#you're right hardison it is very very disturbing

[ghostlyarchaeologist]

"We’ve been providing military advisors, internationally, for over forty years."

Leverage S01E02 The Homecoming Job.

[yoyomarules]

#eliot: this is a punching job for punching. you can punch and you can use improvised weapons but thats IT#quinn: *dejectedly piling weapons onto the coffee table* you are SO mean and unfair actually#technically hes allowed to keep both his garrote bracelet and his lucky boot knife for Emergencies but like#he feels naked :( its like when they r asking him 2 wear a tshirt for a grift :( the cruelty to quinns everywhere :(#several quinns were harmed during the making of this con :( (via @darkfinch​)

every day quinn plays the "how many weapons can i hide under my suit without eliot noticing" game and every day the answer is "less than one"

[kookicat]

To Bid Goodbye to the Past - Part Two

The magnitude of what he's done doesn't hit him until he's stepping into the first class cabin for the plane journey home. He pauses, ignoring the annoyed huff from the passenger behind him, and takes a second to just breathe, because he's pretty sure if he doesn't, he's going to throw up. His legs feel like they don't want to hold him and he braces one hand against the seat beside him while he gets the reaction under control, feeling the shake in his hands. 

The gun is warm from his body, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world to wrap his fingers around the grip, to bring it up-

"Move it, pal," the jerk behind him says, and nudges Eliot hard with his laptop bag. 

It takes an act of will for Eliot not to turn around and rearrange the man's teeth. "Shut the fuck up," he rasps instead, hearing just how on edge he is in his own voice. 

He moves forwards, dropping into his seat, pressing his head back against the cushion, counting breaths until his heart doesn't feel like it's going to explode right out of his chest. Until he can control the shake in his hands. The seat is in its own enclosure, hiding him from the other passengers, and he's damn grateful for that. 

The bastard is dead, he thinks. He can't hurt us again. He can't hurt me again. It hits him again, the relief, and it's so profound he doesn't know if he wants to laugh or sob under the weight of it. In the end, he does neither, just scrubs a hand over his face and pinches his eyes closed while he tucks all of it away in a mental box, to deal with later, when he's somewhere secure. 

Soft footsteps make him open his eyes. A red headed flight attendant is making her way down the aisle towards him. 

"Nervous?" she says, "Don't worry, sir. Flying is really very safe now. Can I get you a drink?" 

He blinks at her, because out of all the things that are likely to kill him, a plane crash is damn low on that list. "Whiskey, on the rocks," he says and forces a smile that feels sickly. The travel and the stress and just the sheer physical effect of seeing Damien Moreau again are starting to bite. His hands ache, a phantom throb that has more to do with his history with guns than any real physical ailment. A naggy headache spreads across his temples, a warning that he needs to sleep and eat. "Do you have any crackers? Something bland?" he asks, because his stomach is a bit unsettled. 

"Sure thing, hon," she says with a smile and heads off. 

He's exhausted but he's too wired to even think about sleeping. The cabin is quiet, just three passengers, and he silently thanks Hardison's genius, because if he'd been in economy, he's pretty sure he'd have lost it by now. The peaceful atmosphere is soothing and he runs through his breathing exercises again, nodding thanks as the flight attendant returns with his drink and a package of peanut butter crackers. 

"There you go, hun," she says and pats him on the arm.

He almost jumps at the unexpected contact, and feels the shake start in his fingers again. "Thank you," he manages to say, and swallows a generous mouthful of the liquor. It burns on the way down, and he relishes the feeling, because it's something he can use to ground himself. 

"Press the button there if you need anything," she says and leaves him. 

He leans back, staring at the ceiling, listening to the engines as they taxi. Despite his best intentions, he's asleep before the big plane makes it into the air. 

----

He knows he's not alone as soon as he steps into his apartment. It's quiet, but the place has a disturbed feel that sets his nerves on edge for a long second before he sniffs and catches the scent of tangerine shampoo and gummy frogs. It's the scent of home to him, lets him relax enough to unclench his fingers from the duffle bag, before the implications hit and he tenses up all over again, just for a very different reason. He scrubs a hand over his face and heads towards the flicker of the TV, because he's never hidden from confrontation and he's not about to start now. 

They're sprawled on the big leather couch, covered in a beautiful cashmere throw gifted to him by Sophie. Just the sight makes fondness bloom in his chest, brings a contented smile to his lips, even if he is worried about how they're going to react to what he did. It's too late to change it, and he wouldn't, even if he had the option, because for the first time in a long time, he can't feel the eyes on the back of his neck, doesn't feel hunted, and that's worth more than he can put into words. He doesn't think they'll hate him, but he's not sure and if they do, he knows it'll break something inside of him that he'll never be able to fix. 

The credits roll on the TV- it's one of the Star Wars movies, though he's too damn tired to remember which one- and he picks up the remote quietly, switching the TV off. 

Parker shifts, eyes opening slowly. "You're back," she says, "Did you kill him?" 

He thinks about lying, denying it, but he's always been truthful with her- apart from the single moment when he let the pain of his past show and begged her for mercy, and that was as much for her benefit as his. 

"Yes," he says and meets her eyes squarely, straightening his shoulders in unconscious reflex. 

A beat passes and he feels his heart rate pick up, feels the prickle as sweat breaks out along the curve of his lower back, because she's studying him like he's a new and particularly perplexing safe. 

"Good," Hardison says, voice heavy with sleep, but clear. "I hope that motherfucker rots in hell." 

"What he said," Parker says, and shifts over, so there's space on the couch for Eliot. 

He sits, because the relief in their simple and straightforward acceptance has gone straight to his knees and it's a choice between sitting and falling down. There's a hundred things he wants to say, defending his actions, explaining them, but there's also a part of him that never wants to think or speak about Damien Moreau ever again and he surrenders to that part, shuddering as the tension leaves him. 

"He was a very bad man," Parker says, and flips the blanket back over them. "Even with him in jail, we weren't safe, were we?" 

"No," Eliot says, tipping his head back against the couch, so he's looking at the ceiling. "It was just a matter of time, before he found a way out and came looking for revenge." He shudders again, for a very different reason, and licks his lips. "And believe me, it wouldn't have been pretty." 

"I'm glad, man," Hardison says. "But-" he pauses, glancing at Eliot, seeing just how much this one cost him. "But I'm sorry it had to be you." 

"I'm not," Eliot says, letting his eyes close. "It was always going to be me. Just a matter of when." 

"I'm disappointed," Parker says, and Eliot peels an eye open to look at her, feeling the sleepy contentment vanish at her serious tone. 

"Why, mama?" Hardison asks, before Eliot can. 

"I didn't get to taze him," she says, and sets them all off laughing. 

[darkfinch]

#lots of fun to be had with quinn + improvised weapons i feel

#like i think quinn is... not less creative on that front than eliot exactly #more like why would you waste a tasty appetiser by jamming it in someone's eye #when you could just stab them with your secret knife specifically intended for stabbing people?

#so someone (probably hardison) tries to resolve the time suck that is the inevitable last-minute quinn de-weaponing by proposing a game #'hey quinn what if you leave your regular weapons at home and whoever of you and eliot comes up with the best improv weapon gets a prize?' #'yours can be the eliot meal of your choice'

#eliot is like uhhhhh i know you're trying to help but i feel like this can only end badly but quinn's all sounds fun let's do it #hardison is very smug about resolving it for a bit. but all good things must come to an end

#and so this does two jobs later after a very imaginative but highly unsettling deployment of a dish soap/electric toothbrush combo somehow? #hardison is like i'm a man of my word and you obviously win but the game is cancelled forever #i would actually be less disturbed right now if you had just stabbed him

#eliot grumpily starting on quinn's lasagne request in the background is like what did i tell you. i SAID. [via @yoyomarules]

every day quinn plays the “how many weapons can i hide under my suit without eliot noticing” game and every day the answer is “less than one”