Leverage Fic - The Price We Pay (Part 1/2)
Title: The Price We Pay
Genre: Angst, hurt/comfort
Word Count: ~14,500
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Pairings: Eliot/Hardison
Warnings: None
Summary: Eliot has always been a man that believed in duty and honor before all else. And that includes his duty to the rest of his teammates to make sure that they come home safe after each and every con. He doesn't ask for recognition or anything really, not even for the time he needs to recover after a flurry of hard cons. The wear and tear is starting to show and Hardison takes notice.
Author's Note: A huge shout out to my beta, rusting_roses, for making this fic that much better. This fic was written for the help_pakistan auction. Ziplockeddaze asked for a fic that dealt with the abuses that Eliot's suffered this season and how the team has generally ignored the sacrifices he makes for them. This is what I came up with as a response.
[Part 1] [Part 2]
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The Price We Pay
"Hardison, what do you want to drink?" Nate asked from behind the bar where he stood facing the liquor cabinet.
Hardison raised his half-filled glass and smirked. "Already helped myself."
Nate shrugged, unconcerned that Hardison had gone rifling through his alcohol. "Parker? How about you?"
"Grab me a beer. None of that light stuff, though. It tastes like water."
Nate complied, sliding the bottle down along the polished bar top to where she sat perched on one of the stools.
"Heathens, all of you, I swear," Sophie added snidely. "Someday I'll culture you all and show you the true value of a vintage British wine."
Nate chuckled as he raised his own glass to his lips. "Hate to break it to you, dear, but the Brits lost this country a long time ago and they took their subpar alcohol with them. Americans stepped up to the plate and finally got the opportunity to brew some real drinks."
"This coming from the former alcoholic who would drink anything you put in front of him?" she asked.
He nodded, "You bet. I've been around the block a few times; you better believe I know my way around a bar. Eliot, how 'bout you? You want anything?"
Eliot looked up from where he was hunched over toward the end of the bar. It was at least a bit quieter there. "I got my own already."
Nate raised an eyebrow. "That's water."
"Yeah? So?" Eliot remarked coolly.
Hardison chuckled. "Look man, I know you take that whole 'body as a temple' thing seriously but can't you loosen up enough to celebrate another successful con? The coal mine is in a lot better hands and might actually get some safety measures put in place. Not to mention we brought down a corrupt attorney general. It doesn't get much better than that."
Eliot shrugged. "I'm good. I was about to call it a night anyways. Just gonna run upstairs real quick to grab my coat."
"Suit yourself," Nate responded as he leaned up against the bar.
Hardison narrowed his gaze as their hitter wearily rose from his stool and plodded over to the stairs that would take him up to the second floor. Despite the cacophony of his chatting teammates, Hardison didn't miss the sound of Eliot stumbling on the stairs once before righting himself and continuing on. That registered as strange to him. Eliot was many things, but clumsy wasn't one of them. On that thought Hardison pushed his glass aside and stood up. "I think I might actually head in too, guys. Guess you'll have to drink for the two of us."
There was murmur of 'good night' from Nate and Sophie and a 'don't steal my cookies from the kitchen' from Parker. He smirked at that and went in pursuit of Eliot.
A quick trip up the stairs found him in the lounge of Nate's apartment. With no immediate indication of Eliot's presence in the room, he advanced toward the kitchen. Peaking in, he saw Eliot rummaging through a few of the drawers. He'd open one, rifle through it, shake his head, and slam it a bit harder than necessary.
"I don't think this is what you're looking for, but Parker said not to take her cookies," Hardison said, breaking the silence.
"I'm looking for the damn phone book. I know Nate has at least three of them around here and I can't seem to locate any of them," Eliot growled. He paused for a moment, breathing hard and closing his eyes for the briefest of moments before he resumed his search.
"Who do you need to call?"
"A taxi. I'm going home," Eliot responded.
"What about your car?"
"It's stalled out," Eliot responded quickly.
"Since when? It worked fine for me-"
That brought Eliot's movements to a halt. He wrapped his hand a bit harder around the handle of the butcher knife he'd drawn out of the drawer in his search. He spoke the next few sentences in a carefully level voice that betrayed not one hint of emotion, but rather conveyed an icy, dangerous mood. "You drove my truck." He didn't phrase it as a question.
Hardison fumbled as he tried to ward off the accusation. "Look man, you parked me in from the back and Nate had me from the side. I just needed to run to the grocery store for some more orange soda. It's like two blocks and-"
"Hardison! I swear, if there's one scratch on that thing you're a dead man," Eliot snarled.
Hardison gulped, his eyes wide. He let out a relieved sigh as Eliot returned his knife to the drawer. But his brow furrowed as Eliot began to sway to the side a bit, before stabilizing himself against the counter top. "You ok, Eliot?"
"I just need to go home. Get some sleep maybe."
"Which gets us back to your car situation. Why don't you want to drive?"
Eliot remained silent for a minute or two, staring blankly at the counter top and the wall, anywhere besides Hardison, really. He spoke quietly, muttering, "I took some Vicodin. I shouldn't drive."
Hardison realized, then, why Eliot hadn't been drinking. Alcohol and drugs didn't mix at all. He didn't keep the anger from bleeding into his voice as he spoke next. Eliot wasn't the only one who could display a temper when provoked. "You're hurt enough to be taking a strong pain killer and you didn't think to mention it to any of us? We're down there getting drunk and you're sitting there with untreated injuries?"
"I have it under control."
"Yeah, that's clearly the case," Hardison snapped back, surveying his friend's bent frame and pallid complexion.
"Look, can you chew me out tomorrow? I'm not in the mood for this right now." Eliot ran a shaky hand through his hair and then opened another drawer. "Where the hell did Nate put that phone book?!"
Hardison slid an arm into the sleeve of his own jacket, prompting Eliot to look at him. "What're you doing?"
"Driving you home. Let's go. Where are your keys?"
Eliot grumbled under his breath. "Didn't I just get done telling you not to drive my truck?"
"Yeah, about the same time I was telling you how terrible you looked and how stupid you're being. Look, I'm taking your truck; you're still blocking me in. You can be in the passenger seat or can stand here gaping like an idiot." And with that said he turned and headed for the exit, grabbing the keys off the counter as he went. He didn't wait to see if Eliot followed or not.
Eliot stood there in the kitchen alone. The ache in his shoulder hadn't lessened at all and all of his senses had been dulled by the drugs. The sharp contrast of the world had been replaced by a fuzzier picture for the time being and every few minutes the room seemed to rock a bit. Maybe it would be better to travel with someone he trusted in this state. He shook his head and stumbled out after his teammate, focusing on getting one foot in front of the other and not landing on his face as he went.
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Hardison trailed behind Eliot as they entered the hitter's apartment. He could tell Eliot wanted some space. The man had growled when Hardison had told him he'd at least see him inside. When Eliot had paused to rub at a spot on his left leg on the stairs, he'd thrown a sideways glance at Hardison, as if to gauge his reaction. Hardison had kept his face purposefully neutral despite the fact that he was boiling over inside as he began to understand the depth to which Eliot had been injured without raising so much as a word about it to the rest of them.
Eliot turned to face him once he'd shut his door. "Well? I made it in alive. No one jumped me on the way in or anything. So I suppose you can go home."
Hardison didn't shrink back from the hitter's irritated barb. "Where are you hurt?"
"It's nothing you need to be worried about. Hell, half the time it's me patching you and the rest of the team up. Trained in advanced first aid, remember?" he said, pointing to himself.
Hardison crossed his arms. "Right. And the first rule of medical care is what, keep an injury to yourself? Or, wait, was it inform someone else so they know that something's up?"
Eliot didn't really have a response to that. In truth, there wasn't a rational defense he could muster against plain logic. So he steered the conversation in another direction instead. He pushed a lock of hair out of his face, one that had escaped his disheveled ponytail, and spoke. "If you want to play badger the injured party, fine. I'm going to take a shower before we go another bout. I'm tired and I'm dirty."
Hardison nodded. Eliot returned the gesture with a lazy dip of his own chin and retreated to his bedroom.
Hardison took his sudden solitude as a chance to inspect the apartment and see if he could get a better feel for what was happening here. Something was off. After a moment of debate, he decided that his most pressing concern was discovering whether he could chalk Eliot's condition and irregular behavior up to the latest mission or whether maybe there was something more going on here than met the eye.
Hardison was used to seeing military precision when he walked into Eliot's domain. The books always stood at ninety degree angles to their shelves between two tightly pressed book ends. They would be arranged in alphabetical order too. Eliot's obsession with order knew no bounds when left unchecked.
At the current moment Eliot's apartment wasn't messy by any means, but it wasn't up to its normally clinical neatness either. One of Eliot's leather jackets was tossed over the back of the couch and there were a few martial arts DVD's strewn across the coffee table.
He took all this in as he made his circuit through the place. He paused as his wanderings led him into the kitchen. There was an open medical case on the kitchen table. This wasn't the small kit you'd buy at Wal-Mart. No, it looked identical to the ones that Eliot had stashed under the bar and in the back of whatever car they happen to commandeer for a con in case things went south and it was needed. It was the kind of kit that would look more at home in the back of an ambulance than in an apartment for home use.
Some of the case's contents were scattered across the table: a few gauze squares, a tube of antibiotic ointment with the cap screwed on at an odd angle, and a pair of ace wraps were among the items spread out at random. He picked up a bottle of pills. Rattling it, Hardison found it to be half empty. He took a moment to read the label. He frowned. Vicodin. It was the last item he spotted, however, that made his muscles tense. There was a needle tinted red with dried blood and a spool of that dissolving thread that was used for stitches.
All of this, put together, suggested that Eliot had taken on more abuse in the last few missions than he'd led on. No, Eliot had acted the part perfectly; putting them off the scent with his standard caustic comments. He'd make a snappy remark and withdraw as soon as he could manage to pry himself loose of their company. Hardison had written off as Eliot wanting some time alone. To rest, maybe, or to mediate or do whatever it was that he preferred when the team dissolved to their respective homes for a time after a con. But he'd never thought that Eliot needed the time to stitch himself back together, dull the pain, and get ready to do it all again.
He set the pills back on the table, careful to put them in the same spot he'd picked them up from, before moving over to survey the trashcan. It was about halfway full, another indication that something was off. Eliot took the trash out all the time at Nate's place, even. And here was his own filled with discarded bandages and take-out food containers. Had they really been working that much? Had Eliot really been so preoccupied with their cons that he had to set aside his love of cooking and settle for fast food?
Hardison bit his lip, slowly shaking his head. He retraced his steps back to the bedroom, pausing to knock on the partially-opened door. "Eliot? You in there, man? I'm gonna take out your trash. Where's your dumpster?"
The soft noise of water running in the background suggested that Eliot was still in the shower. Part of Hardison's mind willed him to press his fingertips lightly against the door, swinging it open just a few more inches would leave a gap large enough to let him slip into the room unnoticed for a quick look around. The bedroom was the one part of Eliot's place that he'd never seen. The man had always made it a point to keep the door shut, silently but firmly drawing a line.
But ultimately, Hardison shook his head, rejecting the notion. He wouldn't invade the last vestige of his friend's privacy. He was not, however, above peeking through the crack. He was disappointed, though. All he could make out through the gap was a blank white wall and a closed closet door. The dresser right next to the door had an alarm clock on it. He observed that the clock was set for an alarm to ring. He reached a hand inside the door just enough to swipe the clock off the dresser top without disrupting the door's partially-open position. Damn. The clock was set to wake Eliot up at 5AM. He respected the man's iron-clad discipline, but sometimes the body needed rest. And having seen the condition Eliot was in already, three hours of sleep wasn't going to cut it. He switched the alarm off, replaced the clock on its perch, and withdrew from his spot outside Eliot's room before his curiosity got the better of him and forced him to take the two steps forward into Eliot's private quarters, something he knew he'd regret.
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Hardison turned his head to the doorway as he heard the soft sound of bare feet against the tiled floor. Eliot paused in the door frame. He had obviously just emerged from the shower. His normally buoyant hair was plastered flat against his head with the weight of the water it carried even after being subjected to a preliminary towel drying. The hitter wore a pair of black sweats that rode low across his hips. The brilliant kitchen lights played shadows and highlights across the contours of the man's muscular frame.
"I thought you were leaving?" Eliot said. His voice was level, but his wide eyes betrayed his surprise at seeing Hardison. Hardison observed that his fist tightened around the white undershirt he had gripped in one hand.
"I was taking your trash out," he replied as his eyes scanned Eliot's bared torso. The muscles were interrupted by bold strips of bruising. He could see a line of freshly healed stitches right above the hitter's left hip. All that marked the old wound now was a railroad track of pink scarring. "Damn, Eliot. What happened to you? You look like you've gotten into a fight with someone's starved guard dog recently- and lost."
Eliot snorted. "More like several fights with angry thugs over the course of the last few cons."
Hardison's gaze met Eliot's eyes at that remark. How could Eliot be so cavalier about this? At least Eliot reacted to the look of horror that Hardison shot him as the hitter finished that statement. Eliot didn't meet him with the usual confident, cocky gaze he favored. No, he looked almost angry at himself and his eyes darted to the floor. Maybe the pain killers had made him a little looser with his words than he had anticipated.
"You didn't say anything," Hardison said in a wounded tone.
"There wasn't anything to say," Eliot replied, dismissing Hardison's expression of concern. "But as long as you're here I might as well put you to work. Could you grab the first aid kit? I can't get the cut on my back dressed on my own." Eliot said as he flipped a chair around backwards and straddled it next to the kitchen table.
As Eliot turned away to sit down Hardison bit his lip as he surveyed the man's back. Bruising ran rampant along his skin, painting it a motley assortment of colors. The cut that Eliot must be referring to stood out in stark contrast to the skin and partially-healed wounds. He rolled on a pair of latex gloves from the kit and pulled up a chair to sit behind him. "Uh, I'm more than willing to help, but you'll have to walk me through this. Triage is your area of expertise. Mine's...a bit more distant from this kind of stuff."
Eliot twisted his neck around to meet Hardison's nervous expression. "You'll do fine. If there's any crud in the cut still clean it out, there's some antiseptic wipes in the first aid supplies. Then some of the ointment, and cover all that with some gauze. "
Hardison ran his eyes over the stuff set out on the table, collecting the materials he'd need in a small pile. Eliot watched him do this. The hacker's slow hesitant movements didn't escape his scrutiny. "I, uh, I know this isn't normally your thing. Are you ok with this? If not, it's ok. I can manage."
Hardison shook his head. "I just said this was different from what I'm used to, not that I wouldn't do it. Just walk me through it."
Eliot nodded gratefully. He spoke clearly, hoping that his own confidence would lend itself to Hardison. He knew what it was like trying something that fell outside his area of expertise. Like acting was for him, he thought, smiling. How many crazy roles had he adopted since signing up with this crew? "Just like I said, make sure it's clean before you dress it. I cleaned it out the best I could in the shower but it's in a pretty awkward spot." He flexed his shoulder, the wound in question on his left shoulder announcing itself as he did so.
Hardison gave a half nod. "Ok, then. You sure this doesn't need stitches? It ain't pretty."
"I'm sure. There's nothing to stitch together, I just lost a chunk of skin."
Hardison began his administrations, carefully picking a few pieces of coal out of the wound and depositing them on the table beside him. He didn't miss Eliot's slight flinch when his fingers first brushed up against his skin. But the hitter recovered his resolve quickly and went rigid.
"How'd you do this again?" Hardison asked.
Eliot was silent for a moment. This wasn't something he was used to sharing with someone, anyone, really. The post-mission phases were something he usually did himself. Sitting here at this table and putting himself back together had become something of a ritual for the hitter. It was disorienting to be sitting here so exposed, even in front of Hardison. Yes, the man was his teammate, and as of late, a very good friend. But it still didn't banish the instinct that Eliot had to lock himself away in his room and tend to his injuries in solitude. He breathed deep, calming himself. Hardison had done a lot for him tonight, driving him home and saving him the discomfort he'd suffer from riding in the back of a stranger's car in his current partially-incapacitated state. He owed the man an explanation at the very least. "It happened while I was in the mine looking for the bomb. The man who planted it saw me and we got into a fight. He managed to graze my back with the tip of his pick axe in the scuffle."
Hardison paused for a moment, fingers warm against the skin of Eliot's back. "This wound is from a pick axe?"
Eliot shrugged, instantly regretting the motion as pain flared up the shoulder. He stilled, letting the pain wash over him and dissipate. "Yeah. Not too bad, though, in the scheme of things."
"How is this not bad, man? You're missing several square inches of skin off your back!"
Eliot thought through the litany of injuries he'd seen in his day: knifings, bullet wounds, and a dislocated shoulder came to mind as highlights. Hell, he probably didn't remember half the injuries his body had sustained somewhere along the way. "It's not bad, for me," Eliot finished, refusing to speak any more on the issue. The past was just that, the past. And some parts of his history were best left buried where they lay.
"And the bruising? This whole mess can't be from one mission."
"Like I said, the past few cons have seen a good deal more violence than usual. I got thrown into the river during that car dealership job. That's a lot of it."
"And this one?" Hardison asked, running a light hand over a particularly vivid stripe of bruising at the base of his neck. Eliot shrank back from the touch. Though whether the gesture was from pain or surprise, Hardison wasn't sure, but he withdrew his hand and returned to applying gauze to the wound.
Eliot shook his head and Hardison saw the man's muscles tense angrily. "Parker threw a crowbar at me."
"She did what?" Hardison couldn't keep all the shock out of his voice.
"She didn't mean to, I don't think. Damn, that girl has an arm. Sure did hurt though."
"Did she at least apologize?"
"We're talking Parker here. I don't think she even realized she did something wrong."
A frown crossed Hardison's face at that, although Eliot couldn't see from his position facing the wall. The hacker smoothed out a final piece of tape to hold the gauze in place. "That's it, then. I'm done."
Eliot stood up, stretching out his stiff muscles. He paused, locking eyes with Hardison. "Thanks."
Hardison shrugged. "It was nothing," he remarked nonchalantly.
"So are you heading out?" Eliot asked. "I've probably kept you long enough as it is."
"I figured I'd just squat on your couch for the night, if you're ok with it. You said you didn't want me driving your truck. You could just take me back to Nate's for my own car tomorrow sometime." Hardison finished with an exasperated breath. He braced himself for an outright rejection, but Eliot really shouldn't be left alone like this. The man still looked far worse for wear. Eliot's taut posture had begun to collapse in on itself. His head was bobbing forward between sentences and his eyes were half hidden beneath drooping eyelids
Eliot nodded. "Fair enough. There's extra bedding in the linen closet in the hallway. You need anything else?"
"Really?" Hardison caught himself, realizing he'd spoken that out loud. "I mean, uh, I'm good. Go ahead and turn in for the night yourself. You look like you could use the rest."
Eliot gave a terse nod and pushed off from where he'd been supporting part of his weight against the table. Hardison watched him depart and disappear down the hallway before he quickly stripped off the bloody gloves and dropped them into the trashcan, oddly pleased with himself. "You did it, Hardison, the whole thing, all that blood, and you didn't faint."
He placed the lid on the trash can so that he wouldn't have to look at the evidence of what he'd just done. He was a hacker for a reason. It wasn't messy, it wasn't physical, and it certainly wasn't bloody. He'd never dealt well with blood. He flashed a smile as he thought back to when his grandma had arranged for him to shadow a physician for a day, trying to lure Hardison down the path of pursing medical school. He'd fainted when the doctor had given a simple injection. But here and now he'd steeled himself well, and he was proud of that. Proud that he had been able to help out a teammate.
And on that thought, he set about straightening up the kitchen a bit more. He started with putting the medical kit back together and moved on from there. He found the bedding and laid it out on the couch. He kicked off his shoes, letting them fall haphazardly to the floor, and then thought better of bringing his clutter into Eliot's normally orderly environment. The final thing he did before going to bed was to line his shoes up by the door next to Eliot's.
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A loud thudding noise had Hardison snapping his eyes open and rolling off the couch and to his feet, head swiveling as he tried to determine the source of the sound. He flailed around, feeling for the wall and following that to the light switch near the door. His eyes protested the sudden brightness of everything but he rubbed at them a few times.
And there! The noise again. This time accompanied by a person's voice. It was low at first. He moved toward Eliot's door. It was a quiet sound, a soft cry as if someone had wrangled it in before it could reach its full strength.
"I'M NOT GIVING IT TO YOU!"
Hardison flinched at the sudden outburst that pierced through Eliot's thick door. He knocked, softly at first, then louder when there was no answer. His pulse hammered. "Eliot, you ok in there?"
No answer. He twisted the door knob to enter, understanding the gravity of what he was pondering doing by walking in on Eliot while the man was unconscious, but he wanted to make sure his friend was ok. The locked door prevented any further action along that avenue.
He put an ear to the door when the sudden outburst faded to an awkward silence. Then he heard softly, "...Please. I can't tell you. I don't know! I've told you that three times..." When the voice fell away again he heard the violent tussling of blankets, a form tossing and turning in the throes of terror within.
"ELIOT! Are you ok in there?"
There was a grunt from the other side of the door and then the room went silent again. Hardison saw a faint crack of light beneath the door as the switch was flipped and then the door was quickly wrenched open. The man before him wore a variety of emotions on his face. Bewilderment, at having been woken up so suddenly. Then anger as he realized that he wasn't alone. And lining his every movement was a barely veiled fatigue. Sweat had made the hitter's hair damp.
"Hardison! What do you want?" Eliot growled, scrubbing the exhaustion from his face.
"I, uh. I just wanted to make sure you were ok. It sounded like you were having a nightmare."
Eliot blinked a few times. And although Hardison wouldn't have staked his life on it, he could've sworn that shame had flashed across Eliot's face before he buried that emotion behind a stoic mask. "I don't have nightmares. What time is it anyways?" He asked as he roughly twisted the clock around toward him. His expression darkened as he saw the time. It was going on six in the morning."Did you turn my alarm clock off?" he barked at Hardison.
"Look, dude. You were exhausted, you needed the sleep. I was just trying to help-"
"You want to help? Leave things you don't know anything about alone. I have a routine and it works well for me. I don't need you coming around here and screwing it up."
Hardison rubbed the back of his head and dropped his gaze to the ground.
Eliot stood there, as if he expected further explanation. With none forth coming he growled once more and slammed the door.
Hardison stood there for a few moments, trying to piece together what exactly had just transpired. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the shower going again. Apparently he wasn't the only one who wasn't going to get any more sleep that night.
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Hardison pulled up Eliot's truck behind his own van and killed the engine. His ears took a moment to recover from the loud grumbling of the diesel engine. By the time he'd left the truck behind and was pushing open the door to the bar he was- he hoped, at any rate- ready to meet up with the team. He'd left Eliot's place soon after regaining his bearings after the hitter had slammed the door on him and made it explicitly clear he wanted to be left alone. Hardison figured Eliot could use some space, in the form of a vacant apartment, when he emerged for breakfast. Hardison had taken the time to swing by his place and shove some of his own possessions and his computer into a backpack before coming over to Nate's place.
The bar was empty so he progressed up the stairs, into the apartment, and headed for the lounge. He had guessed right, the rest of the team was assembled there. Nate looked a bit hung over and was nursing a cup of black coffee. Sophie looked a bit more awake (though not by much) and was nibbling on a piece of toast. A cup of tea sat to her left on the end table. Hardison smiled when he got to matching gazes with Parker. The girl was perched on the back of the couch. He couldn't help but associate the little thief with a cat; Parker was always searching for the highest place she could climb, whether she be indoors or outside.
"Hey Hardison! Did you bring donuts? You promised donuts if we came over here this early," Parker accosted the man as soon as he walked through the door.
He smirked and nodded, pulling the box of Dunkin' Donuts out from behind his back and placing it on the coffee table. Parker practically pounced on the container of overly-sugared treats as soon as he backed away from the peace offering he'd brought for insisting they all make it over here.
"Well?" Nate prompted, "What've you found?"
"Found on what?" Hardison asked, a bit confused.
"I had assumed you'd found something on the Italian Woman's job we're working," Nate responded.
"Oh, that. No, I didn't have a chance to work on that much last night."
"Then what was so important that we had to be dragged out of our beds this early?"
Hardison sighed and leaned his weight back against the wall. He took a second to muster his courage under Nate's serious gaze. "I wanted to talk to you guys about Eliot, actually. He's had a bit of a rough time with it lately."
Nate furrowed his brow. "What are you talking about?"
Hardison forced himself to meet Nate's gaze without flinching. "I'm talking about his role in this operation. His job is by far the most physically demanding, and he often is exposed to the most risk. And I think that's something we've taken for granted with this pace we've been working at."
"We've all been working hard," Nate shot back, looking more irritated by the minute.
Hardison shook his head. He'd never been good with words, but he had to make them understand somehow. He fumbled for a moment, gesturing uselessly before finally saying, "Yeah, but when a con ends for us, it's over. We close the book, go home, and kick up our feet for a few days before we do it all again. What we've forgotten is that for some of us, or at least Eliot, there are aftereffects to be dealt with. Physical injuries to be tended to, for example."
"Eliot hasn't said anything," Sophie responded, a touch of concern growing on her face. "Is there something going on here that we aren't aware of that prompted this lecture?"
Hardison nodded, grateful for the opening and sympathy. "I know he hasn't said anything. And that's something I plan on addressing with him as soon as I'm done here. We normally have some downtime between cons. But lately we've had to throw that luxury to the wind to keep up with this Italian Woman's deadline. But what we've forgotten is that Eliot needs that time to recover and put himself back together."
"You're talking to us as if we are choosing to run con after con," Nate retorted harshly. "The Italian Woman has a noose hanging over my head, Hardison. She's threatening to send me right back to prison and she's hinted that she wouldn't hesitate to burn you all right along with me if we don't hold up our end of this deal."
Hardison sighed, brain scrambling for the right words to make Nate see, make him really understand. The open wound on Eliot's back rose in Hardison's memory, and he was forced to swallow hard. He could do this. He had to do this. "Look, I know she's got us backed into a corner. It's not any one person's fault here. I'm just saying that Eliot is not physically capable of holding this pace. I went home with him last night." Hardison gave a nervous chuckle. What had happened last night, what condition Eliot had been in, he never would've dreamt that he would see Eliot that run down. "The man was a mass of bruises and cuts and exhaustion was doting on the man like a best friend. We've ridden him into the ground with this break-neck pace and we just kept on going without giving a single thought to how it might be affecting him."
Nate drained his mug of its last few drops of coffee and deposited it on the table a bit harder than necessary. "What would you have us do?"
"Slow down." Hardison said in his most persuasive voice, the one he'd learned to use when going door to door in his childhood. "Demand more time from the Italian Woman. Or at the very least give Eliot some time to recover. The man's dead on his feet."
"You're talking about the Italian Woman as if she's going to lend us an earnest ear or a shoulder to cry on about how tired we all are. She's a battle hardened criminal-"
Hardison pushed off the wall and stalked forward until he was standing directly in front of Nate, anger finally pushing away all of his hesitation, and his voice was a low growl as he ground out, "And Eliot's human! Just like the rest of us. And he's bearing the brunt of the burden for the pace we're running. He's the one paying the price."
Parker leaned forward a bit, her quiet voice contrasting to the heated debate that had developed between the two men. "But Eliot's...Eliot. He's always there to protect us or get me down when my rigging gets jammed. He doesn't get hurt or sick like the rest of us..."
Hardison softened his tone. He was always amazed at how different Parker perceived the world. He knew she had come to trust Eliot, even rely on him when she got cornered or in a jam. But it was time to iron out the kinks that had formed recently and set her straight. "And don't you think we should be there for him too? He is flesh and blood, just like the rest of us." He chose his next words carefully, he needed to punctuate a point but he didn't want to deposit blame on Parker for something she was genuinely oblivious to; it really was a bit like explaining the world to a small child. Hell, up until last night none of them had picked up on the underlying currents that were affecting Eliot to the point where his finely built barriers had started to crack. "When you hit him with a crowbar, it hurts him, Parker. Just like it would do to you or me."
"I didn't do it on purpose," she responded in a hushed tone, eyes wide.
Hardison kept his voice gentle. "I know that. He knows that too. But look what we did after that. Did we take a moment to ask if he was ok? Or did we keep on trucking along?"
Parker glanced at him; he could see the gears turning behind her eyes. "Should I steal something for him to make up for it? Maybe a new jacket? That dip in the river ruined his last one."
Hardison smiled at the gesture but shook his head. "Somehow, I don't know if he'd appreciate the idea of you committing a crime for him. But keep thinking on it, you'll come up with something." He swept his gaze around the room at the other two. "And as for the rest of us, we have to start somewhere too. And that means slowing it down and showing Eliot that we care. It means giving him the space and time he needs to heal before we make him run the gamut again."
Nate begrudgingly nodded, eyes filled with the apology he'd never say. Sophie mirrored the gesture a bit more readily. Guilt plagued her expression.
Hardison had to admit that even Nate looked a bit disgusted with the thought of their recent treatment of Eliot. Nate met his gaze. "I'll talk to them; see if I can get an extension on this deadline. I'll try."
Hardison gave a curt nod. "Negotiate first if you can. If you can't, tell them this. Until Eliot's physically and mentally ready to dive back in, I'm not hacking. And he's not in any condition to be hitting. The line has to be drawn somewhere and this is it."
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Hardison returned to the apartment to hear a constant thumping noise through the door. It wasn't consistent, though. There would be a few quick raps in rapid succession and then a second or two would pass before he heard the noise again.
He opened the door to find Eliot circling around a punching bag in the corner. The man was light on his feet, bouncing his weight from one to the other as he jabbed at the bag, inserting a grunt or two between hits.
He didn't seem to notice Hardison, or if he did, he was ignoring the man. Sweat ran down his face in rivets and his hair would bob with each sudden change of direction. He would dance in for a hit and then step back a few paces.
"You expecting the punching bag to grow a pair of arms and come after you? You keep retreating from it."
Eliot ignored the jive, instead arcing around the punching bag so that he was facing the wall away from Hardison. The flurry of punches continued through the interruption.
Hardison's next complaint about being ignored died on his lips. There was a red stain on Eliot's left shoulder. It had already spotted through the white t-shirt the man was wearing and was beginning to carve a path downward toward the hitter's hip.
"Eliot."
The hitter continued to face away. If anything, he had begun throwing more of his weight against the bag. Whether it was from frustration or some other reason Hardison wasn't sure. The one thing he did know was that this needed to stop now.
"Eliot, you split your shoulder again. Time to take a break, don't you think?"
No response.
Hardison crossed the room quickly, stepping inside the circle of sweat drops that Eliot had left on the ground as he made his circuit around the punching bag. Eliot had to make a choice: to keep swinging and potentially hit Hardison, or back off.
The man growled and bounded back a step, his restless bouncing slowing and then stopping altogether. "You trying to get yourself hurt, Hardison? You don't ever interrupt me when I'm in a training session. That's how you're going to end up with a black eye or worse."
Hardison refused to step away from the bag, standing his ground and meeting Eliot's gaze evenly. It was still swinging from Eliot's efforts and was thumping against his leg. The bag was heavy too; it pushed him a step to the side as it thudded against him again. He grabbed the bag with his hands and stopped its pendulum swing. "Well maybe I wouldn't have had to if you would've just listened instead of ignoring me like a spoiled child."
Eliot wiped the sweat from his face with the towel he'd left draped over the back of the couch. Discarding that, he took a swig of his water before recapping it and setting it on the ground. "Maybe if you stopped treating me like I child I would start treating you like an adult."
Hardison chuffed at that. "That'll come when you start being responsible. Like taking care of your injuries instead of stressing them further. Your shoulder's bleeding again."
He stepped forward to take a closer look at it but Eliot backed away. "It's fine. The bleeding will stop on its own."
Helpless rage welled up in Hardison. "My god! It's like you throw out all of your first aid know-how when it comes to your own well-being, Eliot."
Eliot narrowed his eyes and skirted past Hardison, just beyond his reach where the hacker might've been able to put a hand out and inspect the shoulder. "I'm fine. And as you seem hell-bent against letting me touch my punching bag. I'm going for a run."
Hardison watched the man roughly don his shoes and tie their laces in double knots. He stood up from his stooped position and turned to face Hardison for a moment. "As for the way you were mocking me backing away from the punching bag, yeah, I do treat the bag like it's an opponent. So that when it's a real person coming after you, maybe I stand a chance of saving your ass." The door slammed and Eliot was gone.
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"Hey!"
Hardison jumped and looked up. Parker was perched on the fire escape two stories above. "Girl, you trying to give me a heart attack?! Popping in on me like that with no warning. What are you doing up there? Or a better question, how'd you get up there?" he asked as he tried to puzzle it out. Then he shook his head. "Never mind. Probably better not to know. Well come on," he motioned. "Get down here. We have work to do."
She shrugged and fifteen seconds later she had shimmied down a drainage pipe, landed on the top of the closed dumpster, and hopped down to stand next to Hardison. "Ok, I'm here."
He nodded and led her around to the front of the apartment complex, through the door, and up to Eliot's place.
"So, what are we doing?" Parker asked excitedly.
"You are gonna put those thieving skills of yours to good instead of the mischief you're so fond of." He pointed to the worn punching bag that hung from a bolt that Eliot had installed in the ceiling. "I want you to steal that and take it somewhere."
"Well that's no fun! You already know I'm going to take it. What's the surprise in that?"
"I know. It's Eliot's and he won't know, though. We can surprise him if that's going to make it more exciting for you."
She cocked her head. "You want me to steal Eliot's stuff? I thought you said I had to work on making it up to him after the crowbar thing. This is just going to get him mad."
"Look, remember when Nate caught you rappelling with a broken hand and he had Eliot confiscate all of your climbing gear?"
She crinkled up her nose. "Yeah, that wasn't very nice. I didn't like that. I wouldn't want to do that to Eliot."
"Sometimes it's for your own good. Like the rappelling stuff for you. How do you think all of us would've felt if you had gotten even more hurt by jumping off a building when you weren't in peak form like you were at the time?"
"Bad, maybe. But I wouldn't have fallen! I don't ever fall," she argued back, implacable.
"Well thank god we didn't have to put that theory to the test by letting you go and dangle from the rooftops with a broken hand. Look, sometimes when you're hurt it's frustrating, not being able to do the things you love to do. Just like you love climbing, Eliot likes hitting things. During the mine job he split his shoulder in a scuffle. He's not giving his body the time it needs to heal. Sometimes it takes another person to step in and say enough is enough."
"Like Nate did to me?" Parker questioned him.
"Yeah. Just like that."
"I still didn't like it. And I still don't think it was necessary."
Hardison nodded. "I know, but sometimes you just gotta give someone else the peace of mind to know that you're safe and recovering instead of putting yourself in further danger when you're already hurt to begin with."
She shook her head. "Fine. But he's not going to be happy."
"You leave that to me. Just go in and do your stealing thing," he said, waving her forward. As she took his cue and walked further into the apartment, he began to withdraw toward the hallway.
"Hey! Where are you going?" she asked.
Hardison grinned. "Well I can't know what you do with it, now can I? That would make me an accessory to the crime."
She snorted. "It was your idea!"
"Look, if he asks about it I'll take the blame. I know you've been itching for a challenge; well here it is. Eliot's probably going to get back from his run soon. You need to have that punching bag out of here by then. Plus, just to sweeten the deal I'll give you a few ideas for how you can make it up to Eliot for the crowbar incident."
"Ok," she said, shrugging. "That sounds like a fair enough deal."
As Hardison withdrew from the apartment he swore he heard her cackle with glee. He smirked. That girl got a rush out of the strangest things. But then, they all did in their own ways. It was what made them such a successful and cohesive team. They all brought their own brand of crazy to the mix.
Continue to Part 2
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Genre: Angst, hurt/comfort
Word Count: ~14,500
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Pairings: Eliot/Hardison
Warnings: None
Summary: Eliot has always been a man that believed in duty and honor before all else. And that includes his duty to the rest of his teammates to make sure that they come home safe after each and every con. He doesn't ask for recognition or anything really, not even for the time he needs to recover after a flurry of hard cons. The wear and tear is starting to show and Hardison takes notice.
Author's Note: A huge shout out to my beta, rusting_roses, for making this fic that much better. This fic was written for the help_pakistan auction. Ziplockeddaze asked for a fic that dealt with the abuses that Eliot's suffered this season and how the team has generally ignored the sacrifices he makes for them. This is what I came up with as a response.
[Part 1] [Part 2]
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The Price We Pay
"Hardison, what do you want to drink?" Nate asked from behind the bar where he stood facing the liquor cabinet.
Hardison raised his half-filled glass and smirked. "Already helped myself."
Nate shrugged, unconcerned that Hardison had gone rifling through his alcohol. "Parker? How about you?"
"Grab me a beer. None of that light stuff, though. It tastes like water."
Nate complied, sliding the bottle down along the polished bar top to where she sat perched on one of the stools.
"Heathens, all of you, I swear," Sophie added snidely. "Someday I'll culture you all and show you the true value of a vintage British wine."
Nate chuckled as he raised his own glass to his lips. "Hate to break it to you, dear, but the Brits lost this country a long time ago and they took their subpar alcohol with them. Americans stepped up to the plate and finally got the opportunity to brew some real drinks."
"This coming from the former alcoholic who would drink anything you put in front of him?" she asked.
He nodded, "You bet. I've been around the block a few times; you better believe I know my way around a bar. Eliot, how 'bout you? You want anything?"
Eliot looked up from where he was hunched over toward the end of the bar. It was at least a bit quieter there. "I got my own already."
Nate raised an eyebrow. "That's water."
"Yeah? So?" Eliot remarked coolly.
Hardison chuckled. "Look man, I know you take that whole 'body as a temple' thing seriously but can't you loosen up enough to celebrate another successful con? The coal mine is in a lot better hands and might actually get some safety measures put in place. Not to mention we brought down a corrupt attorney general. It doesn't get much better than that."
Eliot shrugged. "I'm good. I was about to call it a night anyways. Just gonna run upstairs real quick to grab my coat."
"Suit yourself," Nate responded as he leaned up against the bar.
Hardison narrowed his gaze as their hitter wearily rose from his stool and plodded over to the stairs that would take him up to the second floor. Despite the cacophony of his chatting teammates, Hardison didn't miss the sound of Eliot stumbling on the stairs once before righting himself and continuing on. That registered as strange to him. Eliot was many things, but clumsy wasn't one of them. On that thought Hardison pushed his glass aside and stood up. "I think I might actually head in too, guys. Guess you'll have to drink for the two of us."
There was murmur of 'good night' from Nate and Sophie and a 'don't steal my cookies from the kitchen' from Parker. He smirked at that and went in pursuit of Eliot.
A quick trip up the stairs found him in the lounge of Nate's apartment. With no immediate indication of Eliot's presence in the room, he advanced toward the kitchen. Peaking in, he saw Eliot rummaging through a few of the drawers. He'd open one, rifle through it, shake his head, and slam it a bit harder than necessary.
"I don't think this is what you're looking for, but Parker said not to take her cookies," Hardison said, breaking the silence.
"I'm looking for the damn phone book. I know Nate has at least three of them around here and I can't seem to locate any of them," Eliot growled. He paused for a moment, breathing hard and closing his eyes for the briefest of moments before he resumed his search.
"Who do you need to call?"
"A taxi. I'm going home," Eliot responded.
"What about your car?"
"It's stalled out," Eliot responded quickly.
"Since when? It worked fine for me-"
That brought Eliot's movements to a halt. He wrapped his hand a bit harder around the handle of the butcher knife he'd drawn out of the drawer in his search. He spoke the next few sentences in a carefully level voice that betrayed not one hint of emotion, but rather conveyed an icy, dangerous mood. "You drove my truck." He didn't phrase it as a question.
Hardison fumbled as he tried to ward off the accusation. "Look man, you parked me in from the back and Nate had me from the side. I just needed to run to the grocery store for some more orange soda. It's like two blocks and-"
"Hardison! I swear, if there's one scratch on that thing you're a dead man," Eliot snarled.
Hardison gulped, his eyes wide. He let out a relieved sigh as Eliot returned his knife to the drawer. But his brow furrowed as Eliot began to sway to the side a bit, before stabilizing himself against the counter top. "You ok, Eliot?"
"I just need to go home. Get some sleep maybe."
"Which gets us back to your car situation. Why don't you want to drive?"
Eliot remained silent for a minute or two, staring blankly at the counter top and the wall, anywhere besides Hardison, really. He spoke quietly, muttering, "I took some Vicodin. I shouldn't drive."
Hardison realized, then, why Eliot hadn't been drinking. Alcohol and drugs didn't mix at all. He didn't keep the anger from bleeding into his voice as he spoke next. Eliot wasn't the only one who could display a temper when provoked. "You're hurt enough to be taking a strong pain killer and you didn't think to mention it to any of us? We're down there getting drunk and you're sitting there with untreated injuries?"
"I have it under control."
"Yeah, that's clearly the case," Hardison snapped back, surveying his friend's bent frame and pallid complexion.
"Look, can you chew me out tomorrow? I'm not in the mood for this right now." Eliot ran a shaky hand through his hair and then opened another drawer. "Where the hell did Nate put that phone book?!"
Hardison slid an arm into the sleeve of his own jacket, prompting Eliot to look at him. "What're you doing?"
"Driving you home. Let's go. Where are your keys?"
Eliot grumbled under his breath. "Didn't I just get done telling you not to drive my truck?"
"Yeah, about the same time I was telling you how terrible you looked and how stupid you're being. Look, I'm taking your truck; you're still blocking me in. You can be in the passenger seat or can stand here gaping like an idiot." And with that said he turned and headed for the exit, grabbing the keys off the counter as he went. He didn't wait to see if Eliot followed or not.
Eliot stood there in the kitchen alone. The ache in his shoulder hadn't lessened at all and all of his senses had been dulled by the drugs. The sharp contrast of the world had been replaced by a fuzzier picture for the time being and every few minutes the room seemed to rock a bit. Maybe it would be better to travel with someone he trusted in this state. He shook his head and stumbled out after his teammate, focusing on getting one foot in front of the other and not landing on his face as he went.
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Hardison trailed behind Eliot as they entered the hitter's apartment. He could tell Eliot wanted some space. The man had growled when Hardison had told him he'd at least see him inside. When Eliot had paused to rub at a spot on his left leg on the stairs, he'd thrown a sideways glance at Hardison, as if to gauge his reaction. Hardison had kept his face purposefully neutral despite the fact that he was boiling over inside as he began to understand the depth to which Eliot had been injured without raising so much as a word about it to the rest of them.
Eliot turned to face him once he'd shut his door. "Well? I made it in alive. No one jumped me on the way in or anything. So I suppose you can go home."
Hardison didn't shrink back from the hitter's irritated barb. "Where are you hurt?"
"It's nothing you need to be worried about. Hell, half the time it's me patching you and the rest of the team up. Trained in advanced first aid, remember?" he said, pointing to himself.
Hardison crossed his arms. "Right. And the first rule of medical care is what, keep an injury to yourself? Or, wait, was it inform someone else so they know that something's up?"
Eliot didn't really have a response to that. In truth, there wasn't a rational defense he could muster against plain logic. So he steered the conversation in another direction instead. He pushed a lock of hair out of his face, one that had escaped his disheveled ponytail, and spoke. "If you want to play badger the injured party, fine. I'm going to take a shower before we go another bout. I'm tired and I'm dirty."
Hardison nodded. Eliot returned the gesture with a lazy dip of his own chin and retreated to his bedroom.
Hardison took his sudden solitude as a chance to inspect the apartment and see if he could get a better feel for what was happening here. Something was off. After a moment of debate, he decided that his most pressing concern was discovering whether he could chalk Eliot's condition and irregular behavior up to the latest mission or whether maybe there was something more going on here than met the eye.
Hardison was used to seeing military precision when he walked into Eliot's domain. The books always stood at ninety degree angles to their shelves between two tightly pressed book ends. They would be arranged in alphabetical order too. Eliot's obsession with order knew no bounds when left unchecked.
At the current moment Eliot's apartment wasn't messy by any means, but it wasn't up to its normally clinical neatness either. One of Eliot's leather jackets was tossed over the back of the couch and there were a few martial arts DVD's strewn across the coffee table.
He took all this in as he made his circuit through the place. He paused as his wanderings led him into the kitchen. There was an open medical case on the kitchen table. This wasn't the small kit you'd buy at Wal-Mart. No, it looked identical to the ones that Eliot had stashed under the bar and in the back of whatever car they happen to commandeer for a con in case things went south and it was needed. It was the kind of kit that would look more at home in the back of an ambulance than in an apartment for home use.
Some of the case's contents were scattered across the table: a few gauze squares, a tube of antibiotic ointment with the cap screwed on at an odd angle, and a pair of ace wraps were among the items spread out at random. He picked up a bottle of pills. Rattling it, Hardison found it to be half empty. He took a moment to read the label. He frowned. Vicodin. It was the last item he spotted, however, that made his muscles tense. There was a needle tinted red with dried blood and a spool of that dissolving thread that was used for stitches.
All of this, put together, suggested that Eliot had taken on more abuse in the last few missions than he'd led on. No, Eliot had acted the part perfectly; putting them off the scent with his standard caustic comments. He'd make a snappy remark and withdraw as soon as he could manage to pry himself loose of their company. Hardison had written off as Eliot wanting some time alone. To rest, maybe, or to mediate or do whatever it was that he preferred when the team dissolved to their respective homes for a time after a con. But he'd never thought that Eliot needed the time to stitch himself back together, dull the pain, and get ready to do it all again.
He set the pills back on the table, careful to put them in the same spot he'd picked them up from, before moving over to survey the trashcan. It was about halfway full, another indication that something was off. Eliot took the trash out all the time at Nate's place, even. And here was his own filled with discarded bandages and take-out food containers. Had they really been working that much? Had Eliot really been so preoccupied with their cons that he had to set aside his love of cooking and settle for fast food?
Hardison bit his lip, slowly shaking his head. He retraced his steps back to the bedroom, pausing to knock on the partially-opened door. "Eliot? You in there, man? I'm gonna take out your trash. Where's your dumpster?"
The soft noise of water running in the background suggested that Eliot was still in the shower. Part of Hardison's mind willed him to press his fingertips lightly against the door, swinging it open just a few more inches would leave a gap large enough to let him slip into the room unnoticed for a quick look around. The bedroom was the one part of Eliot's place that he'd never seen. The man had always made it a point to keep the door shut, silently but firmly drawing a line.
But ultimately, Hardison shook his head, rejecting the notion. He wouldn't invade the last vestige of his friend's privacy. He was not, however, above peeking through the crack. He was disappointed, though. All he could make out through the gap was a blank white wall and a closed closet door. The dresser right next to the door had an alarm clock on it. He observed that the clock was set for an alarm to ring. He reached a hand inside the door just enough to swipe the clock off the dresser top without disrupting the door's partially-open position. Damn. The clock was set to wake Eliot up at 5AM. He respected the man's iron-clad discipline, but sometimes the body needed rest. And having seen the condition Eliot was in already, three hours of sleep wasn't going to cut it. He switched the alarm off, replaced the clock on its perch, and withdrew from his spot outside Eliot's room before his curiosity got the better of him and forced him to take the two steps forward into Eliot's private quarters, something he knew he'd regret.
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Hardison turned his head to the doorway as he heard the soft sound of bare feet against the tiled floor. Eliot paused in the door frame. He had obviously just emerged from the shower. His normally buoyant hair was plastered flat against his head with the weight of the water it carried even after being subjected to a preliminary towel drying. The hitter wore a pair of black sweats that rode low across his hips. The brilliant kitchen lights played shadows and highlights across the contours of the man's muscular frame.
"I thought you were leaving?" Eliot said. His voice was level, but his wide eyes betrayed his surprise at seeing Hardison. Hardison observed that his fist tightened around the white undershirt he had gripped in one hand.
"I was taking your trash out," he replied as his eyes scanned Eliot's bared torso. The muscles were interrupted by bold strips of bruising. He could see a line of freshly healed stitches right above the hitter's left hip. All that marked the old wound now was a railroad track of pink scarring. "Damn, Eliot. What happened to you? You look like you've gotten into a fight with someone's starved guard dog recently- and lost."
Eliot snorted. "More like several fights with angry thugs over the course of the last few cons."
Hardison's gaze met Eliot's eyes at that remark. How could Eliot be so cavalier about this? At least Eliot reacted to the look of horror that Hardison shot him as the hitter finished that statement. Eliot didn't meet him with the usual confident, cocky gaze he favored. No, he looked almost angry at himself and his eyes darted to the floor. Maybe the pain killers had made him a little looser with his words than he had anticipated.
"You didn't say anything," Hardison said in a wounded tone.
"There wasn't anything to say," Eliot replied, dismissing Hardison's expression of concern. "But as long as you're here I might as well put you to work. Could you grab the first aid kit? I can't get the cut on my back dressed on my own." Eliot said as he flipped a chair around backwards and straddled it next to the kitchen table.
As Eliot turned away to sit down Hardison bit his lip as he surveyed the man's back. Bruising ran rampant along his skin, painting it a motley assortment of colors. The cut that Eliot must be referring to stood out in stark contrast to the skin and partially-healed wounds. He rolled on a pair of latex gloves from the kit and pulled up a chair to sit behind him. "Uh, I'm more than willing to help, but you'll have to walk me through this. Triage is your area of expertise. Mine's...a bit more distant from this kind of stuff."
Eliot twisted his neck around to meet Hardison's nervous expression. "You'll do fine. If there's any crud in the cut still clean it out, there's some antiseptic wipes in the first aid supplies. Then some of the ointment, and cover all that with some gauze. "
Hardison ran his eyes over the stuff set out on the table, collecting the materials he'd need in a small pile. Eliot watched him do this. The hacker's slow hesitant movements didn't escape his scrutiny. "I, uh, I know this isn't normally your thing. Are you ok with this? If not, it's ok. I can manage."
Hardison shook his head. "I just said this was different from what I'm used to, not that I wouldn't do it. Just walk me through it."
Eliot nodded gratefully. He spoke clearly, hoping that his own confidence would lend itself to Hardison. He knew what it was like trying something that fell outside his area of expertise. Like acting was for him, he thought, smiling. How many crazy roles had he adopted since signing up with this crew? "Just like I said, make sure it's clean before you dress it. I cleaned it out the best I could in the shower but it's in a pretty awkward spot." He flexed his shoulder, the wound in question on his left shoulder announcing itself as he did so.
Hardison gave a half nod. "Ok, then. You sure this doesn't need stitches? It ain't pretty."
"I'm sure. There's nothing to stitch together, I just lost a chunk of skin."
Hardison began his administrations, carefully picking a few pieces of coal out of the wound and depositing them on the table beside him. He didn't miss Eliot's slight flinch when his fingers first brushed up against his skin. But the hitter recovered his resolve quickly and went rigid.
"How'd you do this again?" Hardison asked.
Eliot was silent for a moment. This wasn't something he was used to sharing with someone, anyone, really. The post-mission phases were something he usually did himself. Sitting here at this table and putting himself back together had become something of a ritual for the hitter. It was disorienting to be sitting here so exposed, even in front of Hardison. Yes, the man was his teammate, and as of late, a very good friend. But it still didn't banish the instinct that Eliot had to lock himself away in his room and tend to his injuries in solitude. He breathed deep, calming himself. Hardison had done a lot for him tonight, driving him home and saving him the discomfort he'd suffer from riding in the back of a stranger's car in his current partially-incapacitated state. He owed the man an explanation at the very least. "It happened while I was in the mine looking for the bomb. The man who planted it saw me and we got into a fight. He managed to graze my back with the tip of his pick axe in the scuffle."
Hardison paused for a moment, fingers warm against the skin of Eliot's back. "This wound is from a pick axe?"
Eliot shrugged, instantly regretting the motion as pain flared up the shoulder. He stilled, letting the pain wash over him and dissipate. "Yeah. Not too bad, though, in the scheme of things."
"How is this not bad, man? You're missing several square inches of skin off your back!"
Eliot thought through the litany of injuries he'd seen in his day: knifings, bullet wounds, and a dislocated shoulder came to mind as highlights. Hell, he probably didn't remember half the injuries his body had sustained somewhere along the way. "It's not bad, for me," Eliot finished, refusing to speak any more on the issue. The past was just that, the past. And some parts of his history were best left buried where they lay.
"And the bruising? This whole mess can't be from one mission."
"Like I said, the past few cons have seen a good deal more violence than usual. I got thrown into the river during that car dealership job. That's a lot of it."
"And this one?" Hardison asked, running a light hand over a particularly vivid stripe of bruising at the base of his neck. Eliot shrank back from the touch. Though whether the gesture was from pain or surprise, Hardison wasn't sure, but he withdrew his hand and returned to applying gauze to the wound.
Eliot shook his head and Hardison saw the man's muscles tense angrily. "Parker threw a crowbar at me."
"She did what?" Hardison couldn't keep all the shock out of his voice.
"She didn't mean to, I don't think. Damn, that girl has an arm. Sure did hurt though."
"Did she at least apologize?"
"We're talking Parker here. I don't think she even realized she did something wrong."
A frown crossed Hardison's face at that, although Eliot couldn't see from his position facing the wall. The hacker smoothed out a final piece of tape to hold the gauze in place. "That's it, then. I'm done."
Eliot stood up, stretching out his stiff muscles. He paused, locking eyes with Hardison. "Thanks."
Hardison shrugged. "It was nothing," he remarked nonchalantly.
"So are you heading out?" Eliot asked. "I've probably kept you long enough as it is."
"I figured I'd just squat on your couch for the night, if you're ok with it. You said you didn't want me driving your truck. You could just take me back to Nate's for my own car tomorrow sometime." Hardison finished with an exasperated breath. He braced himself for an outright rejection, but Eliot really shouldn't be left alone like this. The man still looked far worse for wear. Eliot's taut posture had begun to collapse in on itself. His head was bobbing forward between sentences and his eyes were half hidden beneath drooping eyelids
Eliot nodded. "Fair enough. There's extra bedding in the linen closet in the hallway. You need anything else?"
"Really?" Hardison caught himself, realizing he'd spoken that out loud. "I mean, uh, I'm good. Go ahead and turn in for the night yourself. You look like you could use the rest."
Eliot gave a terse nod and pushed off from where he'd been supporting part of his weight against the table. Hardison watched him depart and disappear down the hallway before he quickly stripped off the bloody gloves and dropped them into the trashcan, oddly pleased with himself. "You did it, Hardison, the whole thing, all that blood, and you didn't faint."
He placed the lid on the trash can so that he wouldn't have to look at the evidence of what he'd just done. He was a hacker for a reason. It wasn't messy, it wasn't physical, and it certainly wasn't bloody. He'd never dealt well with blood. He flashed a smile as he thought back to when his grandma had arranged for him to shadow a physician for a day, trying to lure Hardison down the path of pursing medical school. He'd fainted when the doctor had given a simple injection. But here and now he'd steeled himself well, and he was proud of that. Proud that he had been able to help out a teammate.
And on that thought, he set about straightening up the kitchen a bit more. He started with putting the medical kit back together and moved on from there. He found the bedding and laid it out on the couch. He kicked off his shoes, letting them fall haphazardly to the floor, and then thought better of bringing his clutter into Eliot's normally orderly environment. The final thing he did before going to bed was to line his shoes up by the door next to Eliot's.
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A loud thudding noise had Hardison snapping his eyes open and rolling off the couch and to his feet, head swiveling as he tried to determine the source of the sound. He flailed around, feeling for the wall and following that to the light switch near the door. His eyes protested the sudden brightness of everything but he rubbed at them a few times.
And there! The noise again. This time accompanied by a person's voice. It was low at first. He moved toward Eliot's door. It was a quiet sound, a soft cry as if someone had wrangled it in before it could reach its full strength.
"I'M NOT GIVING IT TO YOU!"
Hardison flinched at the sudden outburst that pierced through Eliot's thick door. He knocked, softly at first, then louder when there was no answer. His pulse hammered. "Eliot, you ok in there?"
No answer. He twisted the door knob to enter, understanding the gravity of what he was pondering doing by walking in on Eliot while the man was unconscious, but he wanted to make sure his friend was ok. The locked door prevented any further action along that avenue.
He put an ear to the door when the sudden outburst faded to an awkward silence. Then he heard softly, "...Please. I can't tell you. I don't know! I've told you that three times..." When the voice fell away again he heard the violent tussling of blankets, a form tossing and turning in the throes of terror within.
"ELIOT! Are you ok in there?"
There was a grunt from the other side of the door and then the room went silent again. Hardison saw a faint crack of light beneath the door as the switch was flipped and then the door was quickly wrenched open. The man before him wore a variety of emotions on his face. Bewilderment, at having been woken up so suddenly. Then anger as he realized that he wasn't alone. And lining his every movement was a barely veiled fatigue. Sweat had made the hitter's hair damp.
"Hardison! What do you want?" Eliot growled, scrubbing the exhaustion from his face.
"I, uh. I just wanted to make sure you were ok. It sounded like you were having a nightmare."
Eliot blinked a few times. And although Hardison wouldn't have staked his life on it, he could've sworn that shame had flashed across Eliot's face before he buried that emotion behind a stoic mask. "I don't have nightmares. What time is it anyways?" He asked as he roughly twisted the clock around toward him. His expression darkened as he saw the time. It was going on six in the morning."Did you turn my alarm clock off?" he barked at Hardison.
"Look, dude. You were exhausted, you needed the sleep. I was just trying to help-"
"You want to help? Leave things you don't know anything about alone. I have a routine and it works well for me. I don't need you coming around here and screwing it up."
Hardison rubbed the back of his head and dropped his gaze to the ground.
Eliot stood there, as if he expected further explanation. With none forth coming he growled once more and slammed the door.
Hardison stood there for a few moments, trying to piece together what exactly had just transpired. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the shower going again. Apparently he wasn't the only one who wasn't going to get any more sleep that night.
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Hardison pulled up Eliot's truck behind his own van and killed the engine. His ears took a moment to recover from the loud grumbling of the diesel engine. By the time he'd left the truck behind and was pushing open the door to the bar he was- he hoped, at any rate- ready to meet up with the team. He'd left Eliot's place soon after regaining his bearings after the hitter had slammed the door on him and made it explicitly clear he wanted to be left alone. Hardison figured Eliot could use some space, in the form of a vacant apartment, when he emerged for breakfast. Hardison had taken the time to swing by his place and shove some of his own possessions and his computer into a backpack before coming over to Nate's place.
The bar was empty so he progressed up the stairs, into the apartment, and headed for the lounge. He had guessed right, the rest of the team was assembled there. Nate looked a bit hung over and was nursing a cup of black coffee. Sophie looked a bit more awake (though not by much) and was nibbling on a piece of toast. A cup of tea sat to her left on the end table. Hardison smiled when he got to matching gazes with Parker. The girl was perched on the back of the couch. He couldn't help but associate the little thief with a cat; Parker was always searching for the highest place she could climb, whether she be indoors or outside.
"Hey Hardison! Did you bring donuts? You promised donuts if we came over here this early," Parker accosted the man as soon as he walked through the door.
He smirked and nodded, pulling the box of Dunkin' Donuts out from behind his back and placing it on the coffee table. Parker practically pounced on the container of overly-sugared treats as soon as he backed away from the peace offering he'd brought for insisting they all make it over here.
"Well?" Nate prompted, "What've you found?"
"Found on what?" Hardison asked, a bit confused.
"I had assumed you'd found something on the Italian Woman's job we're working," Nate responded.
"Oh, that. No, I didn't have a chance to work on that much last night."
"Then what was so important that we had to be dragged out of our beds this early?"
Hardison sighed and leaned his weight back against the wall. He took a second to muster his courage under Nate's serious gaze. "I wanted to talk to you guys about Eliot, actually. He's had a bit of a rough time with it lately."
Nate furrowed his brow. "What are you talking about?"
Hardison forced himself to meet Nate's gaze without flinching. "I'm talking about his role in this operation. His job is by far the most physically demanding, and he often is exposed to the most risk. And I think that's something we've taken for granted with this pace we've been working at."
"We've all been working hard," Nate shot back, looking more irritated by the minute.
Hardison shook his head. He'd never been good with words, but he had to make them understand somehow. He fumbled for a moment, gesturing uselessly before finally saying, "Yeah, but when a con ends for us, it's over. We close the book, go home, and kick up our feet for a few days before we do it all again. What we've forgotten is that for some of us, or at least Eliot, there are aftereffects to be dealt with. Physical injuries to be tended to, for example."
"Eliot hasn't said anything," Sophie responded, a touch of concern growing on her face. "Is there something going on here that we aren't aware of that prompted this lecture?"
Hardison nodded, grateful for the opening and sympathy. "I know he hasn't said anything. And that's something I plan on addressing with him as soon as I'm done here. We normally have some downtime between cons. But lately we've had to throw that luxury to the wind to keep up with this Italian Woman's deadline. But what we've forgotten is that Eliot needs that time to recover and put himself back together."
"You're talking to us as if we are choosing to run con after con," Nate retorted harshly. "The Italian Woman has a noose hanging over my head, Hardison. She's threatening to send me right back to prison and she's hinted that she wouldn't hesitate to burn you all right along with me if we don't hold up our end of this deal."
Hardison sighed, brain scrambling for the right words to make Nate see, make him really understand. The open wound on Eliot's back rose in Hardison's memory, and he was forced to swallow hard. He could do this. He had to do this. "Look, I know she's got us backed into a corner. It's not any one person's fault here. I'm just saying that Eliot is not physically capable of holding this pace. I went home with him last night." Hardison gave a nervous chuckle. What had happened last night, what condition Eliot had been in, he never would've dreamt that he would see Eliot that run down. "The man was a mass of bruises and cuts and exhaustion was doting on the man like a best friend. We've ridden him into the ground with this break-neck pace and we just kept on going without giving a single thought to how it might be affecting him."
Nate drained his mug of its last few drops of coffee and deposited it on the table a bit harder than necessary. "What would you have us do?"
"Slow down." Hardison said in his most persuasive voice, the one he'd learned to use when going door to door in his childhood. "Demand more time from the Italian Woman. Or at the very least give Eliot some time to recover. The man's dead on his feet."
"You're talking about the Italian Woman as if she's going to lend us an earnest ear or a shoulder to cry on about how tired we all are. She's a battle hardened criminal-"
Hardison pushed off the wall and stalked forward until he was standing directly in front of Nate, anger finally pushing away all of his hesitation, and his voice was a low growl as he ground out, "And Eliot's human! Just like the rest of us. And he's bearing the brunt of the burden for the pace we're running. He's the one paying the price."
Parker leaned forward a bit, her quiet voice contrasting to the heated debate that had developed between the two men. "But Eliot's...Eliot. He's always there to protect us or get me down when my rigging gets jammed. He doesn't get hurt or sick like the rest of us..."
Hardison softened his tone. He was always amazed at how different Parker perceived the world. He knew she had come to trust Eliot, even rely on him when she got cornered or in a jam. But it was time to iron out the kinks that had formed recently and set her straight. "And don't you think we should be there for him too? He is flesh and blood, just like the rest of us." He chose his next words carefully, he needed to punctuate a point but he didn't want to deposit blame on Parker for something she was genuinely oblivious to; it really was a bit like explaining the world to a small child. Hell, up until last night none of them had picked up on the underlying currents that were affecting Eliot to the point where his finely built barriers had started to crack. "When you hit him with a crowbar, it hurts him, Parker. Just like it would do to you or me."
"I didn't do it on purpose," she responded in a hushed tone, eyes wide.
Hardison kept his voice gentle. "I know that. He knows that too. But look what we did after that. Did we take a moment to ask if he was ok? Or did we keep on trucking along?"
Parker glanced at him; he could see the gears turning behind her eyes. "Should I steal something for him to make up for it? Maybe a new jacket? That dip in the river ruined his last one."
Hardison smiled at the gesture but shook his head. "Somehow, I don't know if he'd appreciate the idea of you committing a crime for him. But keep thinking on it, you'll come up with something." He swept his gaze around the room at the other two. "And as for the rest of us, we have to start somewhere too. And that means slowing it down and showing Eliot that we care. It means giving him the space and time he needs to heal before we make him run the gamut again."
Nate begrudgingly nodded, eyes filled with the apology he'd never say. Sophie mirrored the gesture a bit more readily. Guilt plagued her expression.
Hardison had to admit that even Nate looked a bit disgusted with the thought of their recent treatment of Eliot. Nate met his gaze. "I'll talk to them; see if I can get an extension on this deadline. I'll try."
Hardison gave a curt nod. "Negotiate first if you can. If you can't, tell them this. Until Eliot's physically and mentally ready to dive back in, I'm not hacking. And he's not in any condition to be hitting. The line has to be drawn somewhere and this is it."
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Hardison returned to the apartment to hear a constant thumping noise through the door. It wasn't consistent, though. There would be a few quick raps in rapid succession and then a second or two would pass before he heard the noise again.
He opened the door to find Eliot circling around a punching bag in the corner. The man was light on his feet, bouncing his weight from one to the other as he jabbed at the bag, inserting a grunt or two between hits.
He didn't seem to notice Hardison, or if he did, he was ignoring the man. Sweat ran down his face in rivets and his hair would bob with each sudden change of direction. He would dance in for a hit and then step back a few paces.
"You expecting the punching bag to grow a pair of arms and come after you? You keep retreating from it."
Eliot ignored the jive, instead arcing around the punching bag so that he was facing the wall away from Hardison. The flurry of punches continued through the interruption.
Hardison's next complaint about being ignored died on his lips. There was a red stain on Eliot's left shoulder. It had already spotted through the white t-shirt the man was wearing and was beginning to carve a path downward toward the hitter's hip.
"Eliot."
The hitter continued to face away. If anything, he had begun throwing more of his weight against the bag. Whether it was from frustration or some other reason Hardison wasn't sure. The one thing he did know was that this needed to stop now.
"Eliot, you split your shoulder again. Time to take a break, don't you think?"
No response.
Hardison crossed the room quickly, stepping inside the circle of sweat drops that Eliot had left on the ground as he made his circuit around the punching bag. Eliot had to make a choice: to keep swinging and potentially hit Hardison, or back off.
The man growled and bounded back a step, his restless bouncing slowing and then stopping altogether. "You trying to get yourself hurt, Hardison? You don't ever interrupt me when I'm in a training session. That's how you're going to end up with a black eye or worse."
Hardison refused to step away from the bag, standing his ground and meeting Eliot's gaze evenly. It was still swinging from Eliot's efforts and was thumping against his leg. The bag was heavy too; it pushed him a step to the side as it thudded against him again. He grabbed the bag with his hands and stopped its pendulum swing. "Well maybe I wouldn't have had to if you would've just listened instead of ignoring me like a spoiled child."
Eliot wiped the sweat from his face with the towel he'd left draped over the back of the couch. Discarding that, he took a swig of his water before recapping it and setting it on the ground. "Maybe if you stopped treating me like I child I would start treating you like an adult."
Hardison chuffed at that. "That'll come when you start being responsible. Like taking care of your injuries instead of stressing them further. Your shoulder's bleeding again."
He stepped forward to take a closer look at it but Eliot backed away. "It's fine. The bleeding will stop on its own."
Helpless rage welled up in Hardison. "My god! It's like you throw out all of your first aid know-how when it comes to your own well-being, Eliot."
Eliot narrowed his eyes and skirted past Hardison, just beyond his reach where the hacker might've been able to put a hand out and inspect the shoulder. "I'm fine. And as you seem hell-bent against letting me touch my punching bag. I'm going for a run."
Hardison watched the man roughly don his shoes and tie their laces in double knots. He stood up from his stooped position and turned to face Hardison for a moment. "As for the way you were mocking me backing away from the punching bag, yeah, I do treat the bag like it's an opponent. So that when it's a real person coming after you, maybe I stand a chance of saving your ass." The door slammed and Eliot was gone.
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"Hey!"
Hardison jumped and looked up. Parker was perched on the fire escape two stories above. "Girl, you trying to give me a heart attack?! Popping in on me like that with no warning. What are you doing up there? Or a better question, how'd you get up there?" he asked as he tried to puzzle it out. Then he shook his head. "Never mind. Probably better not to know. Well come on," he motioned. "Get down here. We have work to do."
She shrugged and fifteen seconds later she had shimmied down a drainage pipe, landed on the top of the closed dumpster, and hopped down to stand next to Hardison. "Ok, I'm here."
He nodded and led her around to the front of the apartment complex, through the door, and up to Eliot's place.
"So, what are we doing?" Parker asked excitedly.
"You are gonna put those thieving skills of yours to good instead of the mischief you're so fond of." He pointed to the worn punching bag that hung from a bolt that Eliot had installed in the ceiling. "I want you to steal that and take it somewhere."
"Well that's no fun! You already know I'm going to take it. What's the surprise in that?"
"I know. It's Eliot's and he won't know, though. We can surprise him if that's going to make it more exciting for you."
She cocked her head. "You want me to steal Eliot's stuff? I thought you said I had to work on making it up to him after the crowbar thing. This is just going to get him mad."
"Look, remember when Nate caught you rappelling with a broken hand and he had Eliot confiscate all of your climbing gear?"
She crinkled up her nose. "Yeah, that wasn't very nice. I didn't like that. I wouldn't want to do that to Eliot."
"Sometimes it's for your own good. Like the rappelling stuff for you. How do you think all of us would've felt if you had gotten even more hurt by jumping off a building when you weren't in peak form like you were at the time?"
"Bad, maybe. But I wouldn't have fallen! I don't ever fall," she argued back, implacable.
"Well thank god we didn't have to put that theory to the test by letting you go and dangle from the rooftops with a broken hand. Look, sometimes when you're hurt it's frustrating, not being able to do the things you love to do. Just like you love climbing, Eliot likes hitting things. During the mine job he split his shoulder in a scuffle. He's not giving his body the time it needs to heal. Sometimes it takes another person to step in and say enough is enough."
"Like Nate did to me?" Parker questioned him.
"Yeah. Just like that."
"I still didn't like it. And I still don't think it was necessary."
Hardison nodded. "I know, but sometimes you just gotta give someone else the peace of mind to know that you're safe and recovering instead of putting yourself in further danger when you're already hurt to begin with."
She shook her head. "Fine. But he's not going to be happy."
"You leave that to me. Just go in and do your stealing thing," he said, waving her forward. As she took his cue and walked further into the apartment, he began to withdraw toward the hallway.
"Hey! Where are you going?" she asked.
Hardison grinned. "Well I can't know what you do with it, now can I? That would make me an accessory to the crime."
She snorted. "It was your idea!"
"Look, if he asks about it I'll take the blame. I know you've been itching for a challenge; well here it is. Eliot's probably going to get back from his run soon. You need to have that punching bag out of here by then. Plus, just to sweeten the deal I'll give you a few ideas for how you can make it up to Eliot for the crowbar incident."
"Ok," she said, shrugging. "That sounds like a fair enough deal."
As Hardison withdrew from the apartment he swore he heard her cackle with glee. He smirked. That girl got a rush out of the strangest things. But then, they all did in their own ways. It was what made them such a successful and cohesive team. They all brought their own brand of crazy to the mix.
Continue to Part 2
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