Habits, Instincts, and Feelings
Title: Habits, Instincts, and Feelings
Author: Magpie
Rating: pg-13
Genre: Nate/Eliot Preslash
Verse: BlackKing!WhiteKnight!Verse
Summary: After the Wedding Job Nate and Eliot play chess,give in to old instincts, and discover somthing New.
Notes:Tag to the Wedding Job.
Cell Number Eight is heavily refferenced in this. Also avoided some spoilers for Fathers for those of you just tuneing in.
I so wanted Nate to give Eliot a back massage but it was just waayy too out of character.
Maybe when I tag the Mile High Job.
It had become a habit, more so than Eliot normally let himself fall into. They finished a job and Eliot found his way over to Nate’s apartment for a game of chess. After the first couple of times Nate started to expect him, not drinking as much to stay on his game, picking up a six pack of Eliot’s favorite beer, setting the board up before Eliot got there.
They talked about the jobs or the team or what was going on, had little confrontations about the way things were settling in. The team had only been together for a month and it they were still feeling their way along, finding patterns.
Like a wrap party after a successful con.
Like a game of chess to ease back into life in between jobs.
Eliot would never have admitted it but the games helped him ease out of the head space he got into as a hitter. It helped his brain switch back from hyper-vigilance, follow orders, react to threats immediately and violently to something a little more relaxed.
On nights like this, when his body was adding up the blows he’d taken from the butcher and giving him the bill in the form of bruises, stiff muscles, and the a condition he would generally describe and feeling “sore”… Having something to help him come down from the adrenalin high of a fight without physical activity was even more important.
And that wasn’t even brushing on some of the old injuries this whole mess had prodded at.
Nate was expecting him, meeting him at the door with a cold beer for both of them. They walked back to the board and settled in for a slow night.
Nate was still considering his first move when he spoke up. “Hardison asked me if you really liberated Croatia.”
“Not by m’self.” Eliot answered, watching as Nate pushed a pawn forward.
“Which is more or less what I told him.” Nate answered, tone unreadable. “The girl you loved married someone else so you liberated Croatia. Nice cliffnotes version.” Eliot really hated when Nate went unreadable just before saying something like that.
“You’d want me ta tell him the whole story?” Eliot asked, making his own move. “Yeah Hardison, it made me half suicidal an’ I went on a job I hoped would get me killed. I ended up caught and thrown in a cell outside Cairo where I met our boss who kept me from dying and I helped escape and he convinced me ta go lookin’ for somthin’ to live for by sendin’ me to help a protect the little people in a Ukrainian country. Then I liberated Croatia. Because he told me to.” Because he was the closest thing to a father I’d had in years.
He added that last part mentally. That connection formed had died long before Sam, and the death of Nate’s real son had stomped out any chances of them ever getting it back. Eliot knew that. He was okay with it. He’d changed in the years since and the part of him that had been looking for a father figure had gotten over it’s daddy issues years ago. He still respected Nate, even if he was learning more and more everyday how Nate had changed since Sam died, and Eliot still felt… something… when they were together. But that paternal sense was long gone.
Nate a rueful face and shrugged, taking his own turn. “You have a point.” He admitted.
“You are the one who had no problem letting us all know you an’ Sophie have a history but never once made note that we’ve got one to. I figured you didn’t want any of them knowing ‘bout what went down in Cairo.” He said it without venom, just cold and casual statements. But when Eliot looked up from making his next move Nate was frowning like he did when he realized something was more complex than he previously thought.
Nate took his own move and sighed. “You’re upset?”
Eliot gave a barking, bitter, laugh at that. “Nah… ‘m not Sophie. She’s the one who’d be throwing a cow. I just don’t getcha.” He winced a little, shifting in his seat, stiff muscles still annoyed at him and the laugh had pulled at the bruise across his back badly in a way he wouldn’t have believed if he wasn’t used to it.
Nate never said whatever he’d been about to say. A concerned look passed across Nate’s face and Eliot only belatedly reminded himself this man was almost as good at reading people as Sophie. A little, mostly covered wince probably wouldn’t escape his attention.
Nate’s eyes scanned over him, taking in the black high collared button down he was wearing to cover up the bruises left by the fight and avoid unwanted attention.
Yeah. Suddenly Eliot remembered Parker theorizing Nate had super powers. It almost felt like it under *that* stare.
Nate stood gesturing with his head toward the bathroom. “Take the shirt off.”
Eliot was responding and moving before it sunk in why this wasn’t half as weird or awkward as it should be, why he wasn’t arguing that he was thirty-fucking-five years old and had taken care of his injuries on his own thank you very much.
Back in cell number eight, from the moment they’d first met, Nate had been taking care of Eliot’s injuries. It was necessity back then.
It was instinct now.
Obediently Eliot unbuttoned his shirt and slid it off his shoulders, telling himself not to think too much about it.
Nate had gotten whatever first aid kit he’d been getting and returned, stopping and half stumbling through the return approach. It took Eliot a moment to catch up, recognize that it was shock that made Nate slow. They’d spent two weeks together with nothing but ragged pants and layers of dirt.
But that was eight years ago and the scattered scars left on his body by Eliot’s stepfather had been written many times over by the marks a hitter’s life had left him with.
Eliot sat on the edge of the coffee table, waiting as Nate set down his things and fumbled, both recovering and trying to recover his original intention. Especially now that he could clearly see Eliot had properly taken care of the molted bruises and scattering of little cuts the fight had left him with. It was nothing to get upset about, just the wear and tear of the business.
Later Eliot would deny the little flinch that went through him at the touch. He should have been expecting contact but when Nate touched a fading scar on his back it was like a little shock ran between them and up his spine, not nearly as painful as most of his encounters with electricity but just as jolting.
“Is this…?” Nate asked, his voice soft as the finger just barely tracing the old scar, one of a set he’d gained in a little cell outside Cairo eight years ago. He was surprised Nate could find it, half written over by those he’d recived in the years since.
“Yes.” Was Eliot's only answer.
Nate drew his hand away as if it had been burned, a strange metaphor considering the sudden cold left in the wake of that si-
Eliot was hitting the mental breaks on that train of thought before it got thrown by a hand closing around his shoulder. “You shouldn’t have come.” Nate said simply. “You’re not bad off but you should be taking it easy.”
Eliot turned, looking over his shoulder and shooting Nate a look that was caught somewhere between “You’ve got to be kidding” and “you really think I’m going to do that?”. Whatever Nate was about to say died on his lips and a far away look crossed his face. He took away his hand and Eliot shivered just a little. Damn Nate keeping his apartment cold all the fucking time.
It occurred to Eliot that was a look he hadn’t really given Nate since Cairo, and from certain angles and with certain expressions Eliot knew he looked younger.
But that didn’t explain the troubled frown on Nate’s face.
“Look, I’m sittin’ and playin’ chess. It’s the best way to come down from a job I can think of that doesn’t involve activity.” Eliot grabbed for his shirt, pulling it on and buttoning it quickly. “Are we playing chess or not?”
They went back to their game, playing without speaking for a time, both wrapped in their own heads and neither really paying attention.
Eliot won the game, but it was close and not what he’d call anywhere near a resounding victory. If the game had been a fight it would have been the kind where he walked away but ended up spending the next several weeks recuperating.
As they were working to clean up the board and the booze their fingers brushed, another jolting sensation.
Eliot looked up, meeting Nate’s eyes, wondering what the hell is going on and if he should even be considering acknowledging it even in his own head.
Yeah, it had messed him up back then, and yeah it had taken him years to get to the point where it wasn’t another issue he couldn’t afford, and yeah he was…
But this was Nate. This was Nate, his boss, the father figure to his twenty five year old self who had way too fucking many daddy issues and there were so many ways Freud would love this. Seriously, with Eliot’s history what it was this… lust? Could a semi warm sensation he remember vaguely from Amie be called that?
His past and this semi warm sensation (and when in hell did his sister’s terminology for this sort of thing take root in his head? ) for a man he’d at one point looked to like a father?
Yeah, that wasn’t a sign he was way more messed up than he let on.
In only a breath of time they broke contact and pulled away.
“Go home, I can clean up.” Nate told him.
He listened.
When he got to his own apartment he admitted the ironic good news of the night.
At least he probably wouldn’t spend it brooding over Amie now.
Previous: The Way of the World
Next: Check
Author: Magpie
Rating: pg-13
Genre: Nate/Eliot Preslash
Verse: BlackKing!WhiteKnight!Verse
Summary: After the Wedding Job Nate and Eliot play chess,give in to old instincts, and discover somthing New.
Notes:Tag to the Wedding Job.
Cell Number Eight is heavily refferenced in this. Also avoided some spoilers for Fathers for those of you just tuneing in.
I so wanted Nate to give Eliot a back massage but it was just waayy too out of character.
Maybe when I tag the Mile High Job.
It had become a habit, more so than Eliot normally let himself fall into. They finished a job and Eliot found his way over to Nate’s apartment for a game of chess. After the first couple of times Nate started to expect him, not drinking as much to stay on his game, picking up a six pack of Eliot’s favorite beer, setting the board up before Eliot got there.
They talked about the jobs or the team or what was going on, had little confrontations about the way things were settling in. The team had only been together for a month and it they were still feeling their way along, finding patterns.
Like a wrap party after a successful con.
Like a game of chess to ease back into life in between jobs.
Eliot would never have admitted it but the games helped him ease out of the head space he got into as a hitter. It helped his brain switch back from hyper-vigilance, follow orders, react to threats immediately and violently to something a little more relaxed.
On nights like this, when his body was adding up the blows he’d taken from the butcher and giving him the bill in the form of bruises, stiff muscles, and the a condition he would generally describe and feeling “sore”… Having something to help him come down from the adrenalin high of a fight without physical activity was even more important.
And that wasn’t even brushing on some of the old injuries this whole mess had prodded at.
Nate was expecting him, meeting him at the door with a cold beer for both of them. They walked back to the board and settled in for a slow night.
Nate was still considering his first move when he spoke up. “Hardison asked me if you really liberated Croatia.”
“Not by m’self.” Eliot answered, watching as Nate pushed a pawn forward.
“Which is more or less what I told him.” Nate answered, tone unreadable. “The girl you loved married someone else so you liberated Croatia. Nice cliffnotes version.” Eliot really hated when Nate went unreadable just before saying something like that.
“You’d want me ta tell him the whole story?” Eliot asked, making his own move. “Yeah Hardison, it made me half suicidal an’ I went on a job I hoped would get me killed. I ended up caught and thrown in a cell outside Cairo where I met our boss who kept me from dying and I helped escape and he convinced me ta go lookin’ for somthin’ to live for by sendin’ me to help a protect the little people in a Ukrainian country. Then I liberated Croatia. Because he told me to.” Because he was the closest thing to a father I’d had in years.
He added that last part mentally. That connection formed had died long before Sam, and the death of Nate’s real son had stomped out any chances of them ever getting it back. Eliot knew that. He was okay with it. He’d changed in the years since and the part of him that had been looking for a father figure had gotten over it’s daddy issues years ago. He still respected Nate, even if he was learning more and more everyday how Nate had changed since Sam died, and Eliot still felt… something… when they were together. But that paternal sense was long gone.
Nate a rueful face and shrugged, taking his own turn. “You have a point.” He admitted.
“You are the one who had no problem letting us all know you an’ Sophie have a history but never once made note that we’ve got one to. I figured you didn’t want any of them knowing ‘bout what went down in Cairo.” He said it without venom, just cold and casual statements. But when Eliot looked up from making his next move Nate was frowning like he did when he realized something was more complex than he previously thought.
Nate took his own move and sighed. “You’re upset?”
Eliot gave a barking, bitter, laugh at that. “Nah… ‘m not Sophie. She’s the one who’d be throwing a cow. I just don’t getcha.” He winced a little, shifting in his seat, stiff muscles still annoyed at him and the laugh had pulled at the bruise across his back badly in a way he wouldn’t have believed if he wasn’t used to it.
Nate never said whatever he’d been about to say. A concerned look passed across Nate’s face and Eliot only belatedly reminded himself this man was almost as good at reading people as Sophie. A little, mostly covered wince probably wouldn’t escape his attention.
Nate’s eyes scanned over him, taking in the black high collared button down he was wearing to cover up the bruises left by the fight and avoid unwanted attention.
Yeah. Suddenly Eliot remembered Parker theorizing Nate had super powers. It almost felt like it under *that* stare.
Nate stood gesturing with his head toward the bathroom. “Take the shirt off.”
Eliot was responding and moving before it sunk in why this wasn’t half as weird or awkward as it should be, why he wasn’t arguing that he was thirty-fucking-five years old and had taken care of his injuries on his own thank you very much.
Back in cell number eight, from the moment they’d first met, Nate had been taking care of Eliot’s injuries. It was necessity back then.
It was instinct now.
Obediently Eliot unbuttoned his shirt and slid it off his shoulders, telling himself not to think too much about it.
Nate had gotten whatever first aid kit he’d been getting and returned, stopping and half stumbling through the return approach. It took Eliot a moment to catch up, recognize that it was shock that made Nate slow. They’d spent two weeks together with nothing but ragged pants and layers of dirt.
But that was eight years ago and the scattered scars left on his body by Eliot’s stepfather had been written many times over by the marks a hitter’s life had left him with.
Eliot sat on the edge of the coffee table, waiting as Nate set down his things and fumbled, both recovering and trying to recover his original intention. Especially now that he could clearly see Eliot had properly taken care of the molted bruises and scattering of little cuts the fight had left him with. It was nothing to get upset about, just the wear and tear of the business.
Later Eliot would deny the little flinch that went through him at the touch. He should have been expecting contact but when Nate touched a fading scar on his back it was like a little shock ran between them and up his spine, not nearly as painful as most of his encounters with electricity but just as jolting.
“Is this…?” Nate asked, his voice soft as the finger just barely tracing the old scar, one of a set he’d gained in a little cell outside Cairo eight years ago. He was surprised Nate could find it, half written over by those he’d recived in the years since.
“Yes.” Was Eliot's only answer.
Nate drew his hand away as if it had been burned, a strange metaphor considering the sudden cold left in the wake of that si-
Eliot was hitting the mental breaks on that train of thought before it got thrown by a hand closing around his shoulder. “You shouldn’t have come.” Nate said simply. “You’re not bad off but you should be taking it easy.”
Eliot turned, looking over his shoulder and shooting Nate a look that was caught somewhere between “You’ve got to be kidding” and “you really think I’m going to do that?”. Whatever Nate was about to say died on his lips and a far away look crossed his face. He took away his hand and Eliot shivered just a little. Damn Nate keeping his apartment cold all the fucking time.
It occurred to Eliot that was a look he hadn’t really given Nate since Cairo, and from certain angles and with certain expressions Eliot knew he looked younger.
But that didn’t explain the troubled frown on Nate’s face.
“Look, I’m sittin’ and playin’ chess. It’s the best way to come down from a job I can think of that doesn’t involve activity.” Eliot grabbed for his shirt, pulling it on and buttoning it quickly. “Are we playing chess or not?”
They went back to their game, playing without speaking for a time, both wrapped in their own heads and neither really paying attention.
Eliot won the game, but it was close and not what he’d call anywhere near a resounding victory. If the game had been a fight it would have been the kind where he walked away but ended up spending the next several weeks recuperating.
As they were working to clean up the board and the booze their fingers brushed, another jolting sensation.
Eliot looked up, meeting Nate’s eyes, wondering what the hell is going on and if he should even be considering acknowledging it even in his own head.
Yeah, it had messed him up back then, and yeah it had taken him years to get to the point where it wasn’t another issue he couldn’t afford, and yeah he was…
But this was Nate. This was Nate, his boss, the father figure to his twenty five year old self who had way too fucking many daddy issues and there were so many ways Freud would love this. Seriously, with Eliot’s history what it was this… lust? Could a semi warm sensation he remember vaguely from Amie be called that?
His past and this semi warm sensation (and when in hell did his sister’s terminology for this sort of thing take root in his head? ) for a man he’d at one point looked to like a father?
Yeah, that wasn’t a sign he was way more messed up than he let on.
In only a breath of time they broke contact and pulled away.
“Go home, I can clean up.” Nate told him.
He listened.
When he got to his own apartment he admitted the ironic good news of the night.
At least he probably wouldn’t spend it brooding over Amie now.
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Next: Check