Down in Flames
Title: Down in Flames
Pairing: Eliot/Hardison pre-slash
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Summary: There are things Eliot knows how to deal with, and things he doesn't. Coda to 'The Gone Fishing Job'.
He can smell dirt, gun-oil, body odor. Five guys in grabbing range and his mind is already calculating angles, momentum and weaknesses--a bad knee, a weak stance, a finger off the trigger. The kid isn't even a threat. He can end this. He can get out. He can get them both out. It's bad odds, but he's had worse and you can't say much for Hardison in a fight but he's in good shape, and he can run. Better than dragging a body. A whole hell of a lot better than dragging the body of a friend. It won't come to that.
***
Turns out that Hardison isn't all that much of a liability out in the field, but he makes up for it and then some after the fact. He's got an ice-pack on his face even though Eliot's pretty sure they didn't get any more than a glancing blow in, if that, and he won't quit bitching.
"...swear to God, the next mosquito I see, I am pulling out a flamethrower on his sorry little behind, no joke."
The side of Eliot's face is throbbing, and the way the van is bouncing doesn't really help. "Hardison, would it kill you to shut your trap for five minutes?"
"Would it kill me to--excuse me," Hardison says, jabbing him in the side. "Now, whose idea was this whole business, huh?"
"Yeah, 'cause this was all part of my plan."
"Right." Hardison snorts, rolls his eyes. He always rolls his eyes using his whole damn head, face scrunched up, chin tilted back to expose the long, clean line of his throat. He took his shirt off earlier so Nate could get a look at the bruising on his midsection, and he hasn't bothered to put it back on. It's fucking distracting. "Fishing. I tell you what, next time you get the bright idea to drag me off on some kind of romantic outing, can we just stick with the roller rink? Or bowling. Baby, I can rock the nine-pin."
Eliot closes his eyes. Hardison's just running his mouth. That's just how he talks, and he probably doesn't even hear half the shit that comes out of his mouth, let alone mean it.
"What's a nine-pin?" Parker asks from the front of the van, and Eliot puts his head back against the seat, lets Hardison's rambling and Parker's chirping questions, the sound of the road beneath their wheels, lull him into something that's as close to sleep as he's willing to get.
***
Hardison is fast as hell, but he's uncoordinated, like he never quite caught up to his own height. He doesn't have the first idea about how to move with another person, which is kind of a problem when they're handcuffed together.
His hand is bleeding where Eliot cut him, red smears on his own pants and shirt, just enough that Eliot can smell the blood.
***
"Eliot? Eliot, man, wake up. We're here."
He feels the movement in the air that means Hardison's hand is about to come down on his shoulder, and he reaches up, grabs his wrist without opening his eyes. Squeezes just hard enough to make his point, warm skin, the hard shapes of bone and Hardison's pulse jumping under his fingers. "Don't touch me when I'm sleeping. It's not a bright idea."
Hardison's hand is bandaged, the rough edges scraping Eliot's thumb when he lets go. "Okay, okay. Touchy."
"Jesus Christ, let me out of this damn van."
Hardison sits back on his heels, and Eliot shoves past him, feels like he isn't really breathing again until his feet hit the pavement. They're outside McRory's. "What the hell?"
The van door slams shut, and there's Hardison behind him, standing with his feet planted and his arms folded and wearing an expression that Eliot recognizes only too well. Before Eliot can reach around him to pull the door open again, the van peels off at a speed that can only mean Parker's behind the wheel. "You're concussed, dude. No way am I letting your ass go home just so you can keel over and die in your sleep."
"Hardison--"
"Come on, man, I got a fishing game on my Wii and everything."
"Seriously?"
Hardison smiles. "Or you can walk home. Parker took your wallet. Good luck getting a cab with no cash."
Eliot slaps his pocket reflexively, but of course Hardison is right, and it's gone. "I could just knock you out and take yours," he says, but he doesn't mean it and they both know it.
***
Whistle and clatter and goddamn, Eliot is gonna buy their drunken genius of a boss a shot when they get back. Bomb, he thinks, briefly, then shoves it out of his head. If it was just him--it's not just him. It's Hardison, too, and Eliot's job is to get him out in one piece. Screw everybody else.
Hardison, the fucker, has other ideas. Stupid goddamn ideas like he thinks he's Rambo or something. Like he thinks they're both some kind of heroes.
CWA, for chrissake. The man is a disaster waiting to happen.
***
"Come on now." Hardison is grinning, bright and easy. "You gotta admit. I owned you."
"Doesn't count."
"Bullshit."
"It ain't really fishing."
"Keep on trying to make excuses."
Eliot almost smiles, stops when it pulls at the sore spots in his cheek and jaw. "I should go."
Hardison's grin fades into something that's a little too knowing for Eliot's comfort. He's wearing a clean t-shirt, bright red decorated with a block of code that's got to be some kind of joke in geek-speak. It doesn't make him look as stupid as it should. His uninjured hand is splayed carelessly on the couch, long graceful fingers and bitten-down nails. "Or you could stay."
"And do what?"
Hardison shrugs against the couch, flips the screen off, throwing the room into darkness. The blinds are shut, but they let in enough light for Eliot to see the line of his cheekbone, the sharp edge of his smile. "You tell me, man. Am I totally misreading this situation?"
That's Eliot's cue to get up and leave, right there. Hardison's a kid. A big-mouthed, smart-ass, computer-genius geek of a kid, shiny-clean and undamaged in all the ways that Eliot hasn't been in years.
Hardison gets under his skin way more than he should, and you don't get far in his line of work by lying to yourself or your team. You don't play your allies. Or your friends. Or whatever the hell him and Hardison are.
He should leave, but instead he shifts until he's facing toward Hardison, hip pressed into the side of the couch back. Good suede rasping under his hands and the sound of two sets of breathing and Hardison really doesn't look quite as confident as he's trying to, this close up. "Nah," Eliot murmurs. "You aren't."
Hardison's smile gets about ten degrees more relieved. "So if I were to, like--theoretically--make a move, that wouldn't end in me getting my teeth broken?"
"Can't make any promises," Eliot says, but he's grinning, bruises and all, and Hardison is grinning back.
***
The bomb goes off, all color and burn. Eliot's face is aching, his rib might be cracked, and on his right, Hardison is cackling like a lunatic.
He can't stop smiling.
Pairing: Eliot/Hardison pre-slash
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Summary: There are things Eliot knows how to deal with, and things he doesn't. Coda to 'The Gone Fishing Job'.
He can smell dirt, gun-oil, body odor. Five guys in grabbing range and his mind is already calculating angles, momentum and weaknesses--a bad knee, a weak stance, a finger off the trigger. The kid isn't even a threat. He can end this. He can get out. He can get them both out. It's bad odds, but he's had worse and you can't say much for Hardison in a fight but he's in good shape, and he can run. Better than dragging a body. A whole hell of a lot better than dragging the body of a friend. It won't come to that.
***
Turns out that Hardison isn't all that much of a liability out in the field, but he makes up for it and then some after the fact. He's got an ice-pack on his face even though Eliot's pretty sure they didn't get any more than a glancing blow in, if that, and he won't quit bitching.
"...swear to God, the next mosquito I see, I am pulling out a flamethrower on his sorry little behind, no joke."
The side of Eliot's face is throbbing, and the way the van is bouncing doesn't really help. "Hardison, would it kill you to shut your trap for five minutes?"
"Would it kill me to--excuse me," Hardison says, jabbing him in the side. "Now, whose idea was this whole business, huh?"
"Yeah, 'cause this was all part of my plan."
"Right." Hardison snorts, rolls his eyes. He always rolls his eyes using his whole damn head, face scrunched up, chin tilted back to expose the long, clean line of his throat. He took his shirt off earlier so Nate could get a look at the bruising on his midsection, and he hasn't bothered to put it back on. It's fucking distracting. "Fishing. I tell you what, next time you get the bright idea to drag me off on some kind of romantic outing, can we just stick with the roller rink? Or bowling. Baby, I can rock the nine-pin."
Eliot closes his eyes. Hardison's just running his mouth. That's just how he talks, and he probably doesn't even hear half the shit that comes out of his mouth, let alone mean it.
"What's a nine-pin?" Parker asks from the front of the van, and Eliot puts his head back against the seat, lets Hardison's rambling and Parker's chirping questions, the sound of the road beneath their wheels, lull him into something that's as close to sleep as he's willing to get.
***
Hardison is fast as hell, but he's uncoordinated, like he never quite caught up to his own height. He doesn't have the first idea about how to move with another person, which is kind of a problem when they're handcuffed together.
His hand is bleeding where Eliot cut him, red smears on his own pants and shirt, just enough that Eliot can smell the blood.
***
"Eliot? Eliot, man, wake up. We're here."
He feels the movement in the air that means Hardison's hand is about to come down on his shoulder, and he reaches up, grabs his wrist without opening his eyes. Squeezes just hard enough to make his point, warm skin, the hard shapes of bone and Hardison's pulse jumping under his fingers. "Don't touch me when I'm sleeping. It's not a bright idea."
Hardison's hand is bandaged, the rough edges scraping Eliot's thumb when he lets go. "Okay, okay. Touchy."
"Jesus Christ, let me out of this damn van."
Hardison sits back on his heels, and Eliot shoves past him, feels like he isn't really breathing again until his feet hit the pavement. They're outside McRory's. "What the hell?"
The van door slams shut, and there's Hardison behind him, standing with his feet planted and his arms folded and wearing an expression that Eliot recognizes only too well. Before Eliot can reach around him to pull the door open again, the van peels off at a speed that can only mean Parker's behind the wheel. "You're concussed, dude. No way am I letting your ass go home just so you can keel over and die in your sleep."
"Hardison--"
"Come on, man, I got a fishing game on my Wii and everything."
"Seriously?"
Hardison smiles. "Or you can walk home. Parker took your wallet. Good luck getting a cab with no cash."
Eliot slaps his pocket reflexively, but of course Hardison is right, and it's gone. "I could just knock you out and take yours," he says, but he doesn't mean it and they both know it.
***
Whistle and clatter and goddamn, Eliot is gonna buy their drunken genius of a boss a shot when they get back. Bomb, he thinks, briefly, then shoves it out of his head. If it was just him--it's not just him. It's Hardison, too, and Eliot's job is to get him out in one piece. Screw everybody else.
Hardison, the fucker, has other ideas. Stupid goddamn ideas like he thinks he's Rambo or something. Like he thinks they're both some kind of heroes.
CWA, for chrissake. The man is a disaster waiting to happen.
***
"Come on now." Hardison is grinning, bright and easy. "You gotta admit. I owned you."
"Doesn't count."
"Bullshit."
"It ain't really fishing."
"Keep on trying to make excuses."
Eliot almost smiles, stops when it pulls at the sore spots in his cheek and jaw. "I should go."
Hardison's grin fades into something that's a little too knowing for Eliot's comfort. He's wearing a clean t-shirt, bright red decorated with a block of code that's got to be some kind of joke in geek-speak. It doesn't make him look as stupid as it should. His uninjured hand is splayed carelessly on the couch, long graceful fingers and bitten-down nails. "Or you could stay."
"And do what?"
Hardison shrugs against the couch, flips the screen off, throwing the room into darkness. The blinds are shut, but they let in enough light for Eliot to see the line of his cheekbone, the sharp edge of his smile. "You tell me, man. Am I totally misreading this situation?"
That's Eliot's cue to get up and leave, right there. Hardison's a kid. A big-mouthed, smart-ass, computer-genius geek of a kid, shiny-clean and undamaged in all the ways that Eliot hasn't been in years.
Hardison gets under his skin way more than he should, and you don't get far in his line of work by lying to yourself or your team. You don't play your allies. Or your friends. Or whatever the hell him and Hardison are.
He should leave, but instead he shifts until he's facing toward Hardison, hip pressed into the side of the couch back. Good suede rasping under his hands and the sound of two sets of breathing and Hardison really doesn't look quite as confident as he's trying to, this close up. "Nah," Eliot murmurs. "You aren't."
Hardison's smile gets about ten degrees more relieved. "So if I were to, like--theoretically--make a move, that wouldn't end in me getting my teeth broken?"
"Can't make any promises," Eliot says, but he's grinning, bruises and all, and Hardison is grinning back.
***
The bomb goes off, all color and burn. Eliot's face is aching, his rib might be cracked, and on his right, Hardison is cackling like a lunatic.
He can't stop smiling.