The Everlasting, Chapter 3
Title: The Everlasting
Rating: PG-13 for now
Spoilers: Up through end of season 2
Pairing: Alec Hardison/ Eliot Spencer
Warnings: None for *this* chapter...
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, don't take this too seriously.
A/N: Posting this now because I don't know when I'll be able to get more done on it, over the next few days. Haven't gone over it as thoroughly as I would have liked, so let me know if you see something wonky with it.
Chapter 3
Dear Eliot,
If you've gotten this, it means you've made it to Boston. At the time that I'm writing, it's been four months since we've last spoken.
We've got a job. This is where you pretend that you're sitting around waiting for Alec to break out the visual aids. I say pretend because apart from two letters to Nate, the last of which was dated April the 12th, we've not heard from him, and do not know if he and Parker are okay.
Find them. That's mission the first, and there may be a secondary part. By the time you get this, mind you, this could all be outdated or irrelevant, but as we've seen no response to Nate's letters, we fear the worst.
From what I understand, there is a man named Cornelius who has amassed what appears to be a small private army. They're running the food supply, and I'm sure you can imagine all that entails. When last we heard, Alec and Parker are planning on taking Cornelius down a notch or two. I shudder to think what could befall them should they find themselves over their heads. They may need your help.
I am making preparations to depart for America. If you write to Nate at the address below, there is a fairly good chance he may receive it, though the post is not as dependable as we've hoped. He has, however, been able to ring me up from the prison, as the military has taken over security. As such, they've brought with them phones and tools that have been built specifically to withstand EMP radiation.
I am going to see what I can to do expedite his release, due to these bizarre circumstances. Oddly enough, this seems to be the one situation where basic bribery will not work, as there is no way to ensure delivery of any goods promised from so great a distance, so I am- again, strangely enough- left taking an approach which is entirely above board. Unfortunately, this may delay my arrival in New York, but Nate and I will join you in Boston as soon as we possibly can.
I can only hope firmly believe that this letter will find you, as to think otherwise would be ridiculous. But I truly hope that you are safe and well.
Love, Sophie
---
Eliot stared at the page, wanting to read it again, but not here, with the curious guards staring back at him, so he asked if they were done, here. On his way out the Boston-side of the office, he turned in the doorway to ask, "Hey. Has there been an official death toll yet?"
"Dunno. Last estimate was fifty or sixty million across the country, but that was a few days ago."
There wasn't much of anything Eliot could say to that.
About two dozen people were descending on the roadblock, asking for information, wanting help that the guards couldn't give, trying to find any way they could to get what they needed without having to actually set foot in the city. It was time to move on. Mustering the most off-putting glare he could manage, because he didn't want to deal with the world he was stepping back into, he made his way up the Turnpike as the clouds gathered themselves towards critical mass.
He had to climb down onto North Beacon Street when the rain started, and made his way into the Jaguar dealership to get out of the rain that was starting to come down faster than he could shake it off.
Hardly any of the cars had been stolen, and he considered breaking all the windows, just to make a point, or to hear the glass shatter, but then he found the couch in the break room, and lost interest. Going into his pack for the small camp stove he'd found in a garage in Hartford, he boiled water for the tea he'd found in the receptionist's drawer.
Just in time, too, as the coughs set in. Thankfully, the receptionist had been one of those terminally prepared types, with several tissue packets and a small pharmacy in the second drawer down. He grabbed everything that looked useful and went to lie down for a while, at least until the rain let up.
It was getting late, anyway. Better to stop off in the morning, and re-read Sophie's letter five or six more times, smoothing out the wrinkles in the paper.
Hardison and Parker were in Boston. He'd find them by noon tomorrow.
Even with the tea and the cold meds, it was hard, getting to sleep.
---
The glass of the front door was broken, though the door itself was welded shut, with bars crisscrossing the open space. Eliot went around back, glancing up at one of Alec's security cameras, wondering if he was being watched. Hoping so.
There were thick orange power cables running off the side of the roof and into one of the windows on Hardison's top-floor apartment.
He'd survived long enough to get his gear up and running, then. Alec was alive. This was real.
The realization that he had no idea what to do with the knowledge struck Eliot as he pulled the ladder to the fire escape down. He hadn't seen anyone he genuinely cared about in months. He had no idea what he'd say when he arrived at the top, but there wasn't much of anything he could say, anyhow.
But he should probably start with an apology, and see where it went from there.
---
He'd made it. Almost six months, but he'd made it. And Hardison's apartment was empty.
No, scratch that. There was still a lot of crap lying around. People had obviously looted the hell out of the place, to the point where there was no sign that Hardison had ever been the one to live there.
Right now, there was only Eliot, sitting on the floor, his back against the couch, looking at a room full of lifeless computers.
It doesn't mean he's dead. They're not fucking symbols of anything..
He'd set himself up for this without even noticing. Let himself hope too much.
It doesn't mean he's dead.
Maybe he'd moved out, found a different place to stay. It's what Eliot would have done, probably a lot sooner than Alec would have. Maybe he was at Parker's place.
It would help, really, if he knew where Parker lived.
Or maybe they'd already gone after this Cornelius guy.
That could have been a month ago.
Eliot picked himself off the floor and rubbed his eyes with his sleeve. This cold he'd picked up was annoying as hell. He had work to do. Had to find out more about Cornelius. Had to find out if he had to work out a rescue mission, or Cornelius' funeral.
---
He was getting used to it now, the half glances from strangers as they quickened their pace, trying to avoid him. But his patience was running thin.
"Hey!" he called out, hurrying to catch up to an apparently unarmed man who was turning onto the next block. "I just need to know-"
Rounding the corner, Eliot drew up short to find the man staring back at him, arms crossed, a smirk slashing his mouth.
Eliot had walked into a trap. He was covered from three positions, two teenage boys and a woman training guns on him unerringly.
But they hadn't fired, yet. He took a breath.
"I'm sorry. I just. I need some information. I've been hearing that a man named Cornelius is the guy in charge around here. Old information, though. Need to know if he's still in power."
"You're not part of his crew?" The man relaxed, a fraction, and it was as good as answering him plainly. Cornelius still had people running scared. If Hardison and Parker had made a move against him, they hadn't won.
The traitorous portion of Eliot's brain told him to make a move, to dash forward, attack. Throw himself forward and meet the bullets halfway.
It doesn't mean they're dead. Don't be an idiot.
---
"Someone was going through your apartment," Parker said, pulling back her hood as she tossed her damp pack up on the counter.
Hardison finished wrapping a rubber band around a stack of letters. "I know. I was there a few days back, grabbing that laptop over there. Wanted to see if it would work with that drive I found in the basement."
"No, I mean. About an hour ago, when I was over there to grab some of the stuff from Nate's safe. Heard someone coming up the fire escape so I ducked out into the hall, went up to the roof, and came down at the other end of the block."
"You get a look at them?"
"No," she replied, stretching her arms over her head. "They could still be over there, for all I know. Does it matter?"
"Probably not."
"I grabbed more batteries while I was there. You need any, yet?"
"Nah. Haven't really been listening. Got tired of the reruns. Stay calm. Stay indoors. Stay alive."
"There's a guy broadcasting from somewhere nearby. Non military. You can catch it on the lower frequencies. He's been reading Sherlock Holmes, this week. It's weird. You think we could get around him?"
"The guy on the radio?"
"Sherlock Holmes."
"Don't know. Wouldn't worry about it, though. How's the garden going?"
At this, Parker heaved an exhausted sigh. "It's fine, but. It's not going to be enough. There's been about a hundred people moving into the neighborhood in the past week. People keep showing up like they have been, and we might end up having to strike a deal with Cornelius."
"Why don't you just steal what you need from the bastard?"
"Impractical, until we can figure out the rotation on his sentries. I'd need a few others to help carry out enough to make it worthwhile. Don't have the time to train anyone, and even if I did, everyone's either too scared to make a move against him, or too pissed off not to blow the mission."
"Look. We've got the Kings, and as soon as they work out their truce with the H Block and Heath Street crews, we'll have enough for a direct press."
"I still don't see why we're waiting."
"Because the entire problem is that there's nobody balancing Cornelius out. We just let the Kings take over, there's nothing to stop them setting up shop the same way. It's a balance of power thing."
"Or it could just mean that there's three gangs running everything, with even more resources than they already have. Or there could be a gang war."
"Would either of us notice, at this point, if that actually happened?"
"Probably not," Parker agreed, frowning. "I wish Nate was here. And Sophie."
"Not Eliot?"
"Yeah, but I thought you had him covered."
---
All afternoon spent canvassing, and the only thing Eliot learned was that there weren't too many reliable witnesses, anymore. Those that weren't crazy were lying to him outright. Nobody trusted anybody. Everyone expected to be conned, so terrified of Cornelius that they weren't thinking straight.
They came up with all sorts of insane bullshit, like how he lived out on a drilling platform in the harbor, even though there weren't actually any rigs out there. One woman thought that he lived in the back of a tank that had been retrofitted for comfort. And apparently, he'd taken over the police department, and ran everything from the jail. Eliot's favorite was that he lived in the Lucky Strike Bowling Alley, staying hidden at all times in case of attack, shooting at people from behind the pins.
Eventually, though, he managed to piece together that Cornelius was still in power, based on the west side of town and running the east by proxy, squeezing in from both sides. But that wasn't enough.
Eliot needed maps. Locations of guards. Who Cornelius had ties to, and who he feared. Inventory. Delivery routes. All the things that Hardison used to handle. Hell, he could really do with Hardison's unfunny commentary track in his ear right about now, too.
He had none of the above, though. He needed to stop, for a minute, stop chasing and think, because he was missing something, and it was probably right in front of him.
Okay, pay attention.
Eliot had been on missions before in some seriously screwed places, places with more bullet holes and blast debitage than standing walls, where the people were scared, and he couldn't understand most of them anyway. Here, at least, he spoke the language, for what it was worth. There wasn't even a newspaper in this town.
There was the mail, though. And that was it, he'd just seen it, twenty steps back, unless he was mistaken.
The kid couldn't have been more than twenty or so, with a tattoo on the side of his neck and two mailbags crisscrossing his chest, leaving his hands free for the sawed off shotgun he carried, determinedly cutting a swath down the edge of a street he was familiar with. He knew where all the blind spots were, and he was checking them all as he passed.
Anyone who walked so easily through a neighborhood like this- which had been one of the nicer ones, a few months back, but the boutique and café windows were smashed, now, same as everywhere- would have to know where he was going and what he was doing, and probably even had a why somewhere in there as well. A mission, maybe even a destination.
---
A few weeks after they'd hooked up, Eliot was going out to California to make sure the three-gang ceasefire Nate had brokered was still standing. "I'll send you a postcard," he said, the night before he left.
"People still do that?" Hardison scowled in horror. "Send me an email, man, it's faster."
Eliot rolled his eyes and forgot about it until he was picking up toothpaste at the corner store across the street from the hotel. They were right there, by the cash register, and he chose one of Venice beach, which was a lot more scenic than the blocks he was currently surveying. Scrawled 'wish you were here' across the back of one and sent it off before he lost his nerve.
It still bugged him, honestly, that something so stupid could've set him on edge.
He'd been in Boston for two days before it arrived, and Alec crowed when he pulled it out of the pile of the day's junk mail, talking about how he couldn't imagine that the world actually functioned for hundreds of years on a week's long delay or more, and how thankful he was that the human race was capable of evolution, even if Eliot was a total throwback.
Eliot had already decided that emails were probably the way to go from there on out, but he wasn't going to admit it to Hardison. He might've revised his thoughts a little, though, when he noticed the card tacked to the wall by Alec's bed. Not that it meant anything. Alec had a bunch of crazy shit hanging in his room.
---
If he turned left at the end of the block, he'd be on Alec's street. He could go back up, see if the card was still there, if he was willing to abandon the chase.
If the card had survived this long, it would probably still be there tomorrow.
---
It started to rain for the billionth time in two days, about an hour after Parker left. Another two hours after that, Alec had to kill a man.
He'd been taking out the trash, not noticing the man standing at the back door until he was already halfway through it.
It was clear from the outset that the guy was there to steal what he could from the mail out in the back room, and Alec had pretty much been okay with it. He'd already gone through most of it himself, to be honest, and he hadn't been the first there. It had long since been picked clean.
But the man probably hadn't thought about that, and when he realized how shit out of luck he was, he attacked, coming at Alec with a box cutter he'd grabbed off the table and pinning him against the wall, the blade at his throat.
The man's hot breath stank, puffing damply across Alec's face as he tried to go for whatever he thought Alec had in his pockets.
It took a few seconds to realize that he was actually trying to disarm him, and it was only then that he remembered the gun in the back of his waistband, pressing incessantly against his spine as he tried to back away from the blade.
Even now, moments later, with the blood pooling on the floor and being soaked up by the junk mail and old bills, Alec wasn't quite sure how he'd managed it.
His first instinct was to run like hell, but there was nowhere to go, and no reason. It wasn't like the police were on their way.
There was a trash bin, in the back corner of the loading dock, with wheels mounted on the bottom. It took some effort to maneuver the body inside. Alec's hands kept dropping from what they were doing, sliding off too much blood, or being momentarily startled by the feeling of not-yet cooled skin. In the end, he had to knock the bin on its side and shove the man into inside.
Only afterwards, as he was heading back into the alley, dragging the bin behind him, did he realize that he never got the man's name. He had several blocks before he had to decide whether to search his pockets.
In the end, he didn't bother.
---
The kid had ducked into an alley and up the escape, but Eliot didn't need to chase him. If he remembered right, the post office was just around the corner and half a block down. Eliot took the long way. It was better to approach from the front. He didn't want to startle anyone, if anyone was actually there.
The front of the building was plastered in handwritten papers, 'have you seen me?' jostling for space with 'I'm alive, are you?'
It was hard to read most of them in the rain, most were moldered together and the ink was running. Tomorrow, there would probably be new ones. Survivors replacing the ones that were lost, maybe adding notices for the people who wouldn't make it home tonight.
The door itself was intact, with only one notice posted. It was a flyer directing people to the local relief distribution center. Someone had scrawled something underneath, and though the ink was running, Eliot could make out Cornelius' name, written angrily. He wished he could read the rest of it.
Eliot had enough time to recognize his own shadow before turning around to face the sudden bright light that was causing it.
---
"Post office is closed," a warning voice called from a doorway across the street. Eliot didn't have to squint to know that there was a gun trained on him.
"Just looking for some information," he called out, because at this point, it was becoming habitual. He raised his hands slightly. Just enough to put them at ease, and to let drips of cold water wind their way down along his arm, under his jacket.
"What d'you need to know?"
I need to know where Hardison and Parker are. I need to know where Cornelius is, and if they went up against him. I need to know where to look. I need to not be wandering around my own city not knowing the first goddamned thing about it.
"I'm looking for some friends of mine, was hoping there'd be some clue here. I'm new in town. Kind of. Need to figure out how things work, here."
"Where you come from?"
"Louisiana," he said, because Mexico sounded ridiculous, here. "You running this place?" He hooked a thumb over his shoulder for emphasis and watched the flashlight swerve, slightly, as it scanned him.
A moment later, it dropped to the ground.
"No," the man said, and Eliot kept his eyes on the beam of light as it came cautiously closer. "But I work for the guy that does. Only thing you need to know about that is that we keep an eye on the place for him. Bunch of people rely on it to hear anything that's going on outside. Information is power, you know?"
"Yeah." Eliot agreed, uneasy, and lowered his hands. If the man saw it as a threat, in three steps he'd be in close enough range for it not to matter. "Name's Eliot."
"Mica," the man said, finally drawling close enough that Eliot could see most of his face, under the hood of his sweatshirt. He was younger, early twenties, maybe, but that didn't mean anything.
What did matter was what he said next. "You want, we can head inside, get out of the rain for a bit and I'll fill you in. Long as we stay in the front of the building, it's cool."
"Why the front?"
"So my boys can keep an eye on us through the windows. Nothin' personal, man, but I don't invite strangers to my Mama's house."
"Fair enough," Eliot said, and followed Mica inside, resisting the urge to move into a less-visible position.
"Okay. So. That sign on the door. Cornelius. What's that about?"
"He's a lowdown-"
There was a crash in the back room, then, and Mica readied his gun and shouted, "Hardison?"
Eliot was too shocked to respond, and wasn't prepared to see the kid he'd followed coming out of the back room. "Nah, Mica. It's Tre, and you gotta check this out, it's trashed back here. Don't know if anyone got down to the lockers, but there's a lot of blood."
Mica's demeanor changed, he was stepping back, aiming his gun. "This guy, was hanging out front just now-"
"Hang on, hang on. You said Hardison," Eliot tried, but he was waved to silence.
The kid leaned over the counter to get a better look at him. "Mica, man. It ain't him. This cat was too busy followin' my ass all over town, and whoever it was that came in, looks like they came through the back."
Another day, and Eliot would have taken it up, but right now, he was having the first lead he'd had all day. He took a step to the side. If talking didn't work, he still had his options. "Listen, gentlemen. I need to know. Are you talking about Alec Hardison?"
"Hold up. Yeah. You know him?"
"Yeah. We were tight before everything went to hell."
"Yeah. Okay." Mica lowered the gun again, glanced towards the door to the back room. "No sign of him back there?"
"I'll check upstairs," the kid said, heading back through the doors, coming down again very quickly and not noticing Eliot releasing the breath he'd been holding when he said, "Ain't there, but either's his body."
---
The rain and dark had chased off the trash pickers, but they'd be out again soon, rummaging through the refuse that had gotten out past the swing set, now, and was starting to creep onto the porch.
Alec dumped the body into the open pit with the others and slit open one of the bags of soil that the National Guard had probably meant for gardening, when they'd dropped it off way back before they'd been chased out of the neighborhood. He emptied three bags over the bodies and called it good. Wouldn't be enough to keep the smell down, much, but it was better than nothing.
He walked back in a daze, wondering intermittently if the rain would wash off all the blood by the time he got back. The sun hadn't been out at all, today. There was no way he had enough power to heat water for bathing, and to be honest, right then, he probably had the cold slash of the rain coming.
Every few steps, though, he'd get distracted, start telling himself ,over and over again, that it was self defense. He hadn't had a choice. He told it to himself like he'd explain it to a judge, if there were any judges left in the world. He promised himself that he hadn't meant to, hadn't wanted to. That he'd panicked.
If he'd stayed calm, used his head, he could have avoided it. Maybe waited it out, for a while, given the other guy time to cool down, maybe lose interest.
Keep walking.
Maybe, if he'd held out long enough, Eliot would have stalked through the open door and taken care of it. But fuck, Eliot hadn't come. He'd left, before all this. Back when 'all this' was just you trying to keep everyone together like you did when Dad left, before it was dead bodies in the streets and no hot water. Of course he wouldn't come.
It's stupid to think that he would. Would you, given the choice?
Fuck.
Hardison still carried a wallet. It still held some cash, on the off chance he ever found anyone desperate enough to accept it, but mostly it was to hold his identification in case the police or the soldiers ever grabbed him on one of their occasional sweeps.
But there was a picture, inside, and the rain rolled right off of the plastic when he took it out to ask for advice.
Eliot, looking his least Eliot, stared back at him mutely and didn't tell him anything useful. He was wearing the slightly glazed expression that he didn't know he wore whenever he was pretending to be more boring than he was. Ted Saunders was the name printed along the bottom, Tech Support was the title. Bland and dull, someone who had never done anything wrong in his life, and who probably hadn't done much of anything else, either. He'd be the last person you'd want to talk about the guy you'd had to kill when taking out the trash.
Ted wasn't Eliot, but Alec would settle. It was close as he was going to get.
Turning into the alley, he realized that he'd forgotten the bin back at the backyard dump. He slowed, for a moment, trying to decide if it was worth going back to retrieve it.
You just killed a dude, and you're worried about an old trash can?
He tried to shake it off. Promised himself he'd avail himself of the bottle he had hidden up above the foam ceiling tiles in the office he'd made his home, as soon as he made it through the mess inside.
He closed his eyes and pretended he was ready for what he'd find- the blood and the knocked over boxes- and he was halfway through when he heard the silence falling out in the main room.
He froze, and waited for a beat. Whoever it was had to have heard him by now.
But they were waiting, too, listening. And if they wanted to start something, Alec had just discovered he was capable of killing, so he might as well get this over with. "Hello?"
"Hardison?" Mica called out, and a moment later, Alec found himself with a flashlight in his face. "Shit, man. Thought you were dead."
"You should see the other guy. Look, I'll explain in the morning, but right now-" Alec's eyes adjusted to the light, enough to make out Mica's face, Tre behind him, and the ghost that followed. It was still there when he blinked, and it was the only thing he saw.
"Eliot?"
"Hardison."
Something unexpected happened in his chest when he heard his name, and for an instant, he was positive that it was strong enough to have killed him. He couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't think.
It was Mica, his second in command, who was still functioning in the real world. "A'ight. Looks like you two got to have some words. We'll be back tomorrow an' figure this shit out," he said, and then it was just the two of them, standing there in the bloody room.
"Eliot?"
"Yeah," he nodded, rocking back on his heels for a moment, then down, and the momentum was carrying him forward.
The hard edge of the plastic card was pressing sharply against the inside of his fist, and Eliot's hair was sticking wetly to the side of Alec's neck. He couldn't breathe, but he'd never held onto anyone so tight in his life. Maybe this time it would stick.
---
Chapter 4
Rating: PG-13 for now
Spoilers: Up through end of season 2
Pairing: Alec Hardison/ Eliot Spencer
Warnings: None for *this* chapter...
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, don't take this too seriously.
A/N: Posting this now because I don't know when I'll be able to get more done on it, over the next few days. Haven't gone over it as thoroughly as I would have liked, so let me know if you see something wonky with it.
Chapter 3
Dear Eliot,
If you've gotten this, it means you've made it to Boston. At the time that I'm writing, it's been four months since we've last spoken.
We've got a job. This is where you pretend that you're sitting around waiting for Alec to break out the visual aids. I say pretend because apart from two letters to Nate, the last of which was dated April the 12th, we've not heard from him, and do not know if he and Parker are okay.
Find them. That's mission the first, and there may be a secondary part. By the time you get this, mind you, this could all be outdated or irrelevant, but as we've seen no response to Nate's letters, we fear the worst.
From what I understand, there is a man named Cornelius who has amassed what appears to be a small private army. They're running the food supply, and I'm sure you can imagine all that entails. When last we heard, Alec and Parker are planning on taking Cornelius down a notch or two. I shudder to think what could befall them should they find themselves over their heads. They may need your help.
I am making preparations to depart for America. If you write to Nate at the address below, there is a fairly good chance he may receive it, though the post is not as dependable as we've hoped. He has, however, been able to ring me up from the prison, as the military has taken over security. As such, they've brought with them phones and tools that have been built specifically to withstand EMP radiation.
I am going to see what I can to do expedite his release, due to these bizarre circumstances. Oddly enough, this seems to be the one situation where basic bribery will not work, as there is no way to ensure delivery of any goods promised from so great a distance, so I am- again, strangely enough- left taking an approach which is entirely above board. Unfortunately, this may delay my arrival in New York, but Nate and I will join you in Boston as soon as we possibly can.
I can only hope firmly believe that this letter will find you, as to think otherwise would be ridiculous. But I truly hope that you are safe and well.
Love, Sophie
---
Eliot stared at the page, wanting to read it again, but not here, with the curious guards staring back at him, so he asked if they were done, here. On his way out the Boston-side of the office, he turned in the doorway to ask, "Hey. Has there been an official death toll yet?"
"Dunno. Last estimate was fifty or sixty million across the country, but that was a few days ago."
There wasn't much of anything Eliot could say to that.
About two dozen people were descending on the roadblock, asking for information, wanting help that the guards couldn't give, trying to find any way they could to get what they needed without having to actually set foot in the city. It was time to move on. Mustering the most off-putting glare he could manage, because he didn't want to deal with the world he was stepping back into, he made his way up the Turnpike as the clouds gathered themselves towards critical mass.
He had to climb down onto North Beacon Street when the rain started, and made his way into the Jaguar dealership to get out of the rain that was starting to come down faster than he could shake it off.
Hardly any of the cars had been stolen, and he considered breaking all the windows, just to make a point, or to hear the glass shatter, but then he found the couch in the break room, and lost interest. Going into his pack for the small camp stove he'd found in a garage in Hartford, he boiled water for the tea he'd found in the receptionist's drawer.
Just in time, too, as the coughs set in. Thankfully, the receptionist had been one of those terminally prepared types, with several tissue packets and a small pharmacy in the second drawer down. He grabbed everything that looked useful and went to lie down for a while, at least until the rain let up.
It was getting late, anyway. Better to stop off in the morning, and re-read Sophie's letter five or six more times, smoothing out the wrinkles in the paper.
Hardison and Parker were in Boston. He'd find them by noon tomorrow.
Even with the tea and the cold meds, it was hard, getting to sleep.
---
The glass of the front door was broken, though the door itself was welded shut, with bars crisscrossing the open space. Eliot went around back, glancing up at one of Alec's security cameras, wondering if he was being watched. Hoping so.
There were thick orange power cables running off the side of the roof and into one of the windows on Hardison's top-floor apartment.
He'd survived long enough to get his gear up and running, then. Alec was alive. This was real.
The realization that he had no idea what to do with the knowledge struck Eliot as he pulled the ladder to the fire escape down. He hadn't seen anyone he genuinely cared about in months. He had no idea what he'd say when he arrived at the top, but there wasn't much of anything he could say, anyhow.
But he should probably start with an apology, and see where it went from there.
---
He'd made it. Almost six months, but he'd made it. And Hardison's apartment was empty.
No, scratch that. There was still a lot of crap lying around. People had obviously looted the hell out of the place, to the point where there was no sign that Hardison had ever been the one to live there.
Right now, there was only Eliot, sitting on the floor, his back against the couch, looking at a room full of lifeless computers.
It doesn't mean he's dead. They're not fucking symbols of anything..
He'd set himself up for this without even noticing. Let himself hope too much.
It doesn't mean he's dead.
Maybe he'd moved out, found a different place to stay. It's what Eliot would have done, probably a lot sooner than Alec would have. Maybe he was at Parker's place.
It would help, really, if he knew where Parker lived.
Or maybe they'd already gone after this Cornelius guy.
That could have been a month ago.
Eliot picked himself off the floor and rubbed his eyes with his sleeve. This cold he'd picked up was annoying as hell. He had work to do. Had to find out more about Cornelius. Had to find out if he had to work out a rescue mission, or Cornelius' funeral.
---
He was getting used to it now, the half glances from strangers as they quickened their pace, trying to avoid him. But his patience was running thin.
"Hey!" he called out, hurrying to catch up to an apparently unarmed man who was turning onto the next block. "I just need to know-"
Rounding the corner, Eliot drew up short to find the man staring back at him, arms crossed, a smirk slashing his mouth.
Eliot had walked into a trap. He was covered from three positions, two teenage boys and a woman training guns on him unerringly.
But they hadn't fired, yet. He took a breath.
"I'm sorry. I just. I need some information. I've been hearing that a man named Cornelius is the guy in charge around here. Old information, though. Need to know if he's still in power."
"You're not part of his crew?" The man relaxed, a fraction, and it was as good as answering him plainly. Cornelius still had people running scared. If Hardison and Parker had made a move against him, they hadn't won.
The traitorous portion of Eliot's brain told him to make a move, to dash forward, attack. Throw himself forward and meet the bullets halfway.
It doesn't mean they're dead. Don't be an idiot.
---
"Someone was going through your apartment," Parker said, pulling back her hood as she tossed her damp pack up on the counter.
Hardison finished wrapping a rubber band around a stack of letters. "I know. I was there a few days back, grabbing that laptop over there. Wanted to see if it would work with that drive I found in the basement."
"No, I mean. About an hour ago, when I was over there to grab some of the stuff from Nate's safe. Heard someone coming up the fire escape so I ducked out into the hall, went up to the roof, and came down at the other end of the block."
"You get a look at them?"
"No," she replied, stretching her arms over her head. "They could still be over there, for all I know. Does it matter?"
"Probably not."
"I grabbed more batteries while I was there. You need any, yet?"
"Nah. Haven't really been listening. Got tired of the reruns. Stay calm. Stay indoors. Stay alive."
"There's a guy broadcasting from somewhere nearby. Non military. You can catch it on the lower frequencies. He's been reading Sherlock Holmes, this week. It's weird. You think we could get around him?"
"The guy on the radio?"
"Sherlock Holmes."
"Don't know. Wouldn't worry about it, though. How's the garden going?"
At this, Parker heaved an exhausted sigh. "It's fine, but. It's not going to be enough. There's been about a hundred people moving into the neighborhood in the past week. People keep showing up like they have been, and we might end up having to strike a deal with Cornelius."
"Why don't you just steal what you need from the bastard?"
"Impractical, until we can figure out the rotation on his sentries. I'd need a few others to help carry out enough to make it worthwhile. Don't have the time to train anyone, and even if I did, everyone's either too scared to make a move against him, or too pissed off not to blow the mission."
"Look. We've got the Kings, and as soon as they work out their truce with the H Block and Heath Street crews, we'll have enough for a direct press."
"I still don't see why we're waiting."
"Because the entire problem is that there's nobody balancing Cornelius out. We just let the Kings take over, there's nothing to stop them setting up shop the same way. It's a balance of power thing."
"Or it could just mean that there's three gangs running everything, with even more resources than they already have. Or there could be a gang war."
"Would either of us notice, at this point, if that actually happened?"
"Probably not," Parker agreed, frowning. "I wish Nate was here. And Sophie."
"Not Eliot?"
"Yeah, but I thought you had him covered."
---
All afternoon spent canvassing, and the only thing Eliot learned was that there weren't too many reliable witnesses, anymore. Those that weren't crazy were lying to him outright. Nobody trusted anybody. Everyone expected to be conned, so terrified of Cornelius that they weren't thinking straight.
They came up with all sorts of insane bullshit, like how he lived out on a drilling platform in the harbor, even though there weren't actually any rigs out there. One woman thought that he lived in the back of a tank that had been retrofitted for comfort. And apparently, he'd taken over the police department, and ran everything from the jail. Eliot's favorite was that he lived in the Lucky Strike Bowling Alley, staying hidden at all times in case of attack, shooting at people from behind the pins.
Eventually, though, he managed to piece together that Cornelius was still in power, based on the west side of town and running the east by proxy, squeezing in from both sides. But that wasn't enough.
Eliot needed maps. Locations of guards. Who Cornelius had ties to, and who he feared. Inventory. Delivery routes. All the things that Hardison used to handle. Hell, he could really do with Hardison's unfunny commentary track in his ear right about now, too.
He had none of the above, though. He needed to stop, for a minute, stop chasing and think, because he was missing something, and it was probably right in front of him.
Okay, pay attention.
Eliot had been on missions before in some seriously screwed places, places with more bullet holes and blast debitage than standing walls, where the people were scared, and he couldn't understand most of them anyway. Here, at least, he spoke the language, for what it was worth. There wasn't even a newspaper in this town.
There was the mail, though. And that was it, he'd just seen it, twenty steps back, unless he was mistaken.
The kid couldn't have been more than twenty or so, with a tattoo on the side of his neck and two mailbags crisscrossing his chest, leaving his hands free for the sawed off shotgun he carried, determinedly cutting a swath down the edge of a street he was familiar with. He knew where all the blind spots were, and he was checking them all as he passed.
Anyone who walked so easily through a neighborhood like this- which had been one of the nicer ones, a few months back, but the boutique and café windows were smashed, now, same as everywhere- would have to know where he was going and what he was doing, and probably even had a why somewhere in there as well. A mission, maybe even a destination.
---
A few weeks after they'd hooked up, Eliot was going out to California to make sure the three-gang ceasefire Nate had brokered was still standing. "I'll send you a postcard," he said, the night before he left.
"People still do that?" Hardison scowled in horror. "Send me an email, man, it's faster."
Eliot rolled his eyes and forgot about it until he was picking up toothpaste at the corner store across the street from the hotel. They were right there, by the cash register, and he chose one of Venice beach, which was a lot more scenic than the blocks he was currently surveying. Scrawled 'wish you were here' across the back of one and sent it off before he lost his nerve.
It still bugged him, honestly, that something so stupid could've set him on edge.
He'd been in Boston for two days before it arrived, and Alec crowed when he pulled it out of the pile of the day's junk mail, talking about how he couldn't imagine that the world actually functioned for hundreds of years on a week's long delay or more, and how thankful he was that the human race was capable of evolution, even if Eliot was a total throwback.
Eliot had already decided that emails were probably the way to go from there on out, but he wasn't going to admit it to Hardison. He might've revised his thoughts a little, though, when he noticed the card tacked to the wall by Alec's bed. Not that it meant anything. Alec had a bunch of crazy shit hanging in his room.
---
If he turned left at the end of the block, he'd be on Alec's street. He could go back up, see if the card was still there, if he was willing to abandon the chase.
If the card had survived this long, it would probably still be there tomorrow.
---
It started to rain for the billionth time in two days, about an hour after Parker left. Another two hours after that, Alec had to kill a man.
He'd been taking out the trash, not noticing the man standing at the back door until he was already halfway through it.
It was clear from the outset that the guy was there to steal what he could from the mail out in the back room, and Alec had pretty much been okay with it. He'd already gone through most of it himself, to be honest, and he hadn't been the first there. It had long since been picked clean.
But the man probably hadn't thought about that, and when he realized how shit out of luck he was, he attacked, coming at Alec with a box cutter he'd grabbed off the table and pinning him against the wall, the blade at his throat.
The man's hot breath stank, puffing damply across Alec's face as he tried to go for whatever he thought Alec had in his pockets.
It took a few seconds to realize that he was actually trying to disarm him, and it was only then that he remembered the gun in the back of his waistband, pressing incessantly against his spine as he tried to back away from the blade.
Even now, moments later, with the blood pooling on the floor and being soaked up by the junk mail and old bills, Alec wasn't quite sure how he'd managed it.
His first instinct was to run like hell, but there was nowhere to go, and no reason. It wasn't like the police were on their way.
There was a trash bin, in the back corner of the loading dock, with wheels mounted on the bottom. It took some effort to maneuver the body inside. Alec's hands kept dropping from what they were doing, sliding off too much blood, or being momentarily startled by the feeling of not-yet cooled skin. In the end, he had to knock the bin on its side and shove the man into inside.
Only afterwards, as he was heading back into the alley, dragging the bin behind him, did he realize that he never got the man's name. He had several blocks before he had to decide whether to search his pockets.
In the end, he didn't bother.
---
The kid had ducked into an alley and up the escape, but Eliot didn't need to chase him. If he remembered right, the post office was just around the corner and half a block down. Eliot took the long way. It was better to approach from the front. He didn't want to startle anyone, if anyone was actually there.
The front of the building was plastered in handwritten papers, 'have you seen me?' jostling for space with 'I'm alive, are you?'
It was hard to read most of them in the rain, most were moldered together and the ink was running. Tomorrow, there would probably be new ones. Survivors replacing the ones that were lost, maybe adding notices for the people who wouldn't make it home tonight.
The door itself was intact, with only one notice posted. It was a flyer directing people to the local relief distribution center. Someone had scrawled something underneath, and though the ink was running, Eliot could make out Cornelius' name, written angrily. He wished he could read the rest of it.
Eliot had enough time to recognize his own shadow before turning around to face the sudden bright light that was causing it.
---
"Post office is closed," a warning voice called from a doorway across the street. Eliot didn't have to squint to know that there was a gun trained on him.
"Just looking for some information," he called out, because at this point, it was becoming habitual. He raised his hands slightly. Just enough to put them at ease, and to let drips of cold water wind their way down along his arm, under his jacket.
"What d'you need to know?"
I need to know where Hardison and Parker are. I need to know where Cornelius is, and if they went up against him. I need to know where to look. I need to not be wandering around my own city not knowing the first goddamned thing about it.
"I'm looking for some friends of mine, was hoping there'd be some clue here. I'm new in town. Kind of. Need to figure out how things work, here."
"Where you come from?"
"Louisiana," he said, because Mexico sounded ridiculous, here. "You running this place?" He hooked a thumb over his shoulder for emphasis and watched the flashlight swerve, slightly, as it scanned him.
A moment later, it dropped to the ground.
"No," the man said, and Eliot kept his eyes on the beam of light as it came cautiously closer. "But I work for the guy that does. Only thing you need to know about that is that we keep an eye on the place for him. Bunch of people rely on it to hear anything that's going on outside. Information is power, you know?"
"Yeah." Eliot agreed, uneasy, and lowered his hands. If the man saw it as a threat, in three steps he'd be in close enough range for it not to matter. "Name's Eliot."
"Mica," the man said, finally drawling close enough that Eliot could see most of his face, under the hood of his sweatshirt. He was younger, early twenties, maybe, but that didn't mean anything.
What did matter was what he said next. "You want, we can head inside, get out of the rain for a bit and I'll fill you in. Long as we stay in the front of the building, it's cool."
"Why the front?"
"So my boys can keep an eye on us through the windows. Nothin' personal, man, but I don't invite strangers to my Mama's house."
"Fair enough," Eliot said, and followed Mica inside, resisting the urge to move into a less-visible position.
"Okay. So. That sign on the door. Cornelius. What's that about?"
"He's a lowdown-"
There was a crash in the back room, then, and Mica readied his gun and shouted, "Hardison?"
Eliot was too shocked to respond, and wasn't prepared to see the kid he'd followed coming out of the back room. "Nah, Mica. It's Tre, and you gotta check this out, it's trashed back here. Don't know if anyone got down to the lockers, but there's a lot of blood."
Mica's demeanor changed, he was stepping back, aiming his gun. "This guy, was hanging out front just now-"
"Hang on, hang on. You said Hardison," Eliot tried, but he was waved to silence.
The kid leaned over the counter to get a better look at him. "Mica, man. It ain't him. This cat was too busy followin' my ass all over town, and whoever it was that came in, looks like they came through the back."
Another day, and Eliot would have taken it up, but right now, he was having the first lead he'd had all day. He took a step to the side. If talking didn't work, he still had his options. "Listen, gentlemen. I need to know. Are you talking about Alec Hardison?"
"Hold up. Yeah. You know him?"
"Yeah. We were tight before everything went to hell."
"Yeah. Okay." Mica lowered the gun again, glanced towards the door to the back room. "No sign of him back there?"
"I'll check upstairs," the kid said, heading back through the doors, coming down again very quickly and not noticing Eliot releasing the breath he'd been holding when he said, "Ain't there, but either's his body."
---
The rain and dark had chased off the trash pickers, but they'd be out again soon, rummaging through the refuse that had gotten out past the swing set, now, and was starting to creep onto the porch.
Alec dumped the body into the open pit with the others and slit open one of the bags of soil that the National Guard had probably meant for gardening, when they'd dropped it off way back before they'd been chased out of the neighborhood. He emptied three bags over the bodies and called it good. Wouldn't be enough to keep the smell down, much, but it was better than nothing.
He walked back in a daze, wondering intermittently if the rain would wash off all the blood by the time he got back. The sun hadn't been out at all, today. There was no way he had enough power to heat water for bathing, and to be honest, right then, he probably had the cold slash of the rain coming.
Every few steps, though, he'd get distracted, start telling himself ,over and over again, that it was self defense. He hadn't had a choice. He told it to himself like he'd explain it to a judge, if there were any judges left in the world. He promised himself that he hadn't meant to, hadn't wanted to. That he'd panicked.
If he'd stayed calm, used his head, he could have avoided it. Maybe waited it out, for a while, given the other guy time to cool down, maybe lose interest.
Keep walking.
Maybe, if he'd held out long enough, Eliot would have stalked through the open door and taken care of it. But fuck, Eliot hadn't come. He'd left, before all this. Back when 'all this' was just you trying to keep everyone together like you did when Dad left, before it was dead bodies in the streets and no hot water. Of course he wouldn't come.
It's stupid to think that he would. Would you, given the choice?
Fuck.
Hardison still carried a wallet. It still held some cash, on the off chance he ever found anyone desperate enough to accept it, but mostly it was to hold his identification in case the police or the soldiers ever grabbed him on one of their occasional sweeps.
But there was a picture, inside, and the rain rolled right off of the plastic when he took it out to ask for advice.
Eliot, looking his least Eliot, stared back at him mutely and didn't tell him anything useful. He was wearing the slightly glazed expression that he didn't know he wore whenever he was pretending to be more boring than he was. Ted Saunders was the name printed along the bottom, Tech Support was the title. Bland and dull, someone who had never done anything wrong in his life, and who probably hadn't done much of anything else, either. He'd be the last person you'd want to talk about the guy you'd had to kill when taking out the trash.
Ted wasn't Eliot, but Alec would settle. It was close as he was going to get.
Turning into the alley, he realized that he'd forgotten the bin back at the backyard dump. He slowed, for a moment, trying to decide if it was worth going back to retrieve it.
You just killed a dude, and you're worried about an old trash can?
He tried to shake it off. Promised himself he'd avail himself of the bottle he had hidden up above the foam ceiling tiles in the office he'd made his home, as soon as he made it through the mess inside.
He closed his eyes and pretended he was ready for what he'd find- the blood and the knocked over boxes- and he was halfway through when he heard the silence falling out in the main room.
He froze, and waited for a beat. Whoever it was had to have heard him by now.
But they were waiting, too, listening. And if they wanted to start something, Alec had just discovered he was capable of killing, so he might as well get this over with. "Hello?"
"Hardison?" Mica called out, and a moment later, Alec found himself with a flashlight in his face. "Shit, man. Thought you were dead."
"You should see the other guy. Look, I'll explain in the morning, but right now-" Alec's eyes adjusted to the light, enough to make out Mica's face, Tre behind him, and the ghost that followed. It was still there when he blinked, and it was the only thing he saw.
"Eliot?"
"Hardison."
Something unexpected happened in his chest when he heard his name, and for an instant, he was positive that it was strong enough to have killed him. He couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't think.
It was Mica, his second in command, who was still functioning in the real world. "A'ight. Looks like you two got to have some words. We'll be back tomorrow an' figure this shit out," he said, and then it was just the two of them, standing there in the bloody room.
"Eliot?"
"Yeah," he nodded, rocking back on his heels for a moment, then down, and the momentum was carrying him forward.
The hard edge of the plastic card was pressing sharply against the inside of his fist, and Eliot's hair was sticking wetly to the side of Alec's neck. He couldn't breathe, but he'd never held onto anyone so tight in his life. Maybe this time it would stick.
---
Chapter 4