#frustrated by Hardison but tries to protect him

[firebirdsdaughter]

You have to know…

… Eliot was absolutely down to fight all six of Sterling’s guys injured, even if Nate hadn’t come up w/ that plan. Would he have succeeded? I like to think he’d’ve at least had the willpower to get Nate and Hardison out of there, based on my interpretation on part of how he held out against Quinn, although maybe not himself.

[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 !

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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.

[halevetica]

Not in the same way(EliotxParkerxHardison)

If there was one thing Eliot knew about love it was that it wasn't meant for him. His life was too messy and dangerous. Love couldn't last in his line of work. Aimee had been the only person he'd truly loved and that hadn't survived his early lifestyle. He couldn't imagine trying to be with someone after everything he'd done. He could never truly be himself with them. Not like he could with his team. Sure, they didn't know everything he'd done, but they knew enough, and they respected him enough not to ask the details that he preferred to leave buried. But they knew everything else. They knew that he'd done terrible things and they still wanted him around. They knew his weaknesses and they never used them against him. They knew his love of food and they catered to that. Hell they practically gave him a restaurant. He cared about his team and he was happy for them. Happy they had found their happiness.

First there was Nate and Sophie. They had each other and they were perfect together. Sure, they had their moments and it took them a while to get there but they were meant for each other, there was no denying that. Eliot couldn't have been happier when Nate finally took that leap and proposed to Sophie.

Then there was Hardison and parker. Two sides of a very different coin that had somehow managed to glue themselves to each other. It was like if you took a normal shiny quarter and glued it to one of those lottery coins you won at the arcade. That was Hardison and Parker. And yet somehow it worked. It had been slow going at first, what with Parker's insecurities and trust issues, but Hardison was patient. Hardison was always patient, with everyone.

Eliot understood why Parker fell for Hardison, it was easy to do. He was a great looking guy for starters. But more than that he was smart and caring and patient and loyal. Things that the whole team needed. Especially Eliot. Loyalty wasn't something he was used to. In his line of work, he was on his own. Nobody was coming back for him. But Hardison never left him behind. He always made sure Eliot had a way out of any situation. And if he saw Eliot struggling, he didn't push him to talk the way the others might. He would offer and then drop it if Eliot wasn't in the mood. Their playful banter also calmed his nerves. Hardison picked that up early on. 'For morale' he'd called it on one particularly nerve-wracking case. Eliot had been thankful for the chatter in his ear. Ever since, Hardison's voice had become a welcome comfort, though Eliot would never tell the hacker.

It had taken Eliot a bit longer to see what Hardison saw in Parker. She was frustrating. Distant and confusing. But when she finally started to let the team in, Eliot saw it. She was just as broken as he was. Her quirks weren't to piss him off, they were remnants of a broken girl trying to put the pieces back together. They were her ways of surviving before she had the team. Now he saw her quirks and couldn't help but smile. She was learning to ask for help and it elated Eliot when she came to him because she always came to him first. They were similar like that. It had taken time for Parker to see that, but Eliot understood her in ways the others couldn't. When Sophie tried to change her viewpoint or when Hardison tried to cheer her up, she would go to Eliot who would just let her be upset, until she was ready to be cheered up or given advice. Eliot let her know it was okay to not be okay, and she made him feel the same way.

He would do anything for Hardison and Parker and they for him. This is how Eliot had found himself in love despite knowing it wasn't meant for him.

It took Eliot far too long to realize that he'd fallen for the couple. And he couldn't do anything about it. He'd sworn to protect them, and he wouldn't go back on that just because he'd screwed up and gotten too close. Hardison and Parker were happy, he would never do anything to jeopardize that, but he could never leave them either, so he learned to deal with it. He suffered in silence. No one got hurt that way. At least no one that mattered.

-

It had been three weeks since Sophie and Nate had split, leaving Eliot alone with Hardison and Parker. Things had been fine. It took some getting used to, but the three of them worked well together. However, today changed things for Eliot in a way he never saw coming.

Love was a difficult thing for all of them. It always had been. Especially Parker. Despite having been dating Hardison for over a year, not once had she said she loved him and out of respect for not pressuring her, Hardison had refrained from saying it to her. Eliot knew this because Hardison had specifically told him how badly he wanted to tell Parker, but he wanted her to be the one to say it first. This had been months ago now.

As Eliot set a plate of chicken parmesan on the table, the apartment door flung open to Parker holding up two bottles of wine.

"I'm back," She announced in a tone that told Eliot she had clearly been drinking.

Eliot frowned at the blonde. She'd been gone for thirty minutes, and the store was fifteen minutes away. How had she had time to get drunk?

"Are you drunk?" Hardison asked, voicing Eliot's thoughts from where he was setting out a salad Eliot had made up to go with the chicken.

"I had a couple as I passed through the bar downstairs, so not nearly enough, but just enough to say that...I love you," She beamed proudly, practically slamming the wine bottles down on the table as if in a declaration.

Eliot's stomach dropped.

Hardison's face lit up. "I love you too, babe," he grinned widely as he scooped her up into a hug.

Eliot felt out of place. Like he was spying on a personal moment, which he technically was, but there was nowhere to escape. They were blocking his way out of the kitchen.

When Hardison set Parker down, she looked relieved. "That was so much easier than I thought it would be."

Hardison couldn't stop smiling.

She turned to Eliot as she slid her hand into Hardison's, "Of course, we love you too, Eliot," She offered with a gentle smile.

Eliot's jaw clenched and a lump formed in his throat. He was probably only the second person in the world Parker had ever said that to, but he knew she didn't mean it in the same way.

He forced a smile that he knew didn't reach his eyes, before forcing himself to turn back to the stove.

He missed the way Parker's face fell as he turned away.

-

Eliot tossed the towel over his shoulder and leaned over the bar where Hardison and Parker were sitting. Eliot had spent the last few hours in the kitchen of the brewpub, they'd finished up a con early and he had felt like cooking off some frustration. It helped him unwind sometimes when the cons were particularly messy.

"You guys want anything special? I'll whip something up?" Eliot asked, his eyes raking over the two people in front of him.

Parker smiled, "I'm okay. Thank you."

Before Hardison had a chance to answer, a thick southern accent cut in.

"I thought that was you I saw. My compliments to the chef."

Eliot instantly tensed, which didn't go unnoticed by his team.

Hardison and Parker looked over to see a man with piercing blue eyes and light brown hair, he built like an ox and he stood in a similar way Eliot did. Had they worked together?

"Benny," Eliot said the name with a stiff smile, like it was someone he was supposed to be happy to see but couldn't quite fake it.

"Lookin' good Spencer," Benny's eyes raked over Eliot in a way that made both Hardison and Parker take notice.

"You're awfully far north," Eliot skirted the obvious flirtation, careful to avoid looking at his teammates.

"Just passin' through brother. Heard this place had the best grub around. Funny seein' you back there," Benny gestured to the kitchen as he sat down on a barstool, which made Eliot frown.

"Glad you enjoyed the food. It was good seeing you," Eliot tossed the towel onto the counter before sliding around the bar.

Benny was back on his feet in a second.

"Hold on now. You're just gonna run off?" Benny caught Eliot's wrist.

Hardison braced for the reaction. Eliot didn't like to be touched.

However, the lack of reaction surprised Hardison more.

"What do you really want, Benny?" Eliot sighed. He could never resist Benny. Those blue eyes, the way Benny knew how to touch him.

"I really just wanted a bite to eat but...well seein' you is a nice surprise," Benny flashed a charming grin.

Eliot narrowed his eyes, "You wanna catch up?" his tone was less accusing and more assessing.

"If that's what you wanna call it," Benny grinned.

Eliot clenched his jaw. "Last time we 'caught up' you almost got me killed."

"That was my bad. I didn't know I was bein' hunted," Benny's face looked mildly guilty."Come on, darlin' for old times sake," Benny's thumb caressed where he was still holding Eliot's wrist.

Normally Eliot would have given in, but he allowed his eyes to skirt towards where Parker was glaring daggers at Benny, and Hardison looked concerned.

"Sorry, Benny, I think our catching up days are over," Eliot pulled from Benny's grasp and pushed through the door to head up stairs.

He wouldn't normally turn down a night with Benny, but he knew that his feelings for Hardison and Parker made it hard for him to enjoy his one-night stands. He didn't need Benny asking questions and he would.

He wasn't in the apartment five seconds before Hardison and Parker came through behind him.

"Uh, Eliot, who was that?" Hardison asked carefully.

"An ex, sort of," Eliot had never told them about Benny.

"Sort of?" Parker pressed.

"We met in the Army. He was the first..." Eliot huffed out in annoyance.

"Hey, if you don't want to talk about it, you don't have to," Hardison offered gently.

This annoyed Eliot. He knew it shouldn't. Hardison was doing what Hardison did best. Being patient. "The first guy I was ever with," Eliot snapped. "He never let things get serious between us though. Wouldn't let me get attached. We ran into each other here and there after and that's it. That's all there is to it." There it was, out in the open now.

Hardison and Parker watched as Eliot yanked open the fridge angrily and snatched a beer from it.

"You always get a little attached to your first though," Hardison said quietly.

Eliot froze with the bottle to his lips.

"It was a long time ago. I'm over it," Eliot growled. It was true, he had gotten a little bit attached but Benny had kept him at a distance, which Eliot had hated at the time. Now though, he appreciated it. He only wished he'd done the same to Hardison and Parker.

"Well his loss," Parker shrugged. "We've got you now. And we love you."

Eliot gripped the beer bottle tightly in his hand. That was only the second time she had said that to him.

"She's right," Hardison agreed, his tone just as gentle as before.

Eliot wanted to disappear. He loved them too, just not in the same way.

"I'm going to bed," Eliot poured out the rest of the beer leaving behind a frustrated Parker and a sympathetic Hardison.

-

Eliot wasn't really nervous about this particular con, but he knew that Parker was. She had to grift and while she had gotten decent at it, it still wasn't her favorite thing to do.

"Hey, you've got this," Hardison spoke into Parker and Eliot's ear as Eliot led Parker into the lavish ballroom as she tried not to fidget with her too small dress. "Eliot's right beside you. He's not gonna let anything happen."

Parker glanced over at Eliot who only gave a wink, hoping that would calm her nerves.

"Mrs. Hale, how good of you to join us," a gentleman in an expensive suit took Parker's hand and kissed the back.

She faked a smile, "I assume Mr. Moore won't keep me waiting."

Eliot wished he could tell Parker how well she was doing but it would blow his cover.

"Good job, baby, you got this in the bag. Just like that and we'll have him," Hardison's voice sounded in their ears.

Eliot had to hold back a smile as he followed Parker down the hall. He counted the men on his way, eyeing the weapons each one was holding as he went. Three in the hall outside the ballroom. One outside the door. Each with a single nine mill pistol. Easy enough.

Inside was their mark.

"Henchmen stay outside," The man said eyeing Eliot.

Eliot's jaw clenched. No way was he leaving Parker in here alone. He scanned the room. Two men, each with the same pistol and then, Marcus Moore, their mark. He could take them.

"Then yours have to leave to," Parker crossed her arms as she glanced at the two men on either side of the room.

Good girl. Eliot thought.

"Parker, what are you doing? Do not leave Eliot's side. Eliot do not let her leave your side," Hardison's worried voice came through the comms. Eliot couldn't blame him. He didn't like it either.

"Very well," Marcus nodded to the two men.

"Mrs. Hale are you sure that's a wise-" Before Eliot could finish, Parker turned to him with a look he knew well. It said to trust her.

"I said out," She ordered in her con voice.

Eliot glanced at Marcus and then back to Parker, "Yes Ma'am."

"What are you doing Eliot? You cannot leave her alone in there with him," Hardison's voice had raised an octave.

"Trust her, alright? She can handle this," Eliot whisper hissed as he stepped out into the hall.

"I trust her. It's Moore I don't trust," Hardison's voice hadn't lowered.

Eliot stood by the door, ready to make a move in case things went south.

They listened as Parker flirted with Marcus and worked her con. Eliot wished Sophie were here to see her.

"I really should be going," Parker spoke, and Eliot could hear the relieved sigh Hardison let out.

"Already? We're alone and business is over, what do you say we make time for pleasure?"

Eliot bristled, ready to make his move.

"Eliot," Hardison's tone was frantic.

"I'm afraid that offer's not on the table," Parker spoke, her tone still in con mode.

"I'm putting it on there," Marcus wasn't giving up, but Eliot was waiting for Parker to give a signal.

"Eliot," Hardison snapped.

"Well I've just taken it off. Is that going to be a problem? If so, I can take all the offers off the table. I'm sure there's business to be had elsewhere."

"Eliot, what are you waiting for?" Hardison's tone was getting more annoyed, but Eliot ignored him. He would respect Parker's decision and trust her.

"You play hardball, I respect that. I'll see that the money is in the account right away," Marcus' tone lost it's flirty edge.

"Pleasure doing business with you Mr. Moore," Parker said just before the doors opened and she stepped through.

Eliot led the way out and back into the ballroom.

"We should linger, otherwise it'll be suspicious," Parker said grabbing a glass of champagne off a nearby tray.

"Don't ever do that shit again," Hardison huffed into their ears, but his tone was more relieved than angry.

"You worry too much," Parker responded, but a fond smile played on her lips. She tipped back the rest of the champagne and put her hand out to Eliot. "Dance with me."

Eliot obliged with no complaint. He slid his hand around her waist and tried to ignore the guilt of how much he enjoyed holding her close.

"Thank you," She spoke in his ear as they danced close.

"For what?" Eliot frowned.

"Not barging in."

"When you kicked me out you asked me to trust you. I saw it in your eyes," Eliot gave a slight shrug.

"And you did. You always do trust me. It's why I love you," She laid her head on Eliot's shoulder then.

Eliot frowned and tried to ignore the way his stomach knotted. It was why he loved her too, just not in the same way.

-

Protecting his team was what Eliot did, period. That was the whole point of his job. Sure, there were times when he would hack something, or grift or pick a lock, but it wasn't his job. His job was to make sure his team was safe, and he prided himself on that. There was the occasional close call, but he always did his job. However, right now Hardison was face to face with two guys with a gun and Eliot was nowhere near him.

Eliot's heart was slamming heavily in his chest as he raced down the hallways towards Hardison's location.

"I'm just sayin' there's gotta be another way we can handle this. Ya know what I mean? Like proper gentlemen. Cause ya'll got guns and I don't. That ain't fair. That's all I'm sayin'," Hardison's rambling in Eliot's ear was normally a comfort but right now he was taunting men that had a gun to his head.

"Dammit Hardison, shut up," Eliot growled.

"Eliot, he's still on the fourth floor but they're on the move," Parker's voice spoke up then, sounding just as worried as Eliot felt.

Guilt coursed through Eliot. It was his fault Hardison wasn't safe. He shouldn't have left his side. He should have cleared the floors above them before planting the file in the office.

"Hey, why you gotta be so rough for? I'm sensitive. I bruise easy," Hardison's voice continued.

"Okay they're heading west down the hallway," Parker spoke up again from her spot in the security room. She had picked the lock as soon as she heard they had Hardison.

Eliot ran up the stairs two at a time, thinking of nothing but getting to Hardison.

"They took him in a room, but I can't see the number. The camera angle is wrong," Parker huffed.

"Room four oh two, good choice. No superstitious numbers in that one," Hardison continued to talk as if he wasn't giving his location.

"Four oh two, got it. Hardison, I'm almost there," Eliot pushed himself to run faster. He had to hurry.

"Who do you work for?" A voice that wasn't familiar spoke loud enough for Eliot to hear.

"Work for? I work for the boss, who do you work f-" Hardison's words were cut off and a loud smack pierced through the comms.

Eliot let out a growl. He knew that sound. It was the sound of a pistol hitting the side of someone's face. It was a very distinct sound.

Eliot shoved through the doors, finally reaching the fourth floor.

"Who do you work for?"

"I don't know what your talking abou-" Another smack.

Eliot's anger surged through him. He would show no mercy to anyone who laid a hand on Hardison.

"Tell us and this can stop."

Hardison's lack of response worried Eliot. Hardison was rarely quiet.

"Oh no smart remarks now?" Another smack.

Eliot was seeing red by the time he reached the room Hardison was in.

"Eliot," Parker's voice was small, pleading.

Instead of answering, Eliot kicked open the door.

One man had Hardison on his knees with his hands behind him. While the other had his gun ready to strike again.

Eliot grabbed the man with the gun wrenching his arm behind him, forcing him to release the gun. Eliot whipped the guy in the face with it before releasing him and unloading it. He then turned to the other man who was now charging at him. He thrust the barrel of the gun into the man's throat causing him to immediately gasp out. Eliot then shoved he guys face into the nearby table as he fell unconscious, allowing him to turn his attention back to the first man. He threw a punch which Eliot caught. He twisted the man's fist forcing the man to his knees before taking the heel of his palm and shoving it into his nose. Blood spurted from the man's face as he fell over.

Eliot finally looked over to Hardison who had pulled himself off the floor.

"Come on," Eliot growled.

The two of them carefully stepped over the men and made their way to the elevator.

Neither one said a word as it slowly descended.

Parker met them at the back door with Lucille.

She threw her arms around Hardison who winced when she kissed his cheek. "I'm so glad you're okay."

Guilt washed over Eliot once again.

"We should get out of here," Hardison glanced back at the building. He would alter the security footage later.

Parker climbed back into the driver's seat while Eliot and Hardison climbed into the back.

"I should clean that cut," Eliot gestured to where the skin had split open at Hardison's eyebrow.

Hardison only nodded.

Eliot got out the first aid kit and worked carefully.

"I'm sorry," Eliot said as he applied rubbing alcohol to the cut.

"You should be, damn that stings," Hardison yelped pulling back.

Eliot glared, "It's a tiny sting," he huffed, yanking Hardison back into reach. "I mean about not being there."

Hardison pulled away again but this time so he could look at Eliot. "What do you mean? You were there."

"I was too late," Eliot snapped. "This never should have happened."

"Whoa, hey," Hardison grabbed Eliot's hand from where he was aggressively putting away the first aid materials. "This wasn't your fault."

"My job is to keep you and Parker safe. I failed," Eliot growled, slamming the first aid box closed.

Hardison's hand closed tighter around Eliot's. "I am safe. You saved me. You might not have prevented this," he pointed to the cut near his eye. "But you came, and you took care of me, just like you always do. I wasn't scared cause I knew you'd be there. You're always there when we need you. That's why I love you," Hardison gave Eliot's hand a squeeze before he released it.

Eliot clenched his hands into fists as Hardison turned to his computer to scrub the security footage. That was the first time Hardison had said that to him. Eliot closed his eyes. I love you too. He thought. Just not in the same way.

-

It was a lazy night in. Eliot had made dinner. Hardison had cleaned and Parker had put in a movie and made popcorn. Nights like this were Eliot's favorite and his least favorite. He loved spending time with Hardison and Parker, but he hated feeling like the third wheel. Though they were really good about not making him feel excluded. Right now, for instance Hardison's head was on Parker's lap and Eliot was sitting on the floor next to her. Hardison was explaining the order of the Star Wars movies to Eliot.

"Wait, number one?" Eliot frowned, he tried not to react as he felt fingers card through the back of his hair.

"Yeah, we watched three the other night, and then four, and now five. Next, we'll watch one, then two, then three," Hardison answered around a yawn.

Eliot tried not to lean into Parker's touch as she continued to run her fingers through his hair. He could fall asleep to the feeling of that.

"That's the dumbest thing ever," Eliot tried to growl, but he was too relaxed.

"It's confusing, I'll admit that," Hardison sat up, turning off the tv.

"Your hair is so soft," Parker hummed as she continued to drag her fingers through his brown strands.

"It looks soft," Hardison nodded.

"Feel," Parker grabbed Hardison's hand and forced his fingers onto Eliot's scalp.

Eliot closed his eyes and tried not to hum in satisfaction. He knew he needed to push them away. Snap at them. Keep them at a distance, but he was tired and selfish.

"Oh it is soft," Hardison's fingers brushed along the nape of his neck and Eliot couldn't help the content sigh that escaped his lips.

"Well I'm tired, goodnight, Hardison, I love you," Parker said, pressing a kiss to Hardison's cheek.

"Goodnight, baby, I love you too."

"Goodnight, Eliot. I love you," Parker ran her fingers through Eliot's hair one last time.

Eliot froze.

"Goodnight, Eliot. I love you too," Hardison spoke close to his ear, his fingers brushing along Eliot's nape as he stood.

Eliot was suddenly wide awake. He turned to see the couple hand in hand walking into their room. His stomach churned. They had no idea what they were doing to him. He knew they loved him, and he loved them, just not in the same way.

-

Eliot knew military bases, he knew how they worked so when it came time for someone to go in and get the file they needed, Eliot wasn't about to let Parker or Hardison be the one to do it. He had managed to get himself inside easily enough, however Hardison had run into a problem with their security and now he couldn't get into the room he needed.

"Dammit Hardison, I need a higher level badge," Eliot growled as he tried again to use the badge he'd managed to lift from one of the higher ranking officers.

"Higher level? You took that from-"

"I know who I took it from Hardison and I'm telling you it's not working," Eliot cut him off. They didn't have time for this. It wouldn't take long before his cover got blown if he wasn't careful. He might have been dressed like one of them, but it wasn't hard to tell that he wasn't one of them.

"It's triple encrypted, you need a keycode," Hardison sighed into the comms.

"So hack it," Eliot snapped.

"I am trying, do you know how hard it is to do that? Parker where are you going? Parker," Hardison's voice in his ear distracted Eliot from the sound of incoming boots.

"What is Parker doing? Parker stay in the van," Eliot ordered to no avail.

"I'm going in through the ventilation shaft. I can fit," Parker answered.

"No," Eliot growled. As he turned, he saw two men turn the corner. "Shit."

"Hey, you're not authorized to be down here," one man shouted.

Eliot bolted down the hall a few paces and swiped his keycard on one of the doors. He was thankful when it opened. Before he could get inside, strong arms wrapped around him from behind.

Eliot twisted, slamming the man into the door and kicking the other man back into the far wall at the same time. The keycard in his hand slipped from his grasp in the mix but he couldn't worry about that right now as he and the man wrapped around him stumbled into the room he'd just opened.

The door shut with a heavy slam behind them.

Eliot struggled against the man's grasp, but he was too strong.

"I'm in the room," Parker's voice said into Eliot's ear.

"Eliot, where are you?" Hardison asked next.

"Busted," Eliot answered gruffly as he kicked at the wall, which triggered some lock somewhere by the sound, in an attempt to throw his body weight against the other man. He didn't release him. Eliot threw his head back and the man finally let him go.

"Uh Eliot, what did you do? You set off some alarm," Hardison's voice sounded concerned in Eliot's ear.

"So shut it off," Eliot growled as he turned to face the man that had attacked him.

"No, like it's a silent alarm, like a trigger or something, I can't figure out what it is."

Eliot threw a punch and found it landed easier than it should have. The man fell over, out cold.

"I got the folder," Parker announced excitedly.

Eliot shook his head; he was suddenly feeling a little dizzy. He reached down and snatched the keycard from the man on the floor and turned to the door.

"Good. Hardison, it wasn't an alarm I tripped," Eliot slid the keycard.

"What was it?"

"Carbon monoxide gas," Eliot sighed out when the card reader blinked red. The card was invalid. He was trapped.

"What? How the hell do you know that?" Hardison's tone raised an octave.

"The room is locked tight. The air vents are one way only and my opponent went down way too easy. Not to mention all the symptoms I'm currently having," Eliot growled out, gripping at the wall to keep from falling over.

"You can tell it's carbon monoxide from the symptoms your having?" Hardison asked his tone no less stressed.

"They're very distinctive symptoms," Eliot snapped back.

"Eliot, I'm coming," Parker's voice spoke up then.

"No, this gas will kill me in a matter of ten minutes in a room this size. The whole room will be void of oxygen. Take the file and go," Eliot demanded.

"What?" Hardison and Parker both demanded in unison.

"I can't get out of this room and Parker you'll only be trapped in here with me. It's not worth it. I'm not worth it," Eliot slumped against the wall. If he sunk down to the floor, he'd be closer to where the oxygen was.

"Eliot, no, I'm going to get you out, do you hear me. I'm going to get that door open," Hardison's voice was frantic and Eliot felt bad for making it that way.

"Eliot, you can't give up. Get close to the floor, oxygen is heavier than carbon monoxide, we're coming for you," Parker's tone was no less frantic.

Eliot felt himself smile, "Already there."

"Good, you just hold on, do you hear me, Eliot?" Parker's tone had turned almost annoyed.

"I'm sorry," Eliot leaned his head back against the cement wall. Of all the ways to go this wasn't how he imagined it.

"No, you do not get to apologize. You are getting out of this. You have to because I love you and Hardison loves you. We both love you, Eliot," Parker's tone was angry and Eliot could imagine the tears in her eyes.

He closed his and remembered the way Parker's fingers felt in his hair, and the way Hardison's felt on the nape of his neck.

"Do you hear me, Eliot?" Parker barked into her comm.

"I hear you," Eliot responded quietly. His vision was wavering even more now and his chest ached though he wasn't sure if it was from the lack of oxygen or from Parker's words.

"Dammit, Eliot, why don't you ever say it back?" Parker's tears were obvious in her voice now.

Eliot wanted to say it back wanted to tell them how much he loved them, but he couldn't. He couldn't tell them knowing that they meant it differently than he did. They may love him, but not in the same way.

"I'm sorry," Was the last thing Eliot managed to get out before his vision finally gave out, his lungs begging for fresh oxygen.

"Eliot, Parker is right above you. I got the gas to stop, but I can't get the door yet," Hardison spoke up next.

"Eliot?" Parker peered through the vent to see Eliot slumped on the floor against the door.

"Hardison, get that door open, now," Parker demanded kicking in the vent. She dropped down and kept low to the ground. She could feel the effects of the carbon monoxide already trying to take hold of her.

"I'm working on it."

"Eliot," Parker shook Eliot a few times, but the hitter didn't wake.

"I can't get him up through the grate, Hardison," Parker fought the dizziness tugging at her vision.

"You've got to wake him up," Hardison's tone was even more frantic. "There's triple encryption on this door and even if I do get it open, there are guards and a whole lot of trouble between you and the van and-"

"Hardison, just get the damn door open," Parker shouted as she wiped a stray tear that had managed to slip down her cheek.

"I'm working on it. I've almost got it, I just need this last sequence of numbers."

Parker smacked Eliot a couple of times but he still didn't budge.

"Oh what about smelling salts?" She dug into her bag and pulled out a small jar.

"You have smelling salts?" Hardison asked.

"You don't?" She countered.

"You knew you had those, and you still smacked him? And yeah I heard it."

"He didn't say it back," Parker growled as she shoved the salts under Eliot's nose.

The hitter finally stirred.

Parker let out a relieved sigh, "Hardison, tell me you've got that door open."

"Almoooost, and got it," Hardison announced cheerfully.

Parker swayed on her feet. The carbon monoxide was still thick in the room, making it hard for her to breath.

"Dammit Parker," Eliot pushed himself up off the floor just as the door clicked.

Parker pushed it open and inhaled the fresh air. Eliot followed suit.

"Okay, I set off alarms at the opposite end of the building, that gives you guys about three minutes to get to me," Hardison said just as alarms stared blaring from somewhere deep in the building.

Eliot grabbed Parker's hand and they bolted for the door where Hardison was waiting. Eliot tried not to hurl as he led the way.

Hardison managed to unlock each door as the reached it.

Once they were inside the van Eliot took the drivers side and played his part to get them off the base despite still feeling unwell from the exposure to the gas. Being still dressed as one of them, he was able to pull it off.

Eliot drove in silence to the apartment. The tension in the van was palpable. He wanted to ask but he could practically feel the looks Hardison and Parker were giving each other, whatever conversation they were trying to have they obviously didn't want him to be a part of it.

He parked the van and made his way inside, beelining for the bar. He needed a drink. His stomach was still uneasy from the gas, but he didn't care.

Eliot felt their presence behind him.

"I'm sorry," he apologized. "I know I fucked up."

"It wasn't your fault. We should have planned better," Hardison shook his head.

Eliot tipped back the shot of bourbon he'd poured himself.

"Parker, just say what you want to say," he sighed when the blonde didn't speak.

"You didn't say it back," her tone was unreadable. Not angry or sad. Both of which Eliot would have expected to be present.

Eliot tensed. He didn't want to have this conversation.

"Parker," Hardison's tone said to be gentle.

"Sophie said to give you time, so I did. It's been eight months since I told you for the first time. I know you feel the same way, I just don't understand why you won't say it back," Parker stepped forward but Hardison put a hand out, stopping her from crowding into Eliot's space too much.

Eliot turned around in his seat, his eyes landed on Parker. "If you know I feel the same way then why does it matter if I say it back?" Eliot asked, his tone not giving away his own emotions.

This only seemed to frustrate Parker further. Her jaw clenched and she looked to Hardison. "You're the patient one, not me."

Hardison gave her a sympathetic smile before turning to Eliot.

"Can you just give her a reason?" He asked with hopeful eyes.

Eliot sighed. He didn't want to hurt them, but he didn't want to upset them either. "Because if I say it, I won't mean it in the same way."

Parker's head snapped towards Eliot; her jaw dropped open.

Hardison looked like he'd been kicked. "Oh."

"Wait, what?" Parker frowned. "No that can't be right. Sophie and I talked about it. We were certain."

"Parker," Hardison put a hand on her shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Eliot dropped his head. This was a worse reaction than he'd expected.

"I told you this was a possibility," Hardison said before looking at Eliot with sad eyes. Eyes that Eliot hated being the cause of.

"I'm really sorry. I never intended for it to go this far. I-" Eliot cut himself off. A lump formed in his throat.

"But I was so sure that you felt the same way," Parker took a step back, looking as if she'd been slapped.

"Parker, I promise I would never come between you and Hardison, ever," Eliot stood up, reaching out for Parker and catching her wrist.

"Come between us?" Hardison frowned.

"That's what you're worried about right?" Eliot looked between his teammates. "My feelings for you both getting in the way?"

"Wait, your feelings for us both?" Hardison blinked as if trying to parse what language Eliot was speaking.

Suddenly Parker started laughing which caused Eliot to release her in confusion.

"He thinks we don't mean it in the same way," Parker said around a laugh.

"Yeah, that's what I said," Eliot was growing annoyed.

Suddenly Parker surged forward, her lips landed on Eliot's.

"Ooooh," Hardison nodded in understanding.

Eliot froze under Parker's touch.

"I love you, Eliot, the way I love Hardison," she smiled at him as she pulled away.

Eliot's heart was thudding heavily in his chest. Was this a dream? Was he hallucinating? How much carbon monoxide had he inhaled?

Before he could respond Hardison was pulling him into a kiss next. "I love you too Eliot, the way I love Parker, and the way Parker loves you," Hardison brushed his fingers along the nape of Eliot's neck.

Eliot couldn't help the smile that spread across his lips. "Oh." He'd been wrong. This whole time. They'd been trying to tell him and he just didn't see it. "I love you too, both of you."

It felt strange to say it out loud. But it was a wonderful feeling to know that whenever they would say it he could say it back and they would mean it in the same way.

*AN* My attempt at a sort of 5+1 I dunno...I am just obsessed with the show recently and couldn’t help myself. I don’t even know if anyone will read this, but here it is anyway.

[pagerunner]

2, 8, 17, and 18 if you please :D

Wow, you REALLY don’t want me to write, huh? :P

2. talk about a notable time a narrative or character has looked you dead in the eyes and said “fuck your plan, here’s what we’re actually doing.”

Okay, so on the whole, I’d really prefer if characters did THAT instead of what they usually do, which is go, “here’s what we’re NOT doing...what we will be doing shall remain a mystery until you run around in the dark bumping into walls for several more months.” But you asked for notable. And that would be Eliot taking my careful planned plot that involved him keeping his goddamn head down and instead literally announcing “Plan’s changed,” right before he started punching people. (this is a wip so I won’t explain circumstance, but it was very cathartic for him.) 

8. have you identified any recurring elements or themes across your writing?

hmm, I like characters learning to trust each other and themselves. Usually this starts with a miscommunication type of conflict, which I know, I know, but miscommunication often comes from insecurities and assumptions and I think those are interesting to disentangle and come to an understanding about. Frequently this takes a few tries as I need to figure out those motivations and insecurities and I don’t always get them right away (cue stumbling into walls). But with understanding, you get trust, and with trust you get TEAMWORK AND FOUND FAMILIES.

17. at what point in the process do you come up with titles, and how easy or hard is that for you?

It’s generally not that hard, but idk where some of them come from. Misadventures of Grumpy Cat and Circus just kinda sprang in there fully formed about the point Eliot started calling Clint Circus (Eliot, if you haven’t noticed, does whatever he damn well pleases) and Clint then of course had to come up with a stupid nickname for him so they were even. For the Pretzels triptych, which I probably thought about the most, the first one was obvious and when I realized I’d be continuing it, I wanted words that started with P and represented not the pov character for that part, but the theme of one of the others and how the pov character was reconciling it. So Hardison represents Pretzels, but that part is from Eliot’s pov and he’s figuring out how to interpret and accept them. Parker represents Plans, and Hardison’s navigating an unplanned situation, and Eliot represents Protection (originally i think I was using Pancakes lol) and Parker’s figuring out what that means and doesn’t mean in the context of a relationship. In comparison, Make Way for Ducklings was easy because that’s already a title and I stole it. Oh and sometimes I just snag the Leverage format of The ___ Job.

18. tell us about a character who’s very different than you who you love a whole lot 

Molly! She’s frequently angry and tends to be self-destructive when she doesn’t have a good outlet to channel her frustrations. She hasn’t learned how to harness that yet and it can come out in unpredictable ways that I sometimes struggle to capture because that’s definitely not me. So writing her was definitely an exercise in “what wouldn’t I do in this situation? Got it.” But I adore her and her mile wide protective streak and her completely transparent crush on Josie. 

Thank you for the ask! 

[distinctivelibrarians]

Friendship’s a Habit (We Just Can’t Kick)

This is based off this ask.

“He knew when it started. But he couldn’t put a date on when it became expected. Or when it became less of Sophie needing someone to vent to, and more two people leaning on each other.”

(ao3)

Hardison and Parker were too...sharp, where Nate was concerned.

Everything was an extreme. He was their saving grace, or the devil dragging them down. He was their mentor or their junkie. They trusted what he did without trusting a damn thing that came out of his mouth (except that they trusted that most of all, despite how short a time they’d all been around each other, and each time they got burned, they just kept coming back).

Eliot...Eliot didn't see that. He saw what Nate was: a man, like any other. And the other two would as well, given time.

But Sophie really just needed someone to see Nate. To see him and understand where she was coming from.

This wasn't the end of the world. This wasn't the end all be all. This wasn't the end of the book. Hell, this wasn’t even a significant chapter.

This was just a fight. Barely, even. And she just wanted to vent. To anyone. Anyone who saw both of them for who they were, who saw that she didn't want an ultimatum, didn't want to throw anyone or anything into the fire to burn away.

A friend, essentially.

So, there she was. At Eliot’s door, at midnight, on a Friday night.

And he wasn’t home.

She wasn’t proud of the loud, frustrated sound she made. But she was a little proud of getting the neighbor to bugger off with a few choice words.

She knew Eliot went home after they all met up that evening, after finally wrapping up that ridiculous near death experience with that damn plane. He was good at letting them know when he’d be out and about—never details, never specifics, just a general warning to call instead of hunt him down—but he's not there.

So she’d called.

She's not sure what she sounded like over the phone when he picked up. Couldn't tell anyone the actual conversation they had, if asked months later. She just knew that she spent the night in an apartment across town from the address he'd given the crew, venting and, eventually, laughing.

(When that came out, there'd been a bit of yelling, a bit of hurt, until Eliot pointed out that he knew Hardison had both addresses—which, he at least looked a little sheepish about, everything between all of them still too new, too sharp, that checking in like that wasn't expected, wasn't counted on—but that he knew Hardison wouldn’t use that knowledge unless absolutely necessary. Sophie had enjoyed Hardison's gobsmacked expression at the time, but, looking back on it later, she'd realized just how big of a neon sign that had been.)

Eliot didn’t know when it became a habit. Sure, he knew where it started. Hard not to—Sophie had been loud over the phone, and ranting about Nate, and even though she refused to say it, she’d really just needed a place to yell for a bit. He’d invited her over because, frankly, if she was turning to him, she probably didn’t have anyone else in easy reach and...well. The whole team thing was working out well enough, and he liked Sophie just fine at that point. Didn’t mean he trusted her. Or any of them, really.

(Except he was getting there, quickly.)

(But that was fucking terrifying at the time, so denial it was.)

Either way. She’d come over, had her moment to vent. She’d slept in his guest room, he’d made breakfast, and they didn’t talk about it the next day. Or ever, really.

So, he knew when it started. But he couldn’t put a date on when it became expected. Or when it became less of Sophie needing someone to vent to, and more two people leaning on each other. He knew it was a good year after Sophie had first barged into his space that he returned the favor and tracked her down to her apartment (after the cluster that was Nebraska). But that wasn’t the first time he’d sought her out—the coffee shop around the corner, the bar below Nate’s apartment, on the way to their latest job, phone calls when either of them could spare a moment after the team split—calls he’d decided early on not to think too hard about, because, honestly? I was just...nice to have a (semi-)normal friend out in the world that he could occasionally touch base with.

They didn’t talk about that either.

He’s not surprised when she leaves—tries to pretend he is, for the others’ sake though. But he’d been there for the Jack breakup. He was there when Sophie started questioning what she was doing. Sure, at the time, she’d more or less played it off, and he’d let her. But he knew that look she’d had, had seen it plenty of times in the mirror. Sometimes you had to leave before what was left broke in half.

There are more phone calls, then. So many more phone calls than the other two made while she was out and about in the world.

Much as that time had royally sucked—for so many reasons, not the least of which was that his friend was out there, outside of this little protective circle he was tentatively building but didn’t want to admit to—it had been kind of nice being called from the far end of the world by someone looking for a restaurant suggestion, or to rant about the weather, or, once, to give directions (and he was never going to let her live that down) instead of a job.

Which lead him to where he is now, actually. He’d been as surprised as Hardison had been when Sophie had shown up on that damn ship—she hadn’t breathed a word of coming back so soon, so suddenly. It made him feel a little better, later, when she said it was a spur of the moment thing, but still.

Right now though, he was outside what had been her apartment, knowing full well she’d sold this place the second she’d decided to leave.

Hardison and Parker were back at the bar, doing...well, who knew. He’d made sure they got back safe, and then he’d left. To do what, he hadn’t known. Maybe punch something, maybe run until he didn’t want to punch something. His pounding head and the twinge in his...everything had kind of shot that to shit though.

Muscle memory brought him there, because his head was definitely not in any kind of shape to keep conscious track of where he was going. But it’s all him when he pulls his phone out and dials her number from memory.

He gets an address about two blocks down the street and a request to pick up dinner from the hole in the wall four blocks out. All he can do is smile and ask what she wants.

Sophie’s the only one not surprised these days when Eliot switches languages with ease.

If they’re both feeling petty with the rest of the team, they’d both switch, leaving the rest of them floundering.

(They can’t use Spanish anymore, though Hardison still thinks Parker butting into their conversation out of nowhere was the funniest thing ever.)

Eliot knows almost down to the precise moment when Sophie and Nate get into a fight. And when they make up.

It drives Nate up a wall every goddamn time.

Sophie never quite forgives herself for missing how rattled Eliot was with the Moreau situation. Eliot never stops telling her he didn’t want her to see.

(Neither talk about the fact that Hardison did see. Eliot because he can’t, Sophie because, sometimes, she does possess some level of tact.)

Eliot doesn’t tell her that he knows exactly what went down in that hotel room. Instead, he makes her favorite dinner and gets her a cake with a bright pink “congratulations” written on it. Her laughing doesn’t stop her from throwing a bit at his head.

Sophie half expects to see Eliot on her doorstep after they pull Hardison from the ground.

She’s more than happy when she doesn’t.

And more than angry when she learns he spent the night running himself ragged instead of with him. Eliot can’t quite look her in the eye though, which takes all the steam out of her rant. He can’t hear what she wants to say, so instead, she drags him back home and makes him watch a marathon of whatever trashy 80s and 90s action movies they can find on tv.

(She kicks him out of the apartment when they get back from the university. And for good measure, calls Hardison and Parker to make sure they pick him up.)

Eliot’s the first to hear Sophie complaining about Portland. Sophie’s the second the hear about why the brewpub is just an awful idea.

She has no problem calling him out—he can’t hide how excited he is, not to her. He can’t quite drop the act, not completely. But she does get a smile, counts it as a win.

Eliot hears all about Vlad. And Nate’s reaction. He finds it a hell of a lot funnier than Nate does. It’s not the first time Nate glares at them, and it won’t be the last.

No one’s more surprised than she is when Amy finds herself with a standing Thursday date with either homemade dinner in a spartan flat on the outskirts of Portland or upscale takeout and wine at a downtown apartment fit to rival any of her parents’ places. Not that she’s complaining, of course. She just finds it a little...odd, sometimes. When she bothers to think about it.

But, if she’s being honest? It’s not the weirdest thing that’s happened since the foiled kidnapping attempt.

Her bosses are international criminals. That tops the list, surely.

(Or maybe its the fact that she trusts them more than any of her parents’ social circle.)

Parker regularly drags her out to do what she calls ‘normal people things’—shopping, coffee runs, book club (Peggy was very nice, she’d give her that), things like that. Hardison and her apparently have the same taste in movies, and Eliot assures her that she’s a blessing because, “finally, someone who can keep up with his references.” Nate’s nice enough. He’s not her boss though, and she only really sees him around the others, which is just fine with her.

And, somewhere in there, she’d gotten to talking with Sophie and Eliot. And then got invited along to what Hardison had told her was their ‘gossip nights’. Eliot, who definitely hadn’t actually heard him—he was across the room!—threw a spatula at him out of nowhere.

The thing is though, as weird as it might be from the outside, she loves Thursday nights, when she can make them.

She knows how Sophie and Nate are doing. She knows who Eliot last saw and why he’s not seeing them anymore—and she’s reached a point where she can share a look with Sophie about that because, wow, he is not subtle. She hears the most fantastic, outrageous stories about their previous cons—she never quite believes the whole story, which she feels is fair. She once asked Hardison and Parker to double check after one—something to do with a pocket watch, a lot of gold, and Chinese miners—and Hardison swore up and down that Eliot and Sophie got the story wrong.

In return, they’re the first to know when she gets accepted into an art school—Eliot cooks the most amazing dinner that night, and Sophie takes her out to buy more materials than she could possibly need the next day, and that night they tell her to invite any friends she’d like to the pub for a party to celebrate. They’re among the first to hear her complaints about the brewpub (if it’s serious, she knows it’ll get back to Hardison) or her family. And having people who understand both sides of that—of decent work versus the stifling weight of her former social circle—is a relief.

She’s there the night Eliot calls ahead to let them know he won’t be coming around. And when the speaker phone picks up Hardison and Parker telling him to hurry up, they’re going to be late for their reservation, her and Sophie can’t help but laugh and tell him good luck.

(They see him the next day and Amy’s never seen that small, soft smile. Sophie tells her she hasn’t either.)

Her and Eliot are in the middle of dissecting everything on Hardison’s current rewrite of the menu (Amy for shits and giggles, Eliot because it’s apparently a travesty) when Sophie marches up and tells them, point blank, if Nate doesn’t propose soon, she’s going to do it herself.

She’s not there for the proposal, but Eliot calls her right after and gives her a play by play. And then she gets a text from Sophie—with a blurry picture of a beautiful ring.

[firebirdsdaughter]

Another great thing…

… About the David Jobs is everyone showing up at the Blackpoole museum wing. Completely independently.

I refuse to believe it was just a pride thing.

[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.