Man I Used to Be #3
Title: Man I Used to Be
Rating: PG-13 for now
By: Jendavis
Spoilers: Up through 2x07
Pairing: Alec Hardison/ Eliot Spencer
Genre: Drama?
Warnings: WIP
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, don't take this too seriously.
Summary: The present's a mess, and the past isn't helping.
A/N: Just a quick update, there will probably be more up tomorrow. :)
Chapter 3
Eliot was still cursing midwestern thunderstorms when he pulled his bike into the garage.
He was certain, somehow, that Hardison had the capabilities to work around that sort of thing if he wanted to. More than likely, he'd arranged the ticket knowing full well that Eliot would be stuck staring out the terminal windows for several unending hours, watching torrential rain pelting the Chicago tarmac.
You're being ridiculous, Eliot told himself for the third time in an hour. Ain't like he can control the weather.
He shut the garage door and went inside, checking the security system before turning a considering eye towards the shower. Deciding that he'd had enough water for the evening, he skipped it, kicking his boots of at the foot of the bed and stripping down for sleep.
Glancing at the alarm clock on the nightstand, as he plugged his cell into the charger, he did the math and figured that it was probably only a little after one AM in Kansas. He considered calling Hardison to bitch him out. He'd probably still be up, staring at that damned computer screen and giving himself eyestrain. And if not, well, it would serve him right to be woken up.
Eliot just didn't know what he'd say when the complaints ran out.
Too tired to do anything more, he fell asleep with his phone in his hand.
---
It was nearly ten in the morning when Eliot woke again, startled to find that he'd slept so long, so he rushed into his morning routine while he wracked his brain trying to remember what it was he was supposed to be doing.
He was halfway through his workout when he realized that he had nowhere to be, no claims on his time beyond daylight and the growing season. The weatherman on the radio reported sunshine and heat, making lame jokes about how rough the day was going to be.
Pulling some tea bags out of the cabinet and running cold water from the tap, he fantasized vaguely about shoving the meteorologist into the back of an overcrowded Somalian bus in July. Backing the screen door open, he set the jug, already damp with condensation, out on the back porch to steep.
Continuing onward, he pulled a few weeds and tossed them aside on the lawn before making his way to the shed, intent on grabbing the gardening sheers. He was going to need a basket, as well.
Opening the shed door, he flipped the switch, but nothing happened. He tried the switch again, even though he knew better, and the shed remained dark, even though he'd changed the bulb less than a month ago.
Tension coiled in his gut, he went still. Began to listen, hard.
Someone was in here.
Still frozen, he puzzled it out. There was enough light coming in through the door that he could see reasonably well. There was nothing in the shed but a push mower and some tools. A hose coiled around a hook next to the too-small workbench.
Everything was normal. Nothing had changed.
The paint-spattered radio sitting on the shelf was battery-powered, at least, so he turned it on, tuning in to the classic rock station, catching the tail end of Layla, before they cut to a commercial for car insurance. Rummaging around in the cabinet, he found the replacement bulbs. After testing the light again, to no avail, he set to checking the wires, following them along towards the base of the rear wall. Grabbing a flashlight from the workbench, he crouched down to inspect the power box, brushing dust and cobwebs aside. The contacts had corroded, rusting away to almost nothing.
Eliot laughed, then, kneeling in his darkened shed, with the sun shining through the door behind him. It wasn't often his problems were so mundane.
Rummaging around the drawers in the workbench, he came up with four different coils of wire that had come with the place, and tried to pick them apart enough to see what the differences were. It seemed like something Hardison would know about. Hell, he figured out how to stop a plane crash from a few thousand miles away. He knew how to rig the stock market any way he wanted to. He could bring down a multinational company with nothing more than a cell phone. He could figure out how to disarm a bomb without looking at it. This would be easy.
Eliot could call him up, if he wanted.
But they weren't the kind of acquaintances that called each other up on a Saturday afternoon to talk about wiring that wasn't attached to something about to explode. They were coworkers, and hell, past that, they probably weren't even allies. Not in the long run. They'd sat together at a bar and had an awkward conversation that had left Eliot reeling more than he wanted to admit, but they weren't friends.
Eliot couldn't decide what he thought of Hardison's knowledge, in the general sense, on the best of days. But when Hardison's knowledge involved himself, it was irritating. Didn't seem right, not when Eliot himself didn't know what was going on in the first place.
Not when he was pretty sure he should have had it all figured out by now, but it had been something he'd been not-noticing for a while. A few years, maybe, but it hadn't ever been a topic he'd had the time to worry about. His concerns had generally been more immediate in nature, and the paths his life had taken simply hadn't led him to a point where it needed to be considered.
He'd cleared the border into Thailand, dehydrated from the heat, sure he was about to die. Felt the wound going septic as he tried to find cover, sure that the next bullet wouldn't miss, and trying to convince himself he wasn't hoping for it. Checking for tails, keeping escape routes open. Bad years that had him sleeping with a gun in his hand, and that one worse year, when he'd first tried giving it all up, tried to start over from nothing.
But he'd stopped running, now, at least for a while. He had a house. Hell, he had a solid phone line and a sister and a nephew that knew the number, and he'd kept it for months now. He had something that felt like a regular gig. He had a crew.
But he also had years of leaving no trace of himself, anywhere, because his self would have slowed him down. He'd ditched it somewhere, and couldn't even remember when.
---
Stepping back out of the shed, splicing and soldering and grumbling completed, Eliot noticed that the sun tea was finished, and decided that the tomatoes could wait another hour or so. After dodging inside to grab a glass of ice and the Ulysses S. Grant biography that was finally starting to get interesting, he moved back to the porch.
Some ten pages later, and he noticed his eyelids beginning to droop.
He checked his watch. It was barely three. He re-read the last page for the third or fourth time, but the words weren't slotting themselves into his head the way they were supposed to.
The book hit the porch, but Eliot didn't wake.
---
"I have him."
"Wonderful. Myself, my men, our transport, and your money will be waiting for you."
---
Alec had spent most of the previous afternoon on a raid that stretched out into the early hours of the morning. It had gone well, but for the fact that it meant he'd had to double-time it today, before Nate came around nagging for results.
It was getting late, and Sophie and Parker were still probably out at the quilt show. Nate had said something that morning about heading out to the ranch to watch the horses in action, and discuss the situation more with Mr. Bradshaw. There were two autistic teenagers scheduled for the day's session, and Alec didn't have to be there to see the guilt buried under Nate's grin as he watched them.
Eliot was at home. Gardening, of all things. By now, really, the strangeness of the idea should have worn off. It made more sense than other things he'd learned, after all. But then again.
No one plants a garden if they're not planning on sticking around.
Alec's mind was wandering. He needed a break from scrolling through too much Section 106 legalese. He'd spent the morning compiling manuals and faking notes for excavations, mapped out the areas where they'd need to find the artifacts, and now his eyes were burning, and he was out of soda.
He resigned himself to wandering out to the diner alone to grab something to eat, but when the elevator door opened, Parker was explaining geometry to Nate, and Sophie was wearing an expression that looked something like shell shock. She fell into step next to him as they walked across the parking lot to the diner, leaning over to intone, "Next time, Eliot is on craft fair duty. Tell him that, when you talk to him."
Alec wanted to ask her why she thought he was Eliot's personal complaint clearinghouse, but it was Sophie. If he asked, she'd answer, in rambling earnest detail. It would just make things so much worse, so he let it ride.
---
Something's wrong, Eliot dreamed, only he was starting to wake up, and the feeling wasn't abating.
He took care not to move, not to open his eyes. Just listened for a moment. There was nothing in the ambient noise he recognized. He did, however, recognize all too well the feeling of a concrete floor.
Slowly shifting his wrist, he moved it incrementally over a few millimeters of floor, finding it cooler. He'd been lying there long enough to warm the floor beneath him, but not long enough that he couldn't notice the difference.
The detail that he appeared to be missing his shirt didn't escape his notice, either, and his feet were bare as well.
This would be the 'something wrong', then.
Opening his eyes, he found the room to be dark, but not pitch black, and the air was heavy with mold. A basement, then. Great.
Without moving his head, he cast his eyes about the room, trying to find something to lock onto, but finding precious little. Across the room, there was a door that looked ominously solid, with a grate at eye level that served as a window. He saw no hinges, which meant it probably opened towards the outside. Useless for cover if he needed it. There didn't seem to be anything else that would come in handy. The room was bare.
On the other hand, for the time being at least, he seemed to be alone.
The cold was beginning to sink into his bones. He had to sit up before he got too stiff.
Moment of truth.
He rolled over quickly, wanting to check his six before doing anything else, but found no one waiting behind him. Perimeter thusly examined, he pushed himself into a sitting position, but the blood shifting from his head left the beginnings of a sharp headache in its wake, leaving him dizzy.
He froze again, listening for any indication that his movement had been noticed. Something outside the door, or maybe beyond the glass brick window set high into the wall above, but there was nothing.
Releasing a breath, he slid across the floor to put his back against the far wall, so he could watch the door. Beyond casting his eyes around the room, getting its measure, he forced himself not to guess, not to overextend his assessment. Not knowing something was better than knowing the wrong thing too strongly.
Eliot ordered himself to remain calm, settling in to wait. Stared at the door and tried not to think.
---
"This concludes our business, then," he said, snapping the briefcase shut, securing the cash. "You have done well."
"Thank you," Mikel replied coolly, hefting the suitcase in her hand, and stepping away, back towards the truck. "You will not hear from me again."
---
Chapter 4
Rating: PG-13 for now
By: Jendavis
Spoilers: Up through 2x07
Pairing: Alec Hardison/ Eliot Spencer
Genre: Drama?
Warnings: WIP
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, don't take this too seriously.
Summary: The present's a mess, and the past isn't helping.
A/N: Just a quick update, there will probably be more up tomorrow. :)
Chapter 3
Eliot was still cursing midwestern thunderstorms when he pulled his bike into the garage.
He was certain, somehow, that Hardison had the capabilities to work around that sort of thing if he wanted to. More than likely, he'd arranged the ticket knowing full well that Eliot would be stuck staring out the terminal windows for several unending hours, watching torrential rain pelting the Chicago tarmac.
You're being ridiculous, Eliot told himself for the third time in an hour. Ain't like he can control the weather.
He shut the garage door and went inside, checking the security system before turning a considering eye towards the shower. Deciding that he'd had enough water for the evening, he skipped it, kicking his boots of at the foot of the bed and stripping down for sleep.
Glancing at the alarm clock on the nightstand, as he plugged his cell into the charger, he did the math and figured that it was probably only a little after one AM in Kansas. He considered calling Hardison to bitch him out. He'd probably still be up, staring at that damned computer screen and giving himself eyestrain. And if not, well, it would serve him right to be woken up.
Eliot just didn't know what he'd say when the complaints ran out.
Too tired to do anything more, he fell asleep with his phone in his hand.
---
It was nearly ten in the morning when Eliot woke again, startled to find that he'd slept so long, so he rushed into his morning routine while he wracked his brain trying to remember what it was he was supposed to be doing.
He was halfway through his workout when he realized that he had nowhere to be, no claims on his time beyond daylight and the growing season. The weatherman on the radio reported sunshine and heat, making lame jokes about how rough the day was going to be.
Pulling some tea bags out of the cabinet and running cold water from the tap, he fantasized vaguely about shoving the meteorologist into the back of an overcrowded Somalian bus in July. Backing the screen door open, he set the jug, already damp with condensation, out on the back porch to steep.
Continuing onward, he pulled a few weeds and tossed them aside on the lawn before making his way to the shed, intent on grabbing the gardening sheers. He was going to need a basket, as well.
Opening the shed door, he flipped the switch, but nothing happened. He tried the switch again, even though he knew better, and the shed remained dark, even though he'd changed the bulb less than a month ago.
Tension coiled in his gut, he went still. Began to listen, hard.
Someone was in here.
Still frozen, he puzzled it out. There was enough light coming in through the door that he could see reasonably well. There was nothing in the shed but a push mower and some tools. A hose coiled around a hook next to the too-small workbench.
Everything was normal. Nothing had changed.
The paint-spattered radio sitting on the shelf was battery-powered, at least, so he turned it on, tuning in to the classic rock station, catching the tail end of Layla, before they cut to a commercial for car insurance. Rummaging around in the cabinet, he found the replacement bulbs. After testing the light again, to no avail, he set to checking the wires, following them along towards the base of the rear wall. Grabbing a flashlight from the workbench, he crouched down to inspect the power box, brushing dust and cobwebs aside. The contacts had corroded, rusting away to almost nothing.
Eliot laughed, then, kneeling in his darkened shed, with the sun shining through the door behind him. It wasn't often his problems were so mundane.
Rummaging around the drawers in the workbench, he came up with four different coils of wire that had come with the place, and tried to pick them apart enough to see what the differences were. It seemed like something Hardison would know about. Hell, he figured out how to stop a plane crash from a few thousand miles away. He knew how to rig the stock market any way he wanted to. He could bring down a multinational company with nothing more than a cell phone. He could figure out how to disarm a bomb without looking at it. This would be easy.
Eliot could call him up, if he wanted.
But they weren't the kind of acquaintances that called each other up on a Saturday afternoon to talk about wiring that wasn't attached to something about to explode. They were coworkers, and hell, past that, they probably weren't even allies. Not in the long run. They'd sat together at a bar and had an awkward conversation that had left Eliot reeling more than he wanted to admit, but they weren't friends.
Eliot couldn't decide what he thought of Hardison's knowledge, in the general sense, on the best of days. But when Hardison's knowledge involved himself, it was irritating. Didn't seem right, not when Eliot himself didn't know what was going on in the first place.
Not when he was pretty sure he should have had it all figured out by now, but it had been something he'd been not-noticing for a while. A few years, maybe, but it hadn't ever been a topic he'd had the time to worry about. His concerns had generally been more immediate in nature, and the paths his life had taken simply hadn't led him to a point where it needed to be considered.
He'd cleared the border into Thailand, dehydrated from the heat, sure he was about to die. Felt the wound going septic as he tried to find cover, sure that the next bullet wouldn't miss, and trying to convince himself he wasn't hoping for it. Checking for tails, keeping escape routes open. Bad years that had him sleeping with a gun in his hand, and that one worse year, when he'd first tried giving it all up, tried to start over from nothing.
But he'd stopped running, now, at least for a while. He had a house. Hell, he had a solid phone line and a sister and a nephew that knew the number, and he'd kept it for months now. He had something that felt like a regular gig. He had a crew.
But he also had years of leaving no trace of himself, anywhere, because his self would have slowed him down. He'd ditched it somewhere, and couldn't even remember when.
---
Stepping back out of the shed, splicing and soldering and grumbling completed, Eliot noticed that the sun tea was finished, and decided that the tomatoes could wait another hour or so. After dodging inside to grab a glass of ice and the Ulysses S. Grant biography that was finally starting to get interesting, he moved back to the porch.
Some ten pages later, and he noticed his eyelids beginning to droop.
He checked his watch. It was barely three. He re-read the last page for the third or fourth time, but the words weren't slotting themselves into his head the way they were supposed to.
The book hit the porch, but Eliot didn't wake.
---
"I have him."
"Wonderful. Myself, my men, our transport, and your money will be waiting for you."
---
Alec had spent most of the previous afternoon on a raid that stretched out into the early hours of the morning. It had gone well, but for the fact that it meant he'd had to double-time it today, before Nate came around nagging for results.
It was getting late, and Sophie and Parker were still probably out at the quilt show. Nate had said something that morning about heading out to the ranch to watch the horses in action, and discuss the situation more with Mr. Bradshaw. There were two autistic teenagers scheduled for the day's session, and Alec didn't have to be there to see the guilt buried under Nate's grin as he watched them.
Eliot was at home. Gardening, of all things. By now, really, the strangeness of the idea should have worn off. It made more sense than other things he'd learned, after all. But then again.
No one plants a garden if they're not planning on sticking around.
Alec's mind was wandering. He needed a break from scrolling through too much Section 106 legalese. He'd spent the morning compiling manuals and faking notes for excavations, mapped out the areas where they'd need to find the artifacts, and now his eyes were burning, and he was out of soda.
He resigned himself to wandering out to the diner alone to grab something to eat, but when the elevator door opened, Parker was explaining geometry to Nate, and Sophie was wearing an expression that looked something like shell shock. She fell into step next to him as they walked across the parking lot to the diner, leaning over to intone, "Next time, Eliot is on craft fair duty. Tell him that, when you talk to him."
Alec wanted to ask her why she thought he was Eliot's personal complaint clearinghouse, but it was Sophie. If he asked, she'd answer, in rambling earnest detail. It would just make things so much worse, so he let it ride.
---
Something's wrong, Eliot dreamed, only he was starting to wake up, and the feeling wasn't abating.
He took care not to move, not to open his eyes. Just listened for a moment. There was nothing in the ambient noise he recognized. He did, however, recognize all too well the feeling of a concrete floor.
Slowly shifting his wrist, he moved it incrementally over a few millimeters of floor, finding it cooler. He'd been lying there long enough to warm the floor beneath him, but not long enough that he couldn't notice the difference.
The detail that he appeared to be missing his shirt didn't escape his notice, either, and his feet were bare as well.
This would be the 'something wrong', then.
Opening his eyes, he found the room to be dark, but not pitch black, and the air was heavy with mold. A basement, then. Great.
Without moving his head, he cast his eyes about the room, trying to find something to lock onto, but finding precious little. Across the room, there was a door that looked ominously solid, with a grate at eye level that served as a window. He saw no hinges, which meant it probably opened towards the outside. Useless for cover if he needed it. There didn't seem to be anything else that would come in handy. The room was bare.
On the other hand, for the time being at least, he seemed to be alone.
The cold was beginning to sink into his bones. He had to sit up before he got too stiff.
Moment of truth.
He rolled over quickly, wanting to check his six before doing anything else, but found no one waiting behind him. Perimeter thusly examined, he pushed himself into a sitting position, but the blood shifting from his head left the beginnings of a sharp headache in its wake, leaving him dizzy.
He froze again, listening for any indication that his movement had been noticed. Something outside the door, or maybe beyond the glass brick window set high into the wall above, but there was nothing.
Releasing a breath, he slid across the floor to put his back against the far wall, so he could watch the door. Beyond casting his eyes around the room, getting its measure, he forced himself not to guess, not to overextend his assessment. Not knowing something was better than knowing the wrong thing too strongly.
Eliot ordered himself to remain calm, settling in to wait. Stared at the door and tried not to think.
---
"This concludes our business, then," he said, snapping the briefcase shut, securing the cash. "You have done well."
"Thank you," Mikel replied coolly, hefting the suitcase in her hand, and stepping away, back towards the truck. "You will not hear from me again."
---
Chapter 4