuse us for being worried about your wellbeing, Mr. Suffer-In-Silence,” Hardison scoffed.

Parker leapt onto the couch cushion next to him. “We thought you might have been captured by ninjas.”

“You would know if I had been captured by ninjas,” Eliot muttered. “It’s a very dis— look, you’ve seen that I’m not kidnapped, it’s our day off, can you please leave and let me rest.”

“You still owe us a hangout from last night!” Parker chirped. “Don’t worry, we won’t stay long.” She vaulted back over the couch to go rummage through his snack cabinets, getting into the granola bin by the sound of it. Eliot made a note to restock it before she came back next.

When he next opened his eyes, Hardison was lightly sitting on his coffee table, looking at the hands still resting in the hitter’s lap. “What’s up with your hands, Eliot?”

Eliot’s first instinct was to deflect. He trusted his team, sure, but this was different. They weren’t supposed to know that he had these days. That he wasn’t invulnerable. “Nothing’s wrong with them, stop sitting on my coffee table.”

“Mhm mhm, sure,” Hardison said. “Go like this for me?” He wiggled his fingers in a “hey sailor” kind of fashion. Before Eliot could tell him just what he thought about that, Parker’s ponytail swung into the side of his face, the thief reaching down to poke one of his hands faster than he could stop her.

By the time Eliot was able to refocus and pull himself back from the whiteout of pain, Parker and Hardison were looking at him with open concern, the hacker leaning back slightly, a little pale. Eliot thought he might have howled; he wasn’t sure. Both his hands were clenched tightly to his chest, wrists together, arms outward, wishbone shaped. He felt just as brittle as one, with their stares on him. He summoned the anger from his throat, the only weapon at his disposal (only half-expecting that it would work, always defenseless when it came to their prodding).

“Can you leave me the hell alone now?”

Hardison looked at him, taking his time formulating his thoughts, but it was Parker who spoke. “Nope.” Eliot turned to her where she was perched on the couch. “You get hurt taking care of us. Now you let us take care of you.”

Eliot looked at Hardison pleadingly, hoping he at least would take pity on him and let him wallow by himself. The hitter wanted to hide like the trap-escaped, half-dead badger whose den he had accidentally put his foot into half a lifetime ago in the Italian Alps, earning him an earful of hissing that scared the shit out of him. He wondered if he seemed as belligerent as that now.

Hardison just shrugged and smiled gently. “Hey, you heard the woman.” He leaned forward slightly, just enough in Eliot’s space to let him feel his warm presence without crowding. “Couldn’t get rid of us if you tried.”

He didn’t want to try, was the thing. It was only that it wasn’t their job to take care of him. It was his to take care of them. They just seemed to be wholly unaware of this.

“You taken anything for those yet?” Hardison asked, pointing at his hands. He hummed at Eliot’s slight head shake. “Thought so. Which ones?”

“White bottle, red pills. Only need a half,” Eliot mumbled, slouching. Parker was already up and heading to the bathroom.

“We need to get something you can actually open when this happens, some kind of spring-loaded catch maybe,” Hardison mused. “Alright, let me see them.” He patted his legs, frowning at Eliot’s growl. “C’mon, none of that. I know they hurt, I’ll be really, really gentle. I won’t even touch without asking.”

Eliot looked him in the eye for the sincerity he already knew would be there, the eagerness to help that (damn him) was one of his favorite traits of Hardison’s. Hesitantly, he extended his hands, rolling his eyes at the hacker scooting forward to offer his knees to rest them on.

“I assume you got antiseptic and ointment on these knuckles already, so totally disregarding those, even though it sucks. Nothing broken?”

“No, just. Aches. Like a son of a bitch. Can’t make a damn fist. Happens sometimes.”

Parker bounded back in, armed with a glass of water and half a pill in her open hand. “So no jobs for a while. Easy, I’ll tell Nate. Open up.” With a scowl, Eliot took the medication from her fingers with his teeth (gently, gently), and let her raise the glass to his lips, nearly choking as she tipped it a little eagerly, and choking for real when Hardison said, “Whoa, woman, let him swallow.”

“It’s not just the last job, Park, it’s jobs two years ago, or five, or ten,” Eliot managed, once he had his breath back. “Part of the package that comes with the lifestyle. It just happens sometimes, don’t matter what schedule we’re on.”

She frowned. “Still. We shouldn’t be doing jobs if you’re hurt. Nate should know that.”

Hardison leaned forward a little more while he was distracted trying to find the right response to that, that they wouldn’t be doing any jobs at all if that were the case, that Nate trusted him to get the job done no matter what, reaching out to his forearm and stopping just a hair’s breadth shy of touching. The hitter froze, and Hardison did too, meeting his eyes. “It’s ok. I’m just trying something out. Is it alright if I touch you here?” At his tiniest of nods, the hacker placed his fingertips on his arm, rubbing circles so lightly that Eliot almost couldn’t feel it. “Let me know where it starts to hurt, okay?” Hardison applied the slightest pressure as he added his other hand and lightly started rubbing down his forearm. When he got to his wrist, Eliot couldn’t help the strangled noise that partly escaped through his nose, high and strained. Hardison moved away from there immediately, going back to tracing soothing, gentle patterns. “You’re ok, you’re ok. I can work with this, no problem. Where do you keep your hot pads, man?”

“Bathroom, lower right drawer,” Eliot grit out. Parker was zipping off to get it and warm it up before he could even process. Hardison applied a little more pressure with his fingertips, rubbing the meat of his forearm. Eliot breathed out long and slow at how good it felt once the initial ache had ebbed.

“I want to try giving you a hand massage, but I don’t wanna hurt you more than it would help,” Hardison said, pausing slightly. “You up for it? I’m not gonna pressure you either way.”

Eliot’s thoughts stuttered, and then bolted in different directions. The feeling that he didn’t deserve this, that this was too much to ask, which had been simmering this whole time leapt to life again. It joined with the wounded, snarling animal part of him that still wanted to hide, burrow down with the covers over his head until his pain faded into the muted background noise of the world. He didn’t even know if a hand massage would work, might make the pain worse.

But it might be nice, a small, hopeful part of him murmured. Eliot couldn’t remember the last time he had been offered something like this, let alone the last time he had taken the person up. If there was anyone he trusted to do it, if there was anyone he wanted to receive it from, it was these two. How could he refuse them even he wasn’t fully on board with what they were suggesting?

“Sure, just…” Eliot said as Parker returned with the hot pad, pausing from tossing it hand to hand like a hot potato to fix her stare on him. He licked his lips, swallowed around a dry throat. “Just be gentle.”

“I will,” Hardison said earnestly, taking the hot pad from Parker to gently maneuver it under Eliot’s hands, resting on his knees. Eliot tensed slightly as the thief leapt up onto the back of the couch, perching above his head, but otherwise relaxed as the warmth of the hot pad started to loosen the ache in his hands. Hardison started where he had before, applying the slightest pressure to the hitter’s forearm. Parker ran her fingertips lightly through his hair, humming.

“Your hair is kinda wonky,” she said, fingers catching on a tangle. Eliot winced.

“That’s what happens when you go to bed without brushing it properly, you know that,” he grumbled, breath hitching as her fingertips grazed his scalp. His breath stuttered again as Hardison’s hands started working towards the sore meat of his wrist. Eliot’s hand began to shake.

“It’s ok baby, I got you,” Hardison murmured under his breath, more soothing sound than words. Eliot cracked open an eye to see him looking between his hands and his phone, playing a video where it was propped on his thigh.

“Man, are you watching hand massage tutorials right now?” he gritted out, doing a poor job of masking his genuine amusement with frustrated disbelief.

The hacker tapped his index finger against Eliot’s arm lightly. “I’ve been watching videos dude; think you’re so slick, tryna hide your hand pain from me. I just wanna make sure I get it right in real time.”

Parker’s fingers running through Eliot’s hair more boldly silenced any follow-up thoughts he had, mind going fuzzy with how good it felt. Without thinking, he insistently pushed his head up further into her touch, making her laugh. The sound reverberated in his chest, leaving him longing to hear it again. Instead a half-whine left his throat as Hardison probed the bottom of Eliot’s palm, the ache drawing him back to full awareness.

The hacker backed off for a moment. “Sorry, sorry. You still cool to keep going?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Eliot breathed shakily.

“Just tell me if there’s anyplace else that needs to be handled more delicately, or you don’t want me going at all,” Hardison said, putting his clever hands to Eliot’s again and taking up his gentle, slow pace. Parker’s fingers had paused in his hair a second, but went back to running through it again, scratching his scalp on every other pass.

Slowly, slowly, the vice of pain on Eliot’s hands started to dissipate, bone by bone, finger by finger. He don’t know how long he sat there in a haze, as Hardison and Parker patiently touched him, fixated on the single task of caring for him. The thought made the tender space behind his breastbone twinge. When he surfaced from the half-asleep contentment of their efforts, the television was on, Star Trek playing at the lowest volume. Eliot grunted, lifting his head from the couch to look at the two of them sitting beside him, grinning at his movements. Hardison’s warm hand was still in his, but instead of massaging he was just holding it softly.

“Hey sleepy,” teased Parker, throwing herself over Hardison to get closer and forcing an “Oof!” out of him.

Eliot looked down to his hands, flexing one experimentally, in disbelief at how the ache had faded to an almost imperceptible hum. With the other he tightened his fingers around Hardison’s hand, moving his thumb lightly over his.

“Hey,” Eliot simply said back, a real smile rising to his lips.

[kaniacqueen]

Leverage International: The Diner Job Ch. 13 Smooth Jazz and Acoustic Strumming

“How about a drink, Paul?” Yavetz asked as the last of the customers for the evening trickled out. Eliot glanced toward the kitchen window to see Savannah working away at cleaning up the kitchen with Stella and Alessandro. He took a moment to himself to appreciate her. The amount of focus she put in in the most menial tasks, like scrubbing pans, as she pushed a stray lock out of hair behind her ear, that stray lock that got more and more unruly as time passed.

“No, Kilmer, I’m staying in with my lady tonight.” Eliot dismissed the look of contempt Yavetz gave him as he vacated his chair. “See you at the party tomorrow night.” The reminder seemed to appease Yavetz, and he bowed out. 

Eliot glanced over at Hardison. “Don’t worry, her com is disconnected,” Hardison whispered. Eliot subtly pumped his fist as he helped Hardison pull a box out from under one of the covered tables. “Stella and Alessandro have her covered in the kitchen?” Hardison asked. Eliot glanced up to make sure Savannah was indeed focused on the kitchen and not the dining room. He nodded. 

Just like that, the table was set for a romantic candle-lit dinner. Hardison finished off by plugging in a set of speakers. “Just hit ‘play’ on your phone when you're ready.”

“Thanks, man.”

“You’re welcome.” Hardison saluted, shucked off his apron, grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. “Now, I'm going to go try another video game night with Parker. Maybe this time I won't get hit in the head with a controller.”

“I wouldn't count on it,” Eliot quipped as the door closed. He stuck his head through the kitchen door. Stella made sure Savannah didn’t notice as Alessandro brought him two hot plates of seafood pasta accented with mussels and truffle oil. He slipped the young man a couple of large bills. “You guys are great. Split that and call it a night.” Alessandro bowed his head gratefully and signaled to Stella to make her exit.

Eliot placed the hot dishes under domes on the table and slipped back into the kitchen. Savannah was still in her own head space. He slid himself behind her as she furiously scrubbed a pan. He put his hands over hers and removed the coarse sponge. He took a few pumps of hand soap and slid it over her skin. She didn’t react to his presence or actions outside a deep sigh and untensing of her shoulders. Then she began to play with his soapy hands as he played with hers. With so many boundaries, a mundane act like hand-washing could become intimate. 

He leaned in close to her ear. “It didn’t used to be so easy to distract you.”

“I guess I just feel safe with you around,” she said just audibly. 

“Good. You should,” he assured her. She raised up on her toes and kissed his cheek. He wanted to tell her that it wouldn't change if things ended between them, but he didn't want to plant the seed that it would really be okay if things ended. 

After hands were rinsed and dried, she asked. “So why did you need me distracted?” It was genuine curiosity; she hadn’t caught on. He took her hand and pulled her into the dining room. “What is all this?” she asked. 

He placed himself behind her, caressing her arms. “I know we spend a lot of time together, but it’s hard to focus on just us with the job and the team and everything. I know that you're working through some stuff, and I wanted to tell you, without words, that whatever it is, I’m willing to work through it, too.” He pulled closer and said right in her ear. “I love you, Savannah.”

He felt her shudder. “I love you too, Eliot,” she said, voice breaking, followed by a sniffle. 

“Hey, no. You’re not supposed to...This wasn't--”

“I know.” She took a deep breath to compose herself. “I know this wasn’t easy for you from the beginning. And I haven't made it any easier. You need to know that it means the world to me that you keep trying. And one day I’m going to--”

“Food’s getting cold...And don't worry about one day. Just tonight. Just us. Enjoy it.” He pulled out her chair. As she sat down, he hit ‘play’ on his phone, and smooth jazz played softly through the speakers. He sat down and removed the domes from the dishes. 

“Mmm,” she admired. And that was all he needed. “Jazz, huh?” she mused before taking a large forkful of pasta.

He reached for his phone. “I can change it.”

She shook her head and quickly swallowed. “No, it's nice. It's just not what I’d assume you would pick.”

“What did you expect?” he asked before following with his own forkful. 

“Acoustic strumming,” she answered. He shrugged. It was valid. “I mean, yours would be better, she added, taking another bite. She said it so quietly, almost like she wasn’t even sure if she wanted him to hear. She had been doing that a lot. 

“You’re adorable,” he returned at the same volume, but she had definitely heard him. Even in the dim light, he saw her skin flush. He let the invited silence set in. 

“What do you get out of this?”

He choked briefly. “What...what are you talking about?”

“I...you...Nevermind.” She shook her head and stabbed around the dish for another bite. 

“Savannah.”

She chewed and swallowed deliberately. “You...You’re an amazing chef, a musician on occasion, and an unbelievable fighter. I just have to wonder what I have to offer besides a serious case of blue balls.”

Eliot legitimately had to recover from that one. With her past habits of dancing around words or not using them at all, she sure had timing when it came to being direct. “You don’t have to answer,” she added weakly. There she was. 

He didn’t answer immediately. Partly because he wanted to torture her, a little revenge for whatever she was withholding from him. But he also needed to think about his answer. Not because she asked a difficult question, but because he had to consider wording. This was a rare time Savannah needed words.

She jabbed at her plate, frantically taking in forkful after forkful. He gave it another minute and took her hand to still the fork. “It’s always been a struggle to find someone who could deal with the life I live, with the team, with the fact that the job was a priority. You get that. You’re a part of it. You struggle with balancing,and the fact that it’s not always cut and dry. You don’t need me, not the way Hardison and Parker do, but you still need me. And you challenge me in a fight, which is damn near impossible. The fact the you find me an unbelievable with your skills, it’s flattering. I almost wonder if you’re just stroking my ego.”

She shook her head and intertwined her fingers with his. “No. You make me sweat, and you don’t have the help of some mad scientist steroid cocktail.”

He found himself staring at two hands that had done immeasurable damage caressing each other. “We both know you hold back.”

“Because any further could activate fight or flight, and I don’t want to hurt you.”

[distinctivelibrarians]

you do so good with these!! soft leverage prompt: the thing that makes Parker comfortable with Hardison's Nana?

Thank you so much for the prompt nonnie! This one was fun, though I may have strayed a little from this exact prompt? I like how it came out though, and I hope you do too!

(ao3)

The house around them was…still.

Not quiet. Not in a house like this—too many people snoring and rolling over in bed, the house too old to not have a few creaks and groans worked into the wood and stone, the street outside too close to the city to go too long without the crunch of tires slowly ambling down it’s pocked and potted stretch, even the thin trees outside the window too old and tall to not complain with the slightest gust of wind.

But, still. And the noise around them was…nice, in a way Parker hadn’t thought noise could be.

Curled up on a narrow twin bed, Hardison half-hanging off the edge beside her, listening to the soft scrapes of noise around them, she found that she kind of liked the noise. It made the house seem full. Lived in. Comfortable.

Didn’t mean she was going to be able to sleep anytime soon though. It wasn’t a bad night or anything. Some nights, she just…couldn’t sleep. Too much energy sometimes, too many thoughts racing through her head others, or, like tonight, just no urge to let her eyes slip closed. She’d learned long ago not to take it to heart. Normally, on nights like this, she could wake Hardison and they could figure out something to do. Or, she’d let him sleep and she’d wander off (slipping back into bed by morning because she’d discovered just how nice it was to be the person someone looked for when they woke up. The sleepy smile Hardison always gave her still filled her belly with butterflies and bubbles and she didn’t think she’d ever get used to it).

But, their flight had been delayed eight hours, and, genius that Hardison is, even he can’t control the weather (though, sometimes, she had her doubts on that), and being stuck in an airport in Denver on their way to Chicago hadn’t done either of them any favors. They’d both been worn out by the time they’d gotten to Hardison’s Nana’s—to the point where, after a quickly reheated dinner, she’d shuffled them off to bed with the rest of the kids, telling them they could all talk and actually meet in the morning.

And here Parker was, four hours later, already knowing she wasn’t going to be sleeping anytime soon.

Maybe it should worry her how easy it was to slip out of bed without disturbing Hardison. But, then again, she was Parker.

She gently made sure Hardison was actually on the bed before she padded out, shutting the door silently behind her, and heading down the stairs. She didn’t really have a plan for what she was going to do to wile away the time, just that on nights like this it was better for her to just…go.

She saw the glow before she hit the bottom of the stairs, but she still wasn’t…quite sure what she’d been expecting. Hardison’s Nana on the sofa, wearing a really soft looking robe, the tv on mute on some kind of…infomercial? A book in her lap and a small lamp tilted to let her read, was not it though.

The older woman sent her a look, raising a questioning eyebrow, but didn’t actually say anything, just turning back to her book with a hum. Parker’s not sure if that’s why she shuffled closer, but it definitely helped.

The couch was this big, monstrous thing—overstuffed, some vague floral pattern long since faded but with faint splashes of color here and there—Parker had thought it fit right in with the rest of the house, with the brief look she’d gotten earlier. She couldn’t see much in the dim light, but what she could see was mismatched furniture, lamps clearly bought in different decades, walls of pictures with different frames and different aging…

She rather liked it, just like she liked how the house sounded, this late into the night.

This house was something that had grown, with everyone in it. It was old, settled weird, and stuffed full of mix-and-match odds and ends, but everything was clean, and everything clearly had its place. It was a tornado of life and comfort. And Parker knew she’d be feeling…itchy, restless, within a couple of days (too many people she didn’t know, too much of a new experience, just too…everything), but for now…

For now, she sank down on the couch, beside Hardison’s Nana. She pulled her knees up, her bare heels resting on the edge of the cushion, and pressed into the corner as best as she could with the over-fluffed pillows.

Hardison’s Nana shot her another look, one that Parker couldn’t quite parse before it was gone, but, she also smiled at her, so she figured she wasn’t overstepping too bad.

“Can’t sleep?” She didn’t quite startle at the soft voice, a couple minutes later, but it was a close thing. (Just because she couldn’t sleep didn’t mean she wasn’t tired, alright?) She shook her head, ducking it when Hardison’s Nana just hummed, still looking at her book. “Join the club then. Remote’s on your side if you want to change it.” Seemed with that, Parker’d been given permission to stay at least.

She didn’t reach for the remote though—she liked how the room felt right now, didn’t want to mess it up by changing something. Besides, as her eyes adjusted to the off-dim of the lamp and too-sharp, changing colors of the tv, she could make out more of the walls across from her, and their myriad of pictures.

She couldn’t…figure out a pattern to them. Some of the frames were the nice, shiny black ones—sturdy and thick, bought to last, with too much white around the pictures. Some were thin, plain wood ones, chipped and scratched. A handful had patterns carved or painted on, in various stages of wear and tear. And the pictures were anything from staged group shots to school photos—couple graduation pictures scattered throughout—to vacation photos. Some faces popped up a couple times, some only once.

“…Do you remember them?” Parker asked, soft and small. It wasn’t a question she’d really…thought to ask, before it slipped out. But, if she were to think about it, later? It made sense. She���d been hearing stories about Hardison’s Nana for more than five years now, and every single story sounded almost too good to be true. Not that Hardison painted her as a saint or anything (close though, full star-eyes included), but…well.

(She knew there were good people in the foster system. In that same way she knew there were people who didn’t like money. And she knew her experiences in the system—as brief as she’d managed to make them—were just one way her story could’ve gone, among many, many others. Some better, some worse, some just different.)

“What’s that, dear?” Hardison’s Nana asked, glancing back up—marking her page as she did, the book falling closed in her lap. Parker squirmed slightly under the extra attention, even as a small part of her appreciated it—appreciated that the woman was paying attention. She nodded towards the walls, the pictures. “All of them. You remember all of them?”

The woman blinked at her, then glanced over at the walls, only to smile softly, shaking her head just barely. “Of course I remember all my kids,” her kids. Said with a touch of pride and something else Parker wasn’t really awake enough to figure out. “Memory comes and goes some days, of course,” she grinned, and Parker couldn’t help but return it, “But I’ve got the important parts down, I’d think.”

Parker tilted her head, glancing back at the photos, before pointing at one in the corner—older, faded, three teenagers it looked like, caught in a moment of rough-housing, smiles big and bright despite the wear—”Who’re they?” If it was in Parker’s nature, it could’ve been a test—some kind of gauge to see if Hardison’s Nana was telling the truth about remembering all those kids and being proud of them—but, she’d already moved past that now. Some of the photos looked like they had stories behind them, and now she was curious really.

Hardison’s Nana took a moment to answer, squinting at the photo, before her whole face lit up, “Oh, that’s Theresa, Jackie, and little Mikey. Well, not so little anymore, boy’s going on thirty next March. Just caught them arguing over who got to read their new comic book first…”

Hardison was the first up the next morning—still on job time apparently, since, normally, dragging him out of bed before noon was a chore and a half, and yet, here he was, stumbling down the stairs at 5:30 in the morning. Parker and Nana were still chatting, having moved to the kitchen about half an hour ago. Nana was at the stove, making pancakes, while Parker was perched on the counter, mug of hot chocolate warming her hands.

“-and then you know the boy was doing his best to tell me ‘don’t you worry, Nana, I had absolutely nothing to do with it!’ Like I didn’t know Jamie taught him that same line two years ago. Had nothing to do with it huh? Only one of my kids to have a computer in his room at the time, and I’m supposed to believe he had no idea how those absolute assho-”

“Nana!” Hardison squawked.

“…jerks, those absolute jerks got enough viruses on their computers to shut down the whole building.” Parker snorted out a laugh, grinning brightly at Hardison’s indignant look.

“Morning Alec. You sleep alright, dear?” Nana asked without looking back at the door.

“…Did you sleep at all?” He shot back, slipping over to Parker after she gave him a slight nod to the unspoken question of space. Parker scooched back a bit on the counter, letting Hardison rest his hip on the edge between her legs. She grinned and leaned over to rest her chin on his shoulder, pressing a ‘good morning’ kiss to his cheek.

“I’ll take a nap later.” Nana responded back, sounding supremely unconcerned. “I was just telling Parker here some of my favorite stories from when you were little.”

“I was seventeen.”

“Like I said, little.”

Hardison grumbled, but he couldn’t fool Parker—she saw how bright his eyes were, glancing between her and Nana, and the smile trying to shine through. Seems he knew it too, because instead of arguing further, he wrapped his arms around Parker’s waist and buried his face in her neck with a mumble. Parker managed to save her mug through sheer luck—and Parkerness, but that wasn’t fair, so luck it was—and just laughed at him.

“Tell me another one?”

“Oh, I could do this all day. There was that time with the paintball guns-”

“Nana!” Hardison whined, without actually moving from his spot curled into Parker.

“Oh don’t you ‘Nana’ me, I had to repaint the house! Let me tell my story. So, Alec was trying to impress the boy down the street I think…”

[be-gay-do-heists]

OKAY finally finished with eliot hand pain hurt/comfort fic, and i couldn’t actually decide whether i preferred it in second or third person POV, so i’m going to put the second person POV under the cut here, and make a separate post with the other version so folks can read which they prefer. nothing is different between the two besides the POV !

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Contrary to what the four crazy people you spent your time risking your life for nowadays thought, you didn’t like the pain.

There was nothing cleansing about it, nothing satisfactory. A ringing hit to your jaw didn’t feel like penance. The actual protection aspect was a different story. Standing like a wall between your people and danger, there was nothing that made your ribs ache with pleasure like that; a wall didn’t feel, didn’t think, it was just an immutable fact. You were an immutable fact. The problem was that the wall-as-you, or perhaps the you-as-wall, had to become human again sometime after the last man went down and the last dollar bill was stuffed into a duffel. To hurt was human, and not just to hurt but to remember the wound long, long after, for it to live in your knees and wrists and between the vertebrae in your spine. Some days— and this was a product of how long after a job it had been, how hard you had pushed—some days were worse than others. The fact that some days the first sound out of your mouth wasn’t even a groan, but a whine, or worse the half-awake pleading for please please make it stop i’ll do anything just make it stop—

No, you didn’t like the pain.

Comparatively, today was a good day. Today, you could get out of bed. Your head and body were blessedly in agreement that it was in your best interests to swing your twinging knees to the side of the mattress, push yourself up onto legs that were sore but stable, with arms that shook only slightly. But compared to your best days, the ones where except for the old shoulder injury which would never let you forget it and the scar on your hip that put a hitch in your giddy-up in all kinds of weather, the days on which except for those you sometimes even forgot the pain, this didn’t hold a candle. Today your hands were so beat and weak that the ache radiated up to your mid-forearm, settled into you all familiar-like and made its home in you.

In the bathroom, you used your wrist to turn on the faucet and stuck your mouth under the water to drink. Holding a cup was off the agenda. Your morning routine was interspersed with winces, not unusual for your post-job bathroom adventures, and if it took you longer to shimmy on the sweats you knew you wouldn’t be getting out of today, it made you appreciate the comfort of wearing them a little more.

Going handless was fine until you were face to face with the fridge, and resisting the urge to growl at it, like that would solve anything. Taking a deep breath, you put a hand on the stainless steel handle, testing your grip. A light flex had you drawing it back like the metal had burned you, like someone had snapped a tight clothespin onto each ligament. You took a moment to pace a couple steps, let out a loud but cathartic expletive, and then wedge your hand between the handle and the door so you could open the fridge with your elbow strength. The feeling of triumph behind your collarbone faded quickly as you scanned its contents and realized there was nothing you wanted to eat, or at least nothing you wanted to hold and eat. The thought of grasping a fork brought another growl to your throat, and you slammed the fridge door to stomp to the couch and throw yourself down, cradling your hands in your lap.

You knew the drill: in an hour, you would grit your teeth and get to up to try and fumble open your bottle of painkillers, and if you succeeded, you would wait another hour for them to truly kick in so you could handle the tv remote, put on whatever game was on, and vegetate on the couch until further notice. The phone you had left on your nightstand rang loudly, fully audible from the other room, blaring out the chorus to “Macho Man” that Hardison had put as your ringtone and you hadn’t figured out how to get rid of yet. If it was important, whoever it was would call again, so you ignored it. Your ire rose when the same noise sang out from the bedroom a couple minutes later, a bit-off groan escaping from your clenched teeth as you levered yourself up to get to it as fast as you could, awkwardly accepting the call and maneuvering the phone between your shoulder and ear. “What?”

“Man, we haven’t heard from you since we split yesterday, I thought we were gonna get a beer downstairs last night?”

You rubbed your eyes with your wrist, frustrated that you had forgotten you were supposed to get together with Hardison the night before. Getting home, washing the sweat and blood off, and falling into bed had seemed like the only goal in your mind. “Look, sorry, I’ve been busy. And if this ain’t important, you—“

“Bullshit. Absolute bullshit, you’re using your tough-guy, bullshit voice. And you actually apologized, so something is double wrong.”

You snarled. “I don’t have— Hardison, I don’t know what you’re talking about, just leave me alone.”

“Too late, we’re already at your place.”

Before you could open your mouth, your doorbell rang, drawing a groan from you. If you were correct about who the “we” was, it seemed stupid to even ring it. Your suspicions were confirmed thirty seconds later as the door clicked open anyways and Parker and Hardison came in, having the decency to at least look slightly sheepish. You had already moved back to the couch, tilting your head back and closing your eyes. “Make yourself at home, why don’t you,” you growled.

“Excuse us for being worried about your wellbeing, Mr. Suffer-In-Silence,” Hardison scoffed.

Parker leapt onto the couch cushion next to him. “We thought you might have been captured by ninjas.”

“You would know if I had been captured by ninjas,” you muttered. “It’s a very dis— look, you’ve seen that I’m not kidnapped, it’s our day off, can you please leave and let me rest.”

“You still owe us a hangout from last night!” Parker chirped. “Don’t worry, we won’t stay long.” She vaulted back over the couch to go rummage through your snack cabinets, getting into the granola bin by the sound of it. You made a note to restock it before she came back next.

When you next opened your eyes, Hardison was lightly sitting on your coffee table, looking at the hands still resting in your lap. “What’s up with your hands, Eliot?”

Your first instinct was to deflect. You trusted your team, sure, but this was different. They weren’t supposed to know that you had these days. That you weren’t invulnerable. “Nothing’s wrong with them, stop sitting on my coffee table.”

“Mhm mhm, sure,” Hardison said. “Go like this for me?” He wiggled his fingers in a “hey sailor” kind of fashion. Before you could tell him just what you thought about that, Parker’s ponytail swung into the side of your face, the thief reaching down to poke one of your hands faster than you could stop her.

By the time you were able to refocus and pull yourself back from the whiteout of pain, Parker and Hardison were looking at you with open concern, the hacker leaning back slightly, a little pale. You think you may have howled; you weren’t sure. Both your hands were clenched tightly to your chest, wrists together, arms outward, wishbone shaped. You felt just as brittle as one, with their stares on you. You summoned the anger from your throat, the only weapon at your disposal (only half-expecting that it would work, always defenseless when it came to their prodding).

“Can you leave me the hell alone now?”

Hardison looked at you, taking his time formulating his thoughts, but it was Parker who spoke. “Nope.” You turned to her where she was perched on the couch. “You get hurt taking care of us. Now you let us take care of you.”

You looked at Hardison pleadingly, hoping he at least would take pity on you and let you wallow by yourself. You wanted to hide like the trap-escaped, half-dead badger whose den you had accidentally put your foot into half a lifetime ago in the Italian Alps, earning you an earful of hissing that scared the hell out of you. You wonder if you seemed as belligerent now.

Hardison just shrugged and smiled gently. “Hey, you heard the woman.” He leaned forward slightly, just enough in your space to let you feel his warm presence without crowding. “Couldn’t get rid of us if you tried.”

You didn’t want to try, was the thing. It was only that it wasn’t their job to take care of you. It was yours to take care of them. They just seemed to be wholly unaware of this.

“You taken anything for those yet?” Hardison asked, pointing at your hands. He hummed at your slight head shake. “Thought so. Which ones?”

“White bottle, red pills. Only need a half,” you mumbled, slouching. Parker was already up and heading to the bathroom.

“We need to get something you can actually open when this happens, some kind of spring-loaded catch maybe,” Hardison mused. “Alright, let me see them.” He patted his legs, frowning at your growl. “C’mon, none of that. I know they hurt, I’ll be really, really gentle. I won’t even touch without asking.”

You looked him in the eye for the sincerity you already knew would be there, the eagerness to help that (damn him) was one of your favorite traits of his. Hesitantly, you extended your hands, rolling your eyes at him scooting forward to offer his knees to rest them on.

“I assume you got antiseptic and ointment on these knuckles already, so totally disregarding those, even though it sucks. Nothing broken?”

“No, just. Aches. Like a son of a bitch. Can’t make a damn fist. Happens sometimes.”

Parker bounded back in, armed with a glass of water and half a pill in her open hand. “So no jobs for a while. Easy, I’ll tell Nate. Open up.” With a scowl, you took the medication from her fingers with your teeth (gently, gently), and let her raise the glass to your lips, nearly choking as she tipped it a little eagerly, and choking for real when Hardison said, “Whoa, woman, let him swallow.”

“It’s not just the last job, Park, it’s jobs two years ago, or five, or ten,” you managed, once you had your breath back. “Part of the package that comes with the lifestyle. It just happens sometimes, don’t matter what schedule we’re on.”

She frowned. “Still. We shouldn’t be doing jobs if you’re hurt. Nate should know that.”

Hardison leaned forward a little more while you were distracted trying to find the right response to that, that you wouldn’t be doing any jobs at all if that were the case, that Nate trusted you to get the job done no matter what, reaching out to your forearm and stopping just a hair’s breadth shy of touching. You froze, and he did too, meeting your eyes. “It’s ok. I’m just trying something out. Is it alright if I touch you here?” At your tiniest of nods, the hacker placed his fingertips on your arm, rubbing circles so lightly that you almost couldn’t feel it. “Let me know where it starts to hurt, okay?” Hardison applied the slightest pressure as he added his other hand and lightly started rubbing down your forearm. When he got to your wrist, you couldn’t help the strangled noise that partly escaped through your nose, high and strained. He moved away from it immediately, going back to tracing soothing, gentle patterns. “You’re ok, you’re ok. I can work with this, no problem. Where do you keep your hot pads, man?”

“Bathroom, lower right drawer,” you grit out. Parker was zipping off to get it and warm it up before you could even process. Hardison applied a little more pressure with his fingertips, rubbing the meat of your forearm. You breathed out long and slow at how good it felt once the initial ache had ebbed.

“I want to try giving you a hand massage, but I don’t wanna hurt you more than it would help,” he said, pausing slightly. “You up for it? I’m not gonna pressure you either way.”

Your thoughts stuttered, and then bolted in different directions. The feeling that you didn’t deserve this, that this was too much to ask, which had been simmering this whole time leapt to life again. It joined with the wounded, snarling animal part of you that still wanted to hide, burrow down with the covers over your head until your pain faded into the muted background noise of the world. You didn’t even know if a hand massage would work, it might make the pain worse.

But it might be nice, a small, hopeful part of you murmured. You couldn’t remember the last time you had been offered something like this, let alone the last time you had taken the person up. If there was anyone you trusted to do it, if there was anyone you wanted to receive it from, it was these two. How could you refuse them even when your heart hoped so badly for what they were offering?

“Sure, just…” you said as Parker returned with the hot pad, pausing from tossing it hand to hand like a hot potato to fix her stare on you. You licked your lips, swallowed around a dry throat. “Just be gentle.”

“I will be,” Hardison said earnestly, taking the hot pad from Parker to gently maneuver it under your hands, resting on his knees. You tensed slightly as the thief leapt up onto the back of the couch, perching above your head, but otherwise relaxed as the warmth of the hot pad started to loosen the ache in your hands. Hardison started where he had before, applying the slightest pressure to your forearm. Parker ran her fingertips lightly through your hair, humming.

“Your hair is kinda wonky,” she said, fingers catching on a tangle. You winced.

“That’s what happens when you go to bed without brushing it properly, you know that,” you grumbled, breath hitching as her fingertips grazed your scalp. Your breath stuttered again as Hardison hands started working towards the sore meat of your wrist. Your hand began to shake.

“It’s ok baby, I got you,” Hardison murmured under his breath, more soothing sound than words. You cracked open an eye to see him looking between your hands and his phone, playing a video where it was propped on his thigh.

“Man, are you watching hand massage tutorials right now?” you gritted out, doing a poor job of masking your genuine amusement with frustrated disbelief.

He tapped his index finger against your arm lightly. “I’ve been watching videos dude; think you’re so slick, tryna hide your hand pain from me. I just wanna make sure I get it right in real time.”

Parker’s fingers running through your hair more boldly silenced any follow-up thoughts you had, your mind going fuzzy with how good it felt. Without thinking, you insistently pushed your head up further into her touch, making her laugh. The sound reverberated in your chest, leaving you longing to hear it again. Instead a half-whine left your throat as Hardison probed the bottom of your palm, the ache drawing you back to full awareness.

The hacker backed off for a moment. “Sorry, sorry, you still cool to keep going?”

“Yeah, yeah,” you breathed shakily.

“Just tell me if there’s anyplace else that needs to be handled more delicately, or you don’t want me going at all,” Hardison said, putting his clever hands to yours again and taking up his gentle, slow pace. Parker’s fingers had paused in your hair a second, but went back to running through it again, scratching your scalp on every other pass.

Slowly, slowly, the vice of pain on your hands started to dissipate, bone by bone, finger by finger. You don’t know how long you sat there in a haze, as Hardison and Parker patiently touched you, fixated on the single task of caring for you. The thought made the tender space behind your breastbone twinge. When you surfaced from the half-asleep contentment of their efforts, the television was on, Star Trek playing at the lowest volume. You grunted, lifting your head from the couch to look at them sitting beside you, grinning at your movements. Hardison’s warm hand was still in yours, but instead of massaging he was just holding it softly.

“Hey sleepy,” teased Parker, throwing herself over Hardison to get closer and forcing an “Oof!” out of him.

You looked down to your hands, flexing one experimentally, in disbelief at how the ache had faded to an almost imperceptible hum. With the other you tightened your fingers around Hardison’s hand, moving your thumb lightly over his.

“Hey,” you simply said back, a real smile rising to your lips.