Comment Fic!
Dark fic Saturday: Warning: This whole post is covered in dark themes. Warnings for each story are attached individually.
Leverage, Eliot (+ team possibly?), he never stopped working for Moreau
In The Tombs, R, Eliot/Parker(/Damien), Warning: Potential Dub-Con
Sometimes Eliot hated himself. He looked at his face in the mirror and he didn't see himself anymore. He didn't see the young boy who grew up loving horses or the young man who joined the army just to get out. Instead, he saw blood and death and pain and he knew there was no getting out, no getting away. There was only Eliot and Damien and the destruction they could cause.
He imagined he could have escaped, years ago. But that was years ago and now was now and there wasn't any other life for him. Eliot Spencer was a name that struck fear into the hearts of anyone who knew it. And those that didn't; well, they should have known better. He was Damien's favorite weapon and Damien's favorite pet.
He stood in the Tombs of San Lorenzo and looked at the people who thought they had been his team. They hadn't known who he was. They hadn't been able to see what he was. They thought he was like them - pretty and soft and human and clean.
Pretty little Parker, locked up in a cage, he thought bitterly. She should be happy she was in the Tombs. Damien was already planning to move her. He thought she would be a pretty pet to stand next to Eliot, to warm his bed when he wasn't at Damien's side. And Eliot had learned to stop objecting to Damien a long time ago.
But he walked past the cells that held Sophie and Nate first. Nate was pacing and glaring, like he held any power in Damien Moreau's world. Sophie had stopped begging weeks ago and instead, curled up on her bunk, waiting and watching. Eliot would warn his men about her. She was tricky and grifters never could be trusted.
Hardison hadn't moved in days. Eliot didn't know if it was because he'd broken his arm in the fight or because he'd lost access to the technology that ran his world. Either way, it wasn't Eliot's business anymore. The Tombs belonged to other men. Eliot was on a mission and then he would be gone forever.
He unlocked Parker's cell and stood in the doorway, just holding out his hand.
"What do you want?" she asked suspiciously.
He liked that. He liked that she still had spirit. Damien would use that. Damien could see how beautiful Parker was and he would mold her to his own image, the same as he had done with Eliot. Eliot could understand Damien's vision. They would be beautiful and deadly and useful together.
"Damien wants you," Eliot said slowly. "You can walk free if you work for him."
"Like you?"
Eliot nodded. He turned and cast a despairing glance over the other three before turning back to her. "The two of us, we do things they can't."
Parker took that for what it was. "Does that make us bad?"
Eliot smiled. Damien was right. He was always right. "It makes us, us. Do you want the gift?"
And Parker took his hand and walked out of the Tombs, holding onto Eliot like he was the real prize.
Leverage, Eliot +Team, In order to take down Moroue he had to go back to old dark places and now he's having trouble coming back.
Out of the Abyss, Eliot, PG-13
Eliot had dark places inside him. He knew it and now the team knew it.
Sophie said everyone did, but Eliot knew that they weren't like him. They were thieves and conmen and criminals, but, oh god, they weren't like him. The dark places inside Eliot felt like an abyss, felt like someday they would swallow him whole, and his entire world would become blood and pain.
He was scared of what he saw when he closed his eyes now. He had worked for so many years to escape this. He remembered traveling, running, running, running, always running away and into the arms of the next demon, just to escape his own past. He built his reputation on his fear. Eliot Spencer, the man who was afraid of nothing, because he had already become everything he despised.
Eliot Spencer. He would kill a man for money because he'd killed children for less. He could retrieve your blood diamonds because he'd been one of the men to put the blood there. There wasn't a job, for love or money, Eliot Spencer couldn't or wouldn't do. He was feared as the amoral deadly boogieman of the hitmen and retrieval specialists who thrived on the black market. He earned that reputation with innocent blood and that was a stain that would never wash away.
He stopped sleeping. On the mountain, he just lay curled up in his jacket, wondering what it would be like to die in the snow. He didn't know what way was up anymore. He didn't know what he was or who he was supposed to be.
He'd lived a lie every single minute he had worked with the team. He got to be big brother and lover to Parker and Hardison, playing the hardworking cowboy. And he got to be Nate's level headed anchor and the country boy to Sophie's city lady. It was like it had been before, but it wasn't true. It was a lie. He was too blood stained to wear the white hat, to work with a team as good and true as they were. And now they knew it.
After the job on the island, Eliot stayed down in the bar, in a corner booth in the back, when everyone else went upstairs to Nate's apartment. He ordered a whiskey to avoid the bartender's attention and didn't drink it. He didn't hold himself or rock like a better man would. He didn't close his eyes. He just waited for the abyss that lived inside him to swallow him whole. He waited to hear, in a tinny voice in his ear, that the team no longer wanted him.
Instead, one by one, the team joined him in his booth. They didn't order drinks and they didn't touch his. They didn't say anything. And then, one by one, they left. Sophie kissed his forehead. Nate clasped his shoulder. Hardison gave him a big awkward hug. Parker, the last to go, just held his hand for a long, long time.
And for the first time since the Italian told Nate about Moreau, Eliot wondered if he could make it out of the abyss for a second time.
Leverage, Eliot/ or + Hardison, Hardison finds out that the first time Eliot got tortured was just days before Hardison started the sixth grade.
1998, Eliot/Hardison, Warning: Torture
Hardison was eleven-almost-twelve when he started sixth grade. It was 1998 and fall in Chicago. He was already living with Nana and she'd just introduced him to Doctor Who and told him if she got his grades up, she'd get him more videos. He got to start junior high math and take a computer class that year and for the first time in his life, he could see his glorious future stretch out before him.
And no matter how much he wanted to share that awesome with Eliot, he knew he couldn't.
Because that was the year Eliot was 24. And while Hardison didn't know many details, he knew that it was a bad year. The year Eliot was 24 was the first time he was caught by the Chinese. He said it was something about a monkey, but Hardison didn't pay attention to that. He paid attention to the way Eliot's skin went too-white and his eyes darted around the room and his hands clenched into tight fists, like he want to hurt someone.
Hardison wasn't Eliot's lover because he was stupid. And he hadn't gone through the system and lived with criminals without learning to read body language or between the lines. He knew that hitch in breathing from Eliot's nightmares and knew the hoarseness in his voice from when he talked about Moreau. He knew Eliot's fists from the time at the hospital with the abused kid and he knew his pale skin from the carnival.
He had known Eliot killed his first man in cold blood when he was twenty four. Eliot said it was at Christmas and it hadn't been one man. It had been a blood bath and it got Eliot out of a prison that didn't exist and put him on the map as a hitter.
Hardison knew what happened in prisons that didn't exist. He knew what it meant when Eliot couldn't even tell Hardison what happened. It was worse than bad and Hardison couldn't fix it. Eliot couldn't even face it.
He didn't know what to do with the fact that the first time his lover was tortured, he was starting sixth grade and falling in love with the BBC. It wasn't right. It was eight or ten kinds of wrong and Hardison didn't know how to make it better. He didn't know how to bring the color back to Eliot's face or get his voice back to the normal growl or make him see that Hardison didn't say it to hurt him.
Leverage, Eliot (+ team possibly?), he never stopped working for Moreau
In The Tombs, R, Eliot/Parker(/Damien), Warning: Potential Dub-Con
Sometimes Eliot hated himself. He looked at his face in the mirror and he didn't see himself anymore. He didn't see the young boy who grew up loving horses or the young man who joined the army just to get out. Instead, he saw blood and death and pain and he knew there was no getting out, no getting away. There was only Eliot and Damien and the destruction they could cause.
He imagined he could have escaped, years ago. But that was years ago and now was now and there wasn't any other life for him. Eliot Spencer was a name that struck fear into the hearts of anyone who knew it. And those that didn't; well, they should have known better. He was Damien's favorite weapon and Damien's favorite pet.
He stood in the Tombs of San Lorenzo and looked at the people who thought they had been his team. They hadn't known who he was. They hadn't been able to see what he was. They thought he was like them - pretty and soft and human and clean.
Pretty little Parker, locked up in a cage, he thought bitterly. She should be happy she was in the Tombs. Damien was already planning to move her. He thought she would be a pretty pet to stand next to Eliot, to warm his bed when he wasn't at Damien's side. And Eliot had learned to stop objecting to Damien a long time ago.
But he walked past the cells that held Sophie and Nate first. Nate was pacing and glaring, like he held any power in Damien Moreau's world. Sophie had stopped begging weeks ago and instead, curled up on her bunk, waiting and watching. Eliot would warn his men about her. She was tricky and grifters never could be trusted.
Hardison hadn't moved in days. Eliot didn't know if it was because he'd broken his arm in the fight or because he'd lost access to the technology that ran his world. Either way, it wasn't Eliot's business anymore. The Tombs belonged to other men. Eliot was on a mission and then he would be gone forever.
He unlocked Parker's cell and stood in the doorway, just holding out his hand.
"What do you want?" she asked suspiciously.
He liked that. He liked that she still had spirit. Damien would use that. Damien could see how beautiful Parker was and he would mold her to his own image, the same as he had done with Eliot. Eliot could understand Damien's vision. They would be beautiful and deadly and useful together.
"Damien wants you," Eliot said slowly. "You can walk free if you work for him."
"Like you?"
Eliot nodded. He turned and cast a despairing glance over the other three before turning back to her. "The two of us, we do things they can't."
Parker took that for what it was. "Does that make us bad?"
Eliot smiled. Damien was right. He was always right. "It makes us, us. Do you want the gift?"
And Parker took his hand and walked out of the Tombs, holding onto Eliot like he was the real prize.
Leverage, Eliot +Team, In order to take down Moroue he had to go back to old dark places and now he's having trouble coming back.
Out of the Abyss, Eliot, PG-13
Eliot had dark places inside him. He knew it and now the team knew it.
Sophie said everyone did, but Eliot knew that they weren't like him. They were thieves and conmen and criminals, but, oh god, they weren't like him. The dark places inside Eliot felt like an abyss, felt like someday they would swallow him whole, and his entire world would become blood and pain.
He was scared of what he saw when he closed his eyes now. He had worked for so many years to escape this. He remembered traveling, running, running, running, always running away and into the arms of the next demon, just to escape his own past. He built his reputation on his fear. Eliot Spencer, the man who was afraid of nothing, because he had already become everything he despised.
Eliot Spencer. He would kill a man for money because he'd killed children for less. He could retrieve your blood diamonds because he'd been one of the men to put the blood there. There wasn't a job, for love or money, Eliot Spencer couldn't or wouldn't do. He was feared as the amoral deadly boogieman of the hitmen and retrieval specialists who thrived on the black market. He earned that reputation with innocent blood and that was a stain that would never wash away.
He stopped sleeping. On the mountain, he just lay curled up in his jacket, wondering what it would be like to die in the snow. He didn't know what way was up anymore. He didn't know what he was or who he was supposed to be.
He'd lived a lie every single minute he had worked with the team. He got to be big brother and lover to Parker and Hardison, playing the hardworking cowboy. And he got to be Nate's level headed anchor and the country boy to Sophie's city lady. It was like it had been before, but it wasn't true. It was a lie. He was too blood stained to wear the white hat, to work with a team as good and true as they were. And now they knew it.
After the job on the island, Eliot stayed down in the bar, in a corner booth in the back, when everyone else went upstairs to Nate's apartment. He ordered a whiskey to avoid the bartender's attention and didn't drink it. He didn't hold himself or rock like a better man would. He didn't close his eyes. He just waited for the abyss that lived inside him to swallow him whole. He waited to hear, in a tinny voice in his ear, that the team no longer wanted him.
Instead, one by one, the team joined him in his booth. They didn't order drinks and they didn't touch his. They didn't say anything. And then, one by one, they left. Sophie kissed his forehead. Nate clasped his shoulder. Hardison gave him a big awkward hug. Parker, the last to go, just held his hand for a long, long time.
And for the first time since the Italian told Nate about Moreau, Eliot wondered if he could make it out of the abyss for a second time.
Leverage, Eliot/ or + Hardison, Hardison finds out that the first time Eliot got tortured was just days before Hardison started the sixth grade.
1998, Eliot/Hardison, Warning: Torture
Hardison was eleven-almost-twelve when he started sixth grade. It was 1998 and fall in Chicago. He was already living with Nana and she'd just introduced him to Doctor Who and told him if she got his grades up, she'd get him more videos. He got to start junior high math and take a computer class that year and for the first time in his life, he could see his glorious future stretch out before him.
And no matter how much he wanted to share that awesome with Eliot, he knew he couldn't.
Because that was the year Eliot was 24. And while Hardison didn't know many details, he knew that it was a bad year. The year Eliot was 24 was the first time he was caught by the Chinese. He said it was something about a monkey, but Hardison didn't pay attention to that. He paid attention to the way Eliot's skin went too-white and his eyes darted around the room and his hands clenched into tight fists, like he want to hurt someone.
Hardison wasn't Eliot's lover because he was stupid. And he hadn't gone through the system and lived with criminals without learning to read body language or between the lines. He knew that hitch in breathing from Eliot's nightmares and knew the hoarseness in his voice from when he talked about Moreau. He knew Eliot's fists from the time at the hospital with the abused kid and he knew his pale skin from the carnival.
He had known Eliot killed his first man in cold blood when he was twenty four. Eliot said it was at Christmas and it hadn't been one man. It had been a blood bath and it got Eliot out of a prison that didn't exist and put him on the map as a hitter.
Hardison knew what happened in prisons that didn't exist. He knew what it meant when Eliot couldn't even tell Hardison what happened. It was worse than bad and Hardison couldn't fix it. Eliot couldn't even face it.
He didn't know what to do with the fact that the first time his lover was tortured, he was starting sixth grade and falling in love with the BBC. It wasn't right. It was eight or ten kinds of wrong and Hardison didn't know how to make it better. He didn't know how to bring the color back to Eliot's face or get his voice back to the normal growl or make him see that Hardison didn't say it to hurt him.