FIC: Not That Man
Not That Man
Eliot, Hardison
Missing scene for the Big Bang Job
A/N: Like so many others, I thought Eliot and Hardison needed to clear up a few things after "The Big Bang Job." So this is me making them do that. ;)
Eliot sat alone in the corner of the hotel bar, absently turning a glass of Jack on the table between his thumb and fingertips and staring down into the amber liquid.
He prefers beer.
He scowled bitterly as the smooth and all too familiar voice pushed its way into his thoughts, then raised the glass to his lips and knocked back the contents in one defiant swallow.
Shows how well you know me.
Except … Moreau - Damian, that voice prodded - did know him.
And he knew Moreau.
We’ve been chasing Moreau for six months, and you didn’t tell us.
He flinched at the accusation, the betrayal, in that voice, in the shock he’d seen in Nate’s eyes. In all their eyes.
And the outrage he’d seen in Hardison’s.
You risked my life!
He reached for the bottle he’d asked the waitress to leave and poured himself another shot. Maybe he did prefer beer, usually. But, just now, he needed more.
Glad we could strike a deal. Reminds me of Belgrade.
He shuddered and bowed his head, closing his eyes. Belgrade. Christ, he’d thought he’d put that behind him! Thought he’d put all this behind him. Hell, he’d walked away, hadn’t he? Tossed his guns and gone into retrieval work full time, gone into business for himself. No longer anyone’s “clean-up man,” no longer anyone’s enforcer, no longer Moreau’s favorite, and best, killer.
Until now.
Glad we could strike a deal. Reminds me of Belgrade.
The worst thing I ever did in my entire life …
Atherton.
He sighed and closed his eyes tighter, raising a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.
You’re not that man any more.
He might have to be.
He swallowed hard and wrenched open his eyes, reaching once more for his glass and drinking desperately, trying to drown the voices crowding his mind. Damian, so cool and certain and knowing; Sophie, soft and warm and anxious; Nate, grim but resigned; Hardison-
You risked my life!
Jesus, Hardison-
“Ain’t no good ever comes from drinkin’ alone.”
He dropped his glass and shot to his feet, spinning around in the same movement and drawing back his right hand in a fist while reaching forward with his left, grabbing a handful of shirt and jerking forward.
“Hey!”
His vision cleared and he stopped his fist an instant before it collided with a dark and very familiar face. Hardison was staring at him through wide, wild eyes, arms raised in submission. All around them, the bar went deathly silent.
“Fuck.” Eliot released his grip on the hacker’s shirt and turned around again, feeling sick at the realization of what he’d almost done. And to whom.
Again.
Goddamn it, by the time all this was over, Hardison was truly going to hate him. If he didn’t already.
He wasn’t prepared for how much that thought hurt.
Then, noticing the horrified stares of the patrons around him, he lifted his head and narrowed his eyes, scowling deeply and shaking the hair out of his eyes. “What the fuck are y’all lookin’ at?” he growled, feeling a surge of perverse pleasure as every eye was immediately redirected. He could see a burly waiter hovering nearby, clearly debating whether to step forward, and allowed himself a small, tight, evil smile, almost hoping the bastard did try something.
He didn’t.
Eliot sighed and shook his head slightly, then bent down to right the chair he’d knocked over in springing to his feet. Gradually, the sounds around him returned to normal as the other patrons went back to their eating and drinking, and he tried to relax.
Except that he could still feel Hardison standing behind him.
“Somethin’ I can do for you?” he asked without turning around. He’d seen about all the betrayal in the younger man’s eyes he could bear.
“Nate wants you back up in the suite,” Hardison said stiffly. “Said he’s got a few more details about tomorrow to go over with you.”
Eliot sank down into his chair and started to reach for his glass, only to realize it was still on the floor. Fuck. “And you came down to tell me this?”
“Believe me, it wasn’t my idea.”
He winced at the anger he heard in the younger man’s voice. “Yeah, I guess not.” He tried looking over his shoulder at Hardison, but the angle was all wrong. He waved over a waitress instead. “You gonna stand there all night?” he asked as the girl approached. “Be easier to talk if you’re closer.”
“Close to you ain’t been real good for me lately,” Hardison reminded him pointedly.
Eliot flinched as the barb landed, then looked up and smiled tiredly at the waitress as she set a fresh glass on the table. “Thanks, darlin’,” he murmured. “See if my … friend … back there wants anything.”
Friend. Would Hardison ever be that again?
“I’ll have a glass of the most expensive champagne you got,” came the grudging response. “He owes me that much at least.”
Eliot flinched, remembering a shapely young woman in a gold bikini turning away from Hardison just as he reached with his free hand for a glass. Damn. He saw the waitress looking quizzically at him, as if for confirmation, and nodded once. “Yeah,” he breathed, “whatever he wants.” He waited for the girl to leave, then sat back in his chair. “You can at least come around here,” he said, “stand where I can see you.” He glanced around. “There’s enough witnesses here that you should feel safe.”
“I’ve seen you bust heads in crowded bars before, remember? Witnesses don’t seem to bother you much.”
He turned around abruptly and glared up at the hacker. “Damn it, Hardison-” Any further words died unspoken in his throat as the younger man backed away a step.
Fuck.
He turned back around and slumped in his chair, coming very near hating himself. Hardison was afraid of him. After all this time, after three years of baiting him, pushing him, prodding him, getting on his nerves and generally irritating the shit out of him without the slightest sign of worry about the chance he was taking, now Hardison was afraid of him.
Because now Hardison knew what he was.
Eliot worked with Moreau back in the day. A lot.
And obviously it didn’t take a genius to figure out what that “worked with” meant.
You think you know what I’ve done?
He bowed his head and closed his eyes, rubbing a hand over them. “Fine,” he breathed. “Stand or sit wherever you want.” He dropped his hand from his eyes and looked at the empty glass. “Fuck it,” he muttered, leaning forward and pouring himself another drink.
Hardison moved slowly around until he was standing across the table from Eliot. The waitress brought his glass of champagne and set it down before him, but he didn’t sit. He simply stood where he was and stared at Eliot, grim and disapproving. “That really a good idea?” he asked as Eliot raised his glass. “We still gotta go over tomorrow with Nate and the others. Probably be easier with a clear head.”
“What’s to go over?” Eliot asked. “Tomorrow mornin’ I go with Chapman, find Atherton, kill him.” He tossed back the whiskey, trying desperately to get back the numbness that once had made him so very good at what he did. “Ain’t like I’ve never done it before.” And he reached again for the bottle.
But Hardison sat down in the chair across from him and reached out, setting his hand over Eliot’s and holding the bottle down, his eyes serious, even a little sad, but no longer angry. “Maybe,” he said quietly. “But, like Sophie said earlier, you’re not that man any more.”
Eliot jerked his hand away and lifted his chin, glaring defiantly at Hardison. “And what makes you think that?”
Hardison nodded toward the bottle. “That,” he said evenly. “I’d bet you didn’t need to pickle your brain before doin’ a job in the past. But now here you are, practically swimmin’ in that damned bottle just because you got to pretend to kill that asshole - an asshole who’s been sellin’ out his country for years, by the way - so we can stop Moreau from sellin’ a big-ass bomb to a bunch’a thugs or terrorists. So, yeah, I’d say Sophie was right.”
Eliot deflated. Hell, he’d forgotten how well these people knew him. Or thought they did. “Maybe it ain’t about tomorrow at all,” he said softly. “Maybe it’s about today.” He swallowed and dropped his gaze to the tabletop. “This mornin’.”
Hardison stiffened, his gut clenching. For a moment, a soft humidity suffused the air about him, the faint smell of chlorine tickled his nose, and he was back by that pool, handcuffed to a chair, helpless, and flying backward, hitting water and sinking-
He shook his head sharply and took a small, experimental breath, just to reassure himself he was taking in air and not water. Still, the memory of that panicked eternity he’d spent trying not to breathe was one he knew wouldn’t leave him soon.
And Eliot hadn’t done anything to help him.
That was the worst part of it. He’d faced menace, the real threat of injury or death, before; hell, it was pretty much part of the job. But always, always he’d known Eliot was on his side and would protect him. It had become one of the very few bedrock certainties of his existence - Parker could crack any safe, Sophie made every man she met fall in love with her, Nate was as big an asshole as he was a genius, and no matter how bad shit got, Eliot always had his back.
Right up until the moment Damian Moreau did a Ctrl+Alt+Delete and not only rebooted but completely fucking rewired Eliot’s operating system.
That’s no way to treat an old friend. … Let’s catch up.
I do know you.
Glad we could strike a deal. Reminds me of Belgrade.
Hardison shook his head slowly, realizing he had absolutely no idea who the man across from him was, who the man he’d seen with Moreau was. Wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know. Because that man scared the shit out of him. That man had moved armed thugs aside with just the mention of his name, that man had made Moreau’s trained killers nervous, that man had called Moreau by his first name while Moreau greeted him like the Prodigal Son.
And that man had just stood there, never moving, never flinching, hell, never even looking at him, as Moreau had kicked him, handcuffed to a fucking chair, into the pool. Had stood there talking with Moreau, negotiating with him, while he had been trying not to drown. Hadn’t lifted a finger to help him get out.
He swallowed hard and stared blindly at his glass as anger and confusion churned within him. Somewhere he’d missed a step, lost a line of code that would make sense of all this, and he just needed the world to fucking stop until he got it back again. Until he could figure out who this stranger sitting across from him was and how they could get their Eliot back.
Let’s go steal an Eliot.
He’d been waiting all day to hear Nate say the words, for anyone to do or say anything that would make all this normal and right again. Because this? This wasn’t right at all. Eliot wasn’t right. He was some kind of twisted-up version-
And Moreau did the twisting.
The worst thing I ever did in my entire life, I did for Damian Moreau.
He lost a breath as Eliot’s words from earlier hit him again. This … whoever, whatever this stranger with him was … was Damian Moreau’s creation. And he desperately didn’t want to think about that. They’d all learned more than they ever wanted to know about Moreau over the past six months, about how the man made and spent his money, about exactly what he was willing to do to make a buck or protect his interests, and the thought that Eliot, their Eliot, could ever have been part of that-
No. Just no.
Except … yes.
That’s no way to treat an old friend. … Reminds me of Belgrade.
Jesus.
“Did-” His voice cracked as his throat tightened abruptly, almost choking him. He had to clear it and try again. “Did you know … what Moreau was gonna do?”
Eliot flinched and turned his face away at the question, the one he’d been dreading all day. Had he known? He’d tried telling himself, convincing himself, that he hadn’t, that he never would have led Hardison in there if he had-
But he had never been good at lying to himself.
“Know … he’d do that … exactly?” he asked softly, hesitantly, still trying to figure out the answer. Or, to be honest, trying to find a less ugly version of the one he already knew.
“Yeah,” Hardison said in a hard voice, letting his anger rise. He’d been pushing it down all day, concentrating on the Ram’s Horn and what exactly it would mean to have such a thing in the wrong hands - as if there were any right hands for that kind of weapon. Now, though, with Eliot before him and the memory of what had happened, what the son of a bitch had let happen, throbbing like an open wound, he couldn’t hold the anger down any longer. “And be honest,” he demanded. “You owe me that.”
“I know,” he whispered. He swallowed and licked his lips, absently tracing a scar on the tabletop with a forefinger, and shifted his gaze to the bottle before him.
He prefers beer.
He scowled and swore bitterly, raising his head and shaking it to chase Moreau’s voice out of it, and locked his gaze onto Hardison’s face, deciding it was time to make his stand, for better or worse. Hell, he’d been warning them, hadn’t he? For three years, he’d been trying to tell them what he was, trying to make them understand.
I’m a bad guy.
There are nine places a professional will use to hide an injection.
The easiest way? Take ’em out in transit.
It’s a very distinctive sound … stance … fighting style …
Just how the fuck did they think he knew all those things? Why did they think Nate looked to him any time the man needed to know how someone would go about the business of killing?
I’m a bad guy.
I’ve hurt people.
When you’ve done the things I’ve done, there’s no such thing as paranoia.
Just what the fuck had they thought he’d meant?
“Did I know he was gonna shove you into that pool specifically?” he spat, anger, frustration and guilt surging through him. “Not at first, no. But when he handcuffed you to that chair, the possibility did occur to me.”
“Because it’s somethin’ you’ve seen him do before.”
“Because it’s somethin’ I’ve done for him before!” Eliot snarled, slamming a fist onto the table. “Goddamn it, you still don’t get it, do you? I was the man who did Moreau’s dirty work for him!”
Hardison snapped back in his chair, startled, and more than a little alarmed, by Eliot’s outburst. All around them, people were staring, listening, eyes and ears fixed on the seething, spitting long-haired man who seemed a second away from erupting into violence. It was attention they couldn’t afford, and Eliot, of all people, should know that.
“You need to keep your voice down,” he warned in a low voice, looking around uneasily. “Don’t nobody here need to know your work history.”
Eliot exhaled unsteadily and bowed his head, scrubbing a hand over his face and raking it through his hair, trying desperately to control himself. But he was so tired, his every nerve frayed through and laying right there on the surface. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d really slept. They’d been running at a frantic pace, taking too many jobs too close together in their race against The Italian’s deadline, he’d been accumulating hurts faster than he could heal-
And through it all he’d been trying to find his own way to Moreau, milking every contact he had, trying desperately to protect the team from a threat they couldn’t possibly understand. Moreau wasn’t like any other mark they’d ever targeted, had levels of security heads of state would envy, security he himself had helped create-
Hell, he’d helped create Damian Moreau, had been right there at the bastard’s side as he’d risen to prominence, taking out anyone who’d gotten in Damian’s way. And he’d been running himself ragged trying to find a way to take down the monster he’d helped create without his team ever having to get involved.
I was protectin’ you! Last time I checked, that’s still my job!
He wasn’t sure they quite understood what that meant, either …
Hardison watched him with growing concern, not liking at all what he was seeing. Eliot was pale, his face lined with exhaustion, his eyes dull and faded and circled by dark shadows, and he couldn’t seem to figure out what to with his hands. One moment they were on the table, clenching and unclenching or fidgeting with his glass or napkin, and the next they were in his lap or in his hair. Most alarming, the man who always seemed to have a preternatural awareness of his surroundings, who could be counted on to know exactly how many people were around him, what they were doing and just what kind of danger, if any, they posed, right now could not seem to remember they were in a crowded bar, with any number of ears listening and eyes watching.
And his hands were shaking.
Understanding hit him hard. Eliot was coming apart. The man renowned for his professional detachment, his steadiness, for taking on the dirtiest or most dangerous of jobs with little more than a shrug, was ripping apart at the seams and bleeding out before him.
And it had been happening for months.
He stiffened and sucked in a small, sharp breath at the realization, as the pieces suddenly fell into place. Eliot hadn’t really been the same since The Italian had dropped this little bombshell into their midst, and, with every job that had brought them closer to Moreau, he’d grown only worse. His temper - never great to begin with - had gotten shorter, he’d been increasingly on edge, and his familiar paranoia - so long a butt of Hardison’s jokes - had exploded, as much for the team as for himself. He’d been keeping tabs on Moreau, keeping the team away from Moreau-
Because Eliot Spencer, who feared nothing and no one, was afraid of Damian Moreau.
“What the hell did he do to you, man?” he asked softly, his anger at Eliot gone as if it had never existed and replaced by a worry, a fear, he’d never imagined he’d feel for this man.
Eliot flinched violently as the simple question landed hard on painfully raw nerves. What had Damian done? Fuck, what hadn’t he done? “He made me what I am,” he breathed, staring at the tabletop but seeing faces instead, so many faces, all twisted in fear, so many eyes with the light fading from them. Light - and innocence - he had stolen from them-
The worst thing I ever did in my entire life …
“And then he broke me.”
Hardison’s stomach did a slow, queasy roll at the soft, choked words, as he saw the same torment in Eliot’s face now that he’d seen earlier in the park.
What did you do?
Don’t ask me that, Parker. Because if you ask me, I’m gonna tell you. So, please, don’t ask me.
He’d half hoped then that Parker would ask, if only because he’d been so furious with Eliot that he’d wanted, needed, to see the man punished somehow for what he’d done. Eliot had betrayed him, had almost gotten him killed, had lied to the team and apparently chosen his old allegiance to Moreau over his obligations to them, and, damn it, Alec Hardison had wanted to see the man revealed as the dangerous and treacherous monster he’d proven to be.
Now, though, there was no traitor, no monster, only a tired and hurting man breaking open on the rocks of his own past. And Alec never ever wanted to know just what it took to break a man like Eliot Spencer.
“If it makes you feel any better, though,” Eliot sighed, still not quite meeting Hardison’s eyes and feeling tired to whatever passed for his soul these days, “he wasn’t tryin’ to kill you.”
Hardison huffed sharply, remembering only too vividly - like he’d ever forget - the weight of the water crushing against him and the desperate need of his burning lungs to breathe. “Coulda fooled me,” he said bitterly.
Eliot did look at him then, regret and shame twisting through him. For all his genius, Hardison was still a kid and, despite his skills, had no place in the dark and deadly world of men like Damian Moreau. And Eliot Spencer. For a moment, he’d let himself forget that. He’d been so upset, and angry, over his failure to keep the team out of Moreau’s orbit, and so resigned to having his own ugly past revealed to people who insisted on seeing him as better than he was, that he’d broken every one of the few rules he considered sacrosanct and let a teammate, a friend, walk blindly into a danger he knew was real.
“I bet,” he said softly, remembering the fear he’d had to fight to conceal when Hardison had gone into that pool, even knowing it for the ploy it was. “But … it’s a tool he uses to get everybody down to business, to make sure clients are ready to deal. Also lets everybody know he’s serious.” He shrugged tiredly. “Tends to cut down on a lotta bullshit when somebody you work for or somebody who works for you only has a few minutes to live.”
“And you’ve done this for him before?”
He sighed and nodded faintly. “Yeah. You know that cat Chapman? Said he got the job as Moreau’s second because there was an ‘opening’?” He shrugged slightly. “I’m the one who left that opening. I was Moreau’s second. When he had a job he really needed doin’,” he winced at the memory of what such “jobs” entailed, “I was the one he turned to. I was his fixer, his enforcer, his clean-up man, whatever he needed me to be. So, yeah, I’ve done that, and a lot worse, for him before.”
“You coulda warned me,” Hardison seethed through gritted teeth. “Hell, you shoulda warned me! And you coulda done somethin’ to help me-”
“No, I couldn’t,” Eliot said flatly, with no trace of remorse. “He would’ve killed us both.” He leaned forward, folding his arms on the table and holding Hardison’s gaze with his own, needing him to understand this. “He was testin’ me, too,” he said in a low, hard voice. “I haven’t worked for him in years, and all of a sudden I bring a client he doesn’t know into his inner circle in an attempt to buy into a deal that only a handful of people are supposed to know about. He’s got no idea who I’m workin’ for or if I can still be trusted. You need to understand somethin’, Hardison,” he said in a hard, compelling voice, tapping a forefinger against the table, “I did what no one else has ever done. I walked away from Damian Moreau of my own free will, because I wanted to leave, and lived to tell about it. Hell, I left with his blessing! But I left, and that’s somethin’ a man like Moreau don’t forget. He ain’t used to it. People tend to stay with him until he gets rid of them.”
Is this one of your retrieval jobs, Eliot? Tell me, whose Snoopy lunchbox do I have?
Hardison frowned and nodded slightly at the memory. There’d definitely been a subtle bite to Moreau’s words, an effort to belittle Eliot before men who obviously knew and were intimidated by him. And Eliot had stood there and taken it without snapping back, like a cowed dog used to accepting both blows and strokes from a harsh master’s unpredictable hand.
Or so Hardison had thought at the time. But maybe Eliot hadn’t been cowed so much as careful, only too well aware that he was all that stood between a helpless man in handcuffs and Moreau. Maybe Eliot had been trying to protect him after all.
“Don’t know if you noticed it or not,” Eliot went on, “but all those guns in that room were trained on me, not you. And Dam- Moreau was watchin’ me. If I’d so much as twitched wrong, we both woulda been dead. So I had to be real careful not to twitch. And you,” he shrugged, “you couldn’t be anything more to me than a paycheck.”
Hardison exhaled slowly and reached for his glass, taking a long drink of champagne and thinking. You work alone. Moreau had been shocked to see Eliot with anyone. It went against the man’s long habit, against his nature, and just that little deviation had made Moreau suspicious.
“Moreau had to be sure of me,” Eliot said, sitting back and running a hand through his hair. To Hardison’s relief, he seemed to have lost interest in the bottle before him. “One thing Moreau knows about me is that the job is just that - a job. And clients are just paychecks. It’s all professional, nothin’ personal. That’s why I couldn’t react when you went into the pool. My paycheck depended on me getting’ you in and out safely, and the best way to do that was to seal the deal with him, and not panic over you getting’ a little wet. I-”
“A little wet?” Hardison snapped, only at the last minute managing not to slam the wineglass down against the table. “Damn it, Eliot, I almost drowned-”
“No, you didn’t,” Eliot countered impatiently. “I know it mighta seemed that way to you, but, trust me, I knew exactly how long you had before that happened. And so did Damian. Like I said, he wasn’t tryin’ to kill you, he was just conductin’ business in the most efficient way he could.”
Hardison exhaled sharply and sat back, staring at him in shock. “Jesus, do you hear yourself?” he asked in disbelief. “‘Conducting business?’ That was my ass down at the bottom of that pool, my life on the line-”
“And if I’d done one thing any differently, it would’ve been your ass and mine shot full of holes and tossed into the Potomac!” Eliot snapped back. “And that fuckin’ b- Ram’s Horn,” he amended at the last minute, suddenly conscious of all the ears around them, “sold to the highest bidder! And then what?” He leaned over the table, snaring Hardison’s gaze with his. “Which city gets hit and how many people die?” he asked in a low, hard voice. “And what about the team? Moreau would’ve found out about them and killed them. Or if not, The Italian would’ve had ’em taken out. Goddamn it, Hardison, it’s my job to keep y’all alive, but I can only do that if I’m alive! This ain’t your world, it’s mine!” he snarled, jabbing a thumb toward his chest. “I know the rules, I know the limits, and I know Damian Moreau! So, no matter how much you hate me right now, you’re gonna have to trust me, because I am the only chance any of you have of stayin’ alive!”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Hardison cut in, raising his hands to silence Eliot’s tirade, his mind catching on the hitter’s words. “Just back the fuck up a minute.” He frowned deeply at Eliot. “Who the hell said anything about hatin’ you? I mean, yeah, I ain’t just real happy with you right now - it was my ass at the bottom of that pool - but I don’t hate you.” He arched his brows and stared pointedly at Eliot. “I do think we could’ve avoided a lotta this shit if you’d just been honest with us in the first place. Hell, I don’t even know what you were thinkin’, keepin’ this from us.”
“I was thinkin’ maybe I could find a way to take him out myself,” Eliot breathed, bowing his head and toying absently with his empty glass. “Give The Italian what she wanted and just leave y’all out of it.”
Hardison blinked and slowly licked his lips, more than a little unsettled by Eliot’s words. “You … were gonna go after him … after Moreau … all by yourself. Just you.”
Eliot lifted his head and regarded Hardison wearily. “You heard what he said,” he rasped. “I work alone.”
Hardison blinked again and shook his head slowly, unable to believe what he was hearing. What he knew Eliot had fully intended to do. Damn, where was Nate when they needed him? “Yeah,” he answered slowly, “but I also heard you. ‘Things change.’ That’s what you said.” He suddenly reached out and snagged Eliot’s wrist, holding tightly to it and staring intently at him. “Things change. You’re not alone any more, Eliot,” he said softly but with a fierce urgency, his gaze boring into Eliot’s. “You haven’t been alone for a long time now. And you can’t just go around makin’ stupid decisions about your life and our lives without talkin’ to us about ’em. Or don’t you remember how pissed you got at Nate for doin’ that exact same thing?”
Eliot jerked his wrist out of Hardison’s grasp. “It’s not the same thing,” he growled, absently rubbing the skin where Hardison’s fingers had dug in.
“No?” Hardison sat back and crossed his arms, frowning thoughtfully. “Lemme see. Nate: I’m gonna make a deal and get my ass thrown in prison to protect my team. Eliot: I’m gonna go after Moreau alone and likely get my ass killed to protect my team.” He arched a brow. “They sound any different to you? ’Cause they sound exactly the same to me. Except, you know, we got Nate outta prison. There ain’t no getting’ you outta dead.”
Eliot exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his hair. “Damn it, Hardison-”
“Yeah, no,” the younger man cut in angrily. “You do not get to be the injured party this time. I was the one in the pool, and we, your team, are the ones you didn’t trust enough to be honest with. For six months you ain’t said a word about knowin’ Damian Moreau. So you can just stop with the ‘damn it, Hardison’ and start tellin’ me what the hell you were thinkin’. ’Cause I know you do think, even if you don’t like to show it.”
Eliot scowled and shook his head in exasperation. “Damn it, I’ve been tellin’ you-”
“No,” Hardison said firmly, stubbornly. “You told me about some stupid idea you had of takin’ down the man yourself, but you ain’t said nothin’ yet about why.” He sat back and crossed his arms against his chest, staring compellingly at Eliot. “So,” he arched a brow, “why?”
Eliot sighed sharply and threw himself back in his chair, his temper rising. He drummed his fingers against the tabletop, snatched his gaze away from Hardison’s and glared another staring patron into spilling his wine and looking away, picked out which waitress he might enjoy flirting with if he were alone. And all the while Hardison’s stare pricked at his skin like needles.
Goddamn these people anyway! Why couldn’t they just leave him the fuck alone-
You’ve become my family. My only family.
Nate’s words from the deck of a ship … but they could be his own.
He sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping, his fingers ceasing their drumming. But he still didn’t look at Hardison, couldn’t look at him and get out his answer.
“Like I told Nate,” he breathed, “it’s my job to protect y’all. Only-” He winced and shook his head slightly, not quite understanding this part himself, “it’s not just a job any more. Hasn’t been for a while now.” He drew a sharp, quick breath, as if steeling himself, and snapped his gaze back to Hardison. “I know Damian,” he said quietly. “I know more about him than I want to. And I know how far in over our heads we are. I know what he does to people who cross him. Because I was the man who did it. And I couldn’t- I just-” The words dried up then and he shook his head slowly, staring helplessly at Hardison. “I couldn’t let y’all risk that,” he rasped thickly.
“But you could risk yourself,” Hardison said quietly. He tipped his head to one side and frowned. “And if you’d failed … what? You woulda just disappeared, and we never woulda known. You don’t think that woulda bothered us just a little?”
Eliot lifted his chin and stared coolly at the younger man. “I don’t usually fail,” he said with a chilling evenness. “I’m real good at what I do.”
But Hardison shook his head, irritated by the man’s refusal to understand. “What you used to do. You’re not that man any more, remember? And we don’t want you goin’ back to that for us.”
Eliot frowned and shook his head. “I’ll always be that man,” he said flatly. “Some things you never forget.” He dropped his gaze to his hands. “Some stains you can’t wash clean.”
Hardison felt a deep twinge of sympathy, of hurt, for the older man. He teased Eliot mercilessly about his “badness,” about his reputation and his seemingly endless supply of unsavory knowledge and skills. Sometimes he was convinced the man exaggerated his past and abilities just to get a rise out of him. Other times-
You think you know what I’ve done?
Other times, he knew Eliot was holding back just so he wouldn’t horrify them. And Alec couldn’t imagine what kind of a burden that must be for one man, even a man as strong as Eliot Spencer, to carry.
“All right,” he said quietly, unfolding his arms and leaning forward, catching and holding Eliot’s tired gaze with his own, “I’m gonna talk now, and you’re gonna listen. Ah!” Eliot opened his mouth to protest, but Hardison raised a hand sharply to stop him. “Uh-uh. I said I’m gonna talk. And you do know how much I love the sound of my own voice. So, you know, shut up.”
Eliot blinked, startled, then scowled and huffed out a sharp breath, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. But he stayed silent.
Hardison beamed. “Good. See? You can learn! Now-” He reached for his glass, lifted it and drank again from the champagne, then grimaced deeply and put it back down. “Damn, that stuff is dry! I mean, I know it’s what all the rich white folks like, but still-”
“Hardison,” Eliot growled, grinding his teeth.
“Nuh-uh,” Hardison warned, waving a scolding finger. “That’s you talkin’ and not me. It’s my turn.” He sat back, folded his arms again, and arched two brows at Eliot. “You, my man, are an idiot. And don’t make me tell you to shut up again,” he ordered at Eliot’s choked sound of outrage. “You’re an idiot, just man up and admit it. But, see,” he dropped his arms and leaned forward, suddenly and intensely serious, “you’re our idiot. Just like Nate and all his … Nate shit, just like Sophie and all her womanly art-shoe-shiny shit love, just like Parker and her Parkerness, and just like me and the one or two flaws I might possess.”
Eliot snorted sharply and rolled his eyes again, but stayed silent. And tried not to acknowledge the warmth seeping through him and gradually easing the cold ache that for six months had been gnawing at his soul.
“You’re ours, man,” Hardison said again, “and you don’t get to just throw yourself away without askin’ us first. Ain’t that what we went through with Nate? Or even with Parker, when she went up against that Steranko without us?” He shook his head slowly, willing Eliot to understand this. “You ain’t workin’ alone no more, and you ain’t just our secret weapon that we keep locked in the lab until we need to unleash you.” He leaned closer still, imprisoning Eliot’s gaze with his, refusing to let him look away. “You got a past, I get that,” he said softly, “we all get that. And, yeah, it’s an ugly past. But you got a present and a future, too, and you don’t get to throw those away like they’re nothin’. They ain’t nothin’. You ain’t nothin’. You’re ours, E. We stole you fair and square, and we don’t give up what’s ours. Especially not to the likes of Damian Moreau.”
Eliot exhaled hard and sat back, reeling beneath the impact of the younger man’s words. You’re ours, E. He shook his head slowly, dazedly, struggling to understand what Hardison was saying, what such a thing meant for a man like him. All he’d ever been was expendable, a weapon to be used and discarded-
You don’t get to throw yourself away.
He swallowed hard and tried to think. He’d die for these people-
But they wanted him to live for them. Even with all he’d done, with the blood on his hands and the sins on his soul-
We stole you fair and square.
He’d always known they were his. He’d just never imagined that, somewhere along the way, he’d become theirs, too.
Fuckin’ thieves …
Hardison bit his lip hard as he watched Eliot, aching for the struggle he could see going on within him. He’d thought they had all this settled, that coming so near losing Nate had finally solidified for them all exactly what they had together, in each other.
Of course, they hadn’t counted on Damian Moreau coming along and yanking Eliot’s world right out from under him …
Eliot swallowed and nodded slowly. “You’re right,” he rasped, his voice thick and tight, his eyes stinging suspiciously. “I j-” His voice broke and he swallowed hard, then cleared his throat. “I just- I wasn’t-” He swallowed again, then nodded. “I shoulda been honest with y’all. I guess Dam- Moreau still messes with my head.”
“Yeah, well,” Hardison said quietly, “I can see where he’d do that. Bastard’s scary.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Eliot sighed, wishing he didn’t know the half of it. Wishing he didn’t know any of it. “And,” he drew a breath and looked at Hardison, “I shoulda told you what you were walkin’ into.” He frowned and shook his head, trying to remember what he’d been thinking, and failing. Wasn’t sure he’d known even then. “Somewhere I got lost in my own head-” He fixed his gaze once more on Hardison’s. “I’m sorry, man,” he said softly, sincerely.
Hardison blinked, startled, trying to remember if Eliot had ever said those words to him before. If he’d ever heard the man say them to anyone. Damn, first Nate, now Eliot.
Had to be a sign of the apocalypse …
But he kept that thought to himself. He could imagine how hard admitting his mistake had been for Eliot, and he was determined not to do anything to spoil that gesture. Not now, not when he could see the man was still so fragile.
And wasn’t that a hell of a way to think of Eliot Spencer?
“We’re cool, man,” he said simply. Then he glanced at his watch and sighed. “We’d better be getting’ upstairs. We got a lot ridin’ on tomorrow, and Nate wants to be sure we got it all down.”
Eliot flinched at the thought of what tomorrow entailed.
“Hey,” Hardison said quietly, reaching across the table to touch Eliot’s arm, troubled by the sudden flicker of pain in his eyes, “it’s cool. It ain’t real, remember? It just has to look good. You can do this. We can do this.” He smiled reassuringly. “And then we’ll be done with Damian Moreau. It’s almost over, E. You’ve just got to hold it together a little while longer. Right?”
Eliot nodded slightly and managed a wan smile. “Yeah, I guess.”
Hardison studied him worriedly, praying he wasn’t the only one who saw what all this was doing to Eliot and determined to have a word with Nate and Sophie about it. Hell, maybe between the two of them they could hypnotize, brainwash or just flat-out drug the man into getting a decent night’s sleep …
“All right,” he said. “You flash that smile and get that waitress over here with the check, ’cause we need to go. Nate and Sophie are probably still goin’ over the plan, which means nobody’s watchin’ Parker or keepin’ her entertained. And she was seriously interested in the layout of the CIA headquarters.”
Eliot felt a sharp stab of panic at that thought, and immediately waved over the waitress. He did not want to be dragged in by any of his old “friends” at the agency to explain Parker to them.
“Seriously, man,” Hardison said, arching a brow and leveling a forefinger at Eliot, “you need to tell that girl there’s no such thing as ‘The Council’ and that you are not a covert operative for some secret one-world government cabal.”
Eliot snorted. “Don’t you think I’ve tried? But you’re the one who taught her the concept of plausible deniability, and she’s convinced- Thanks, darlin’.” He took the check from the waitress and looked at it, then choked and shot an outraged stare at Hardison. “A hundred and fifty dollars for one fuckin’ glass of champagne?”
Hardison shrugged. “You said anything I wanted.”
“You didn’t even like it!”
Hardison regarded him mildly. “That wasn’t the point.”
He swore again, but scrawled his signature. Then added a generous tip for the waitress and handed the receipt to her with a crooked smile. “For not kickin’ me out,” he explained, getting a warm smile in return. And maybe a promise of something more …
“Oh, puh-leeze!” Hardison groaned as the waitress winked and walked away. He couldn’t help but see the phone number written across the customer’s copy of the receipt Eliot folded and tucked away. “Seriously?”
Eliot flashed him a grin. “Hey, you said after tomorrow things get back to normal.” He shrugged and rose to his feet. “I take normal where I can find it.”
Hardison rolled his eyes and got up, following Eliot out of the bar. “You’re a slut, man. You know that, right? Do you even know that girl’s name?”
Eliot frowned thoughtfully. “It’s Kelly or Christie or somethin’ like that. It’ll be on the receipt.”
“You’re bad,” Hardison chided. “You are a very, very bad man.”
Eliot stopped short, then turned around slowly, staring up at Hardison with serious eyes. “Maybe I was, once,” he said softly. “But,” he shook the hair out of his eyes and gave the first real smile he’d managed in days, “I’m not that man any more, remember?”
Hardison relaxed and grinned broadly, feeling as if a leaden weight had slipped from him. “Yeah, I guess you’re not.” He winked. “C’mon, let’s go. We gotta save the world from Damian Moreau, and the CIA from Parker.” As they started forward once more, a sudden thought occurred to him. “Um, Eliot, you’re not really a covert operative with some secret government cabal. Are you?”
“Hardison,” Eliot sighed as they reached the elevators, “it’s been a long day. Don’t make me kill you.”
“Yeah, see, that was not a ‘no’ … ”
The End
Eliot, Hardison
Missing scene for the Big Bang Job
A/N: Like so many others, I thought Eliot and Hardison needed to clear up a few things after "The Big Bang Job." So this is me making them do that. ;)
Eliot sat alone in the corner of the hotel bar, absently turning a glass of Jack on the table between his thumb and fingertips and staring down into the amber liquid.
He prefers beer.
He scowled bitterly as the smooth and all too familiar voice pushed its way into his thoughts, then raised the glass to his lips and knocked back the contents in one defiant swallow.
Shows how well you know me.
Except … Moreau - Damian, that voice prodded - did know him.
And he knew Moreau.
We’ve been chasing Moreau for six months, and you didn’t tell us.
He flinched at the accusation, the betrayal, in that voice, in the shock he’d seen in Nate’s eyes. In all their eyes.
And the outrage he’d seen in Hardison’s.
You risked my life!
He reached for the bottle he’d asked the waitress to leave and poured himself another shot. Maybe he did prefer beer, usually. But, just now, he needed more.
Glad we could strike a deal. Reminds me of Belgrade.
He shuddered and bowed his head, closing his eyes. Belgrade. Christ, he’d thought he’d put that behind him! Thought he’d put all this behind him. Hell, he’d walked away, hadn’t he? Tossed his guns and gone into retrieval work full time, gone into business for himself. No longer anyone’s “clean-up man,” no longer anyone’s enforcer, no longer Moreau’s favorite, and best, killer.
Until now.
Glad we could strike a deal. Reminds me of Belgrade.
The worst thing I ever did in my entire life …
Atherton.
He sighed and closed his eyes tighter, raising a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.
You’re not that man any more.
He might have to be.
He swallowed hard and wrenched open his eyes, reaching once more for his glass and drinking desperately, trying to drown the voices crowding his mind. Damian, so cool and certain and knowing; Sophie, soft and warm and anxious; Nate, grim but resigned; Hardison-
You risked my life!
Jesus, Hardison-
“Ain’t no good ever comes from drinkin’ alone.”
He dropped his glass and shot to his feet, spinning around in the same movement and drawing back his right hand in a fist while reaching forward with his left, grabbing a handful of shirt and jerking forward.
“Hey!”
His vision cleared and he stopped his fist an instant before it collided with a dark and very familiar face. Hardison was staring at him through wide, wild eyes, arms raised in submission. All around them, the bar went deathly silent.
“Fuck.” Eliot released his grip on the hacker’s shirt and turned around again, feeling sick at the realization of what he’d almost done. And to whom.
Again.
Goddamn it, by the time all this was over, Hardison was truly going to hate him. If he didn’t already.
He wasn’t prepared for how much that thought hurt.
Then, noticing the horrified stares of the patrons around him, he lifted his head and narrowed his eyes, scowling deeply and shaking the hair out of his eyes. “What the fuck are y’all lookin’ at?” he growled, feeling a surge of perverse pleasure as every eye was immediately redirected. He could see a burly waiter hovering nearby, clearly debating whether to step forward, and allowed himself a small, tight, evil smile, almost hoping the bastard did try something.
He didn’t.
Eliot sighed and shook his head slightly, then bent down to right the chair he’d knocked over in springing to his feet. Gradually, the sounds around him returned to normal as the other patrons went back to their eating and drinking, and he tried to relax.
Except that he could still feel Hardison standing behind him.
“Somethin’ I can do for you?” he asked without turning around. He’d seen about all the betrayal in the younger man’s eyes he could bear.
“Nate wants you back up in the suite,” Hardison said stiffly. “Said he’s got a few more details about tomorrow to go over with you.”
Eliot sank down into his chair and started to reach for his glass, only to realize it was still on the floor. Fuck. “And you came down to tell me this?”
“Believe me, it wasn’t my idea.”
He winced at the anger he heard in the younger man’s voice. “Yeah, I guess not.” He tried looking over his shoulder at Hardison, but the angle was all wrong. He waved over a waitress instead. “You gonna stand there all night?” he asked as the girl approached. “Be easier to talk if you’re closer.”
“Close to you ain’t been real good for me lately,” Hardison reminded him pointedly.
Eliot flinched as the barb landed, then looked up and smiled tiredly at the waitress as she set a fresh glass on the table. “Thanks, darlin’,” he murmured. “See if my … friend … back there wants anything.”
Friend. Would Hardison ever be that again?
“I’ll have a glass of the most expensive champagne you got,” came the grudging response. “He owes me that much at least.”
Eliot flinched, remembering a shapely young woman in a gold bikini turning away from Hardison just as he reached with his free hand for a glass. Damn. He saw the waitress looking quizzically at him, as if for confirmation, and nodded once. “Yeah,” he breathed, “whatever he wants.” He waited for the girl to leave, then sat back in his chair. “You can at least come around here,” he said, “stand where I can see you.” He glanced around. “There’s enough witnesses here that you should feel safe.”
“I’ve seen you bust heads in crowded bars before, remember? Witnesses don’t seem to bother you much.”
He turned around abruptly and glared up at the hacker. “Damn it, Hardison-” Any further words died unspoken in his throat as the younger man backed away a step.
Fuck.
He turned back around and slumped in his chair, coming very near hating himself. Hardison was afraid of him. After all this time, after three years of baiting him, pushing him, prodding him, getting on his nerves and generally irritating the shit out of him without the slightest sign of worry about the chance he was taking, now Hardison was afraid of him.
Because now Hardison knew what he was.
Eliot worked with Moreau back in the day. A lot.
And obviously it didn’t take a genius to figure out what that “worked with” meant.
You think you know what I’ve done?
He bowed his head and closed his eyes, rubbing a hand over them. “Fine,” he breathed. “Stand or sit wherever you want.” He dropped his hand from his eyes and looked at the empty glass. “Fuck it,” he muttered, leaning forward and pouring himself another drink.
Hardison moved slowly around until he was standing across the table from Eliot. The waitress brought his glass of champagne and set it down before him, but he didn’t sit. He simply stood where he was and stared at Eliot, grim and disapproving. “That really a good idea?” he asked as Eliot raised his glass. “We still gotta go over tomorrow with Nate and the others. Probably be easier with a clear head.”
“What’s to go over?” Eliot asked. “Tomorrow mornin’ I go with Chapman, find Atherton, kill him.” He tossed back the whiskey, trying desperately to get back the numbness that once had made him so very good at what he did. “Ain’t like I’ve never done it before.” And he reached again for the bottle.
But Hardison sat down in the chair across from him and reached out, setting his hand over Eliot’s and holding the bottle down, his eyes serious, even a little sad, but no longer angry. “Maybe,” he said quietly. “But, like Sophie said earlier, you’re not that man any more.”
Eliot jerked his hand away and lifted his chin, glaring defiantly at Hardison. “And what makes you think that?”
Hardison nodded toward the bottle. “That,” he said evenly. “I’d bet you didn’t need to pickle your brain before doin’ a job in the past. But now here you are, practically swimmin’ in that damned bottle just because you got to pretend to kill that asshole - an asshole who’s been sellin’ out his country for years, by the way - so we can stop Moreau from sellin’ a big-ass bomb to a bunch’a thugs or terrorists. So, yeah, I’d say Sophie was right.”
Eliot deflated. Hell, he’d forgotten how well these people knew him. Or thought they did. “Maybe it ain’t about tomorrow at all,” he said softly. “Maybe it’s about today.” He swallowed and dropped his gaze to the tabletop. “This mornin’.”
Hardison stiffened, his gut clenching. For a moment, a soft humidity suffused the air about him, the faint smell of chlorine tickled his nose, and he was back by that pool, handcuffed to a chair, helpless, and flying backward, hitting water and sinking-
He shook his head sharply and took a small, experimental breath, just to reassure himself he was taking in air and not water. Still, the memory of that panicked eternity he’d spent trying not to breathe was one he knew wouldn’t leave him soon.
And Eliot hadn’t done anything to help him.
That was the worst part of it. He’d faced menace, the real threat of injury or death, before; hell, it was pretty much part of the job. But always, always he’d known Eliot was on his side and would protect him. It had become one of the very few bedrock certainties of his existence - Parker could crack any safe, Sophie made every man she met fall in love with her, Nate was as big an asshole as he was a genius, and no matter how bad shit got, Eliot always had his back.
Right up until the moment Damian Moreau did a Ctrl+Alt+Delete and not only rebooted but completely fucking rewired Eliot’s operating system.
That’s no way to treat an old friend. … Let’s catch up.
I do know you.
Glad we could strike a deal. Reminds me of Belgrade.
Hardison shook his head slowly, realizing he had absolutely no idea who the man across from him was, who the man he’d seen with Moreau was. Wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know. Because that man scared the shit out of him. That man had moved armed thugs aside with just the mention of his name, that man had made Moreau’s trained killers nervous, that man had called Moreau by his first name while Moreau greeted him like the Prodigal Son.
And that man had just stood there, never moving, never flinching, hell, never even looking at him, as Moreau had kicked him, handcuffed to a fucking chair, into the pool. Had stood there talking with Moreau, negotiating with him, while he had been trying not to drown. Hadn’t lifted a finger to help him get out.
He swallowed hard and stared blindly at his glass as anger and confusion churned within him. Somewhere he’d missed a step, lost a line of code that would make sense of all this, and he just needed the world to fucking stop until he got it back again. Until he could figure out who this stranger sitting across from him was and how they could get their Eliot back.
Let’s go steal an Eliot.
He’d been waiting all day to hear Nate say the words, for anyone to do or say anything that would make all this normal and right again. Because this? This wasn’t right at all. Eliot wasn’t right. He was some kind of twisted-up version-
And Moreau did the twisting.
The worst thing I ever did in my entire life, I did for Damian Moreau.
He lost a breath as Eliot’s words from earlier hit him again. This … whoever, whatever this stranger with him was … was Damian Moreau’s creation. And he desperately didn’t want to think about that. They’d all learned more than they ever wanted to know about Moreau over the past six months, about how the man made and spent his money, about exactly what he was willing to do to make a buck or protect his interests, and the thought that Eliot, their Eliot, could ever have been part of that-
No. Just no.
Except … yes.
That’s no way to treat an old friend. … Reminds me of Belgrade.
Jesus.
“Did-” His voice cracked as his throat tightened abruptly, almost choking him. He had to clear it and try again. “Did you know … what Moreau was gonna do?”
Eliot flinched and turned his face away at the question, the one he’d been dreading all day. Had he known? He’d tried telling himself, convincing himself, that he hadn’t, that he never would have led Hardison in there if he had-
But he had never been good at lying to himself.
“Know … he’d do that … exactly?” he asked softly, hesitantly, still trying to figure out the answer. Or, to be honest, trying to find a less ugly version of the one he already knew.
“Yeah,” Hardison said in a hard voice, letting his anger rise. He’d been pushing it down all day, concentrating on the Ram’s Horn and what exactly it would mean to have such a thing in the wrong hands - as if there were any right hands for that kind of weapon. Now, though, with Eliot before him and the memory of what had happened, what the son of a bitch had let happen, throbbing like an open wound, he couldn’t hold the anger down any longer. “And be honest,” he demanded. “You owe me that.”
“I know,” he whispered. He swallowed and licked his lips, absently tracing a scar on the tabletop with a forefinger, and shifted his gaze to the bottle before him.
He prefers beer.
He scowled and swore bitterly, raising his head and shaking it to chase Moreau’s voice out of it, and locked his gaze onto Hardison’s face, deciding it was time to make his stand, for better or worse. Hell, he’d been warning them, hadn’t he? For three years, he’d been trying to tell them what he was, trying to make them understand.
I’m a bad guy.
There are nine places a professional will use to hide an injection.
The easiest way? Take ’em out in transit.
It’s a very distinctive sound … stance … fighting style …
Just how the fuck did they think he knew all those things? Why did they think Nate looked to him any time the man needed to know how someone would go about the business of killing?
I’m a bad guy.
I’ve hurt people.
When you’ve done the things I’ve done, there’s no such thing as paranoia.
Just what the fuck had they thought he’d meant?
“Did I know he was gonna shove you into that pool specifically?” he spat, anger, frustration and guilt surging through him. “Not at first, no. But when he handcuffed you to that chair, the possibility did occur to me.”
“Because it’s somethin’ you’ve seen him do before.”
“Because it’s somethin’ I’ve done for him before!” Eliot snarled, slamming a fist onto the table. “Goddamn it, you still don’t get it, do you? I was the man who did Moreau’s dirty work for him!”
Hardison snapped back in his chair, startled, and more than a little alarmed, by Eliot’s outburst. All around them, people were staring, listening, eyes and ears fixed on the seething, spitting long-haired man who seemed a second away from erupting into violence. It was attention they couldn’t afford, and Eliot, of all people, should know that.
“You need to keep your voice down,” he warned in a low voice, looking around uneasily. “Don’t nobody here need to know your work history.”
Eliot exhaled unsteadily and bowed his head, scrubbing a hand over his face and raking it through his hair, trying desperately to control himself. But he was so tired, his every nerve frayed through and laying right there on the surface. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d really slept. They’d been running at a frantic pace, taking too many jobs too close together in their race against The Italian’s deadline, he’d been accumulating hurts faster than he could heal-
And through it all he’d been trying to find his own way to Moreau, milking every contact he had, trying desperately to protect the team from a threat they couldn’t possibly understand. Moreau wasn’t like any other mark they’d ever targeted, had levels of security heads of state would envy, security he himself had helped create-
Hell, he’d helped create Damian Moreau, had been right there at the bastard’s side as he’d risen to prominence, taking out anyone who’d gotten in Damian’s way. And he’d been running himself ragged trying to find a way to take down the monster he’d helped create without his team ever having to get involved.
I was protectin’ you! Last time I checked, that’s still my job!
He wasn’t sure they quite understood what that meant, either …
Hardison watched him with growing concern, not liking at all what he was seeing. Eliot was pale, his face lined with exhaustion, his eyes dull and faded and circled by dark shadows, and he couldn’t seem to figure out what to with his hands. One moment they were on the table, clenching and unclenching or fidgeting with his glass or napkin, and the next they were in his lap or in his hair. Most alarming, the man who always seemed to have a preternatural awareness of his surroundings, who could be counted on to know exactly how many people were around him, what they were doing and just what kind of danger, if any, they posed, right now could not seem to remember they were in a crowded bar, with any number of ears listening and eyes watching.
And his hands were shaking.
Understanding hit him hard. Eliot was coming apart. The man renowned for his professional detachment, his steadiness, for taking on the dirtiest or most dangerous of jobs with little more than a shrug, was ripping apart at the seams and bleeding out before him.
And it had been happening for months.
He stiffened and sucked in a small, sharp breath at the realization, as the pieces suddenly fell into place. Eliot hadn’t really been the same since The Italian had dropped this little bombshell into their midst, and, with every job that had brought them closer to Moreau, he’d grown only worse. His temper - never great to begin with - had gotten shorter, he’d been increasingly on edge, and his familiar paranoia - so long a butt of Hardison’s jokes - had exploded, as much for the team as for himself. He’d been keeping tabs on Moreau, keeping the team away from Moreau-
Because Eliot Spencer, who feared nothing and no one, was afraid of Damian Moreau.
“What the hell did he do to you, man?” he asked softly, his anger at Eliot gone as if it had never existed and replaced by a worry, a fear, he’d never imagined he’d feel for this man.
Eliot flinched violently as the simple question landed hard on painfully raw nerves. What had Damian done? Fuck, what hadn’t he done? “He made me what I am,” he breathed, staring at the tabletop but seeing faces instead, so many faces, all twisted in fear, so many eyes with the light fading from them. Light - and innocence - he had stolen from them-
The worst thing I ever did in my entire life …
“And then he broke me.”
Hardison’s stomach did a slow, queasy roll at the soft, choked words, as he saw the same torment in Eliot’s face now that he’d seen earlier in the park.
What did you do?
Don’t ask me that, Parker. Because if you ask me, I’m gonna tell you. So, please, don’t ask me.
He’d half hoped then that Parker would ask, if only because he’d been so furious with Eliot that he’d wanted, needed, to see the man punished somehow for what he’d done. Eliot had betrayed him, had almost gotten him killed, had lied to the team and apparently chosen his old allegiance to Moreau over his obligations to them, and, damn it, Alec Hardison had wanted to see the man revealed as the dangerous and treacherous monster he’d proven to be.
Now, though, there was no traitor, no monster, only a tired and hurting man breaking open on the rocks of his own past. And Alec never ever wanted to know just what it took to break a man like Eliot Spencer.
“If it makes you feel any better, though,” Eliot sighed, still not quite meeting Hardison’s eyes and feeling tired to whatever passed for his soul these days, “he wasn’t tryin’ to kill you.”
Hardison huffed sharply, remembering only too vividly - like he’d ever forget - the weight of the water crushing against him and the desperate need of his burning lungs to breathe. “Coulda fooled me,” he said bitterly.
Eliot did look at him then, regret and shame twisting through him. For all his genius, Hardison was still a kid and, despite his skills, had no place in the dark and deadly world of men like Damian Moreau. And Eliot Spencer. For a moment, he’d let himself forget that. He’d been so upset, and angry, over his failure to keep the team out of Moreau’s orbit, and so resigned to having his own ugly past revealed to people who insisted on seeing him as better than he was, that he’d broken every one of the few rules he considered sacrosanct and let a teammate, a friend, walk blindly into a danger he knew was real.
“I bet,” he said softly, remembering the fear he’d had to fight to conceal when Hardison had gone into that pool, even knowing it for the ploy it was. “But … it’s a tool he uses to get everybody down to business, to make sure clients are ready to deal. Also lets everybody know he’s serious.” He shrugged tiredly. “Tends to cut down on a lotta bullshit when somebody you work for or somebody who works for you only has a few minutes to live.”
“And you’ve done this for him before?”
He sighed and nodded faintly. “Yeah. You know that cat Chapman? Said he got the job as Moreau’s second because there was an ‘opening’?” He shrugged slightly. “I’m the one who left that opening. I was Moreau’s second. When he had a job he really needed doin’,” he winced at the memory of what such “jobs” entailed, “I was the one he turned to. I was his fixer, his enforcer, his clean-up man, whatever he needed me to be. So, yeah, I’ve done that, and a lot worse, for him before.”
“You coulda warned me,” Hardison seethed through gritted teeth. “Hell, you shoulda warned me! And you coulda done somethin’ to help me-”
“No, I couldn’t,” Eliot said flatly, with no trace of remorse. “He would’ve killed us both.” He leaned forward, folding his arms on the table and holding Hardison’s gaze with his own, needing him to understand this. “He was testin’ me, too,” he said in a low, hard voice. “I haven’t worked for him in years, and all of a sudden I bring a client he doesn’t know into his inner circle in an attempt to buy into a deal that only a handful of people are supposed to know about. He’s got no idea who I’m workin’ for or if I can still be trusted. You need to understand somethin’, Hardison,” he said in a hard, compelling voice, tapping a forefinger against the table, “I did what no one else has ever done. I walked away from Damian Moreau of my own free will, because I wanted to leave, and lived to tell about it. Hell, I left with his blessing! But I left, and that’s somethin’ a man like Moreau don’t forget. He ain’t used to it. People tend to stay with him until he gets rid of them.”
Is this one of your retrieval jobs, Eliot? Tell me, whose Snoopy lunchbox do I have?
Hardison frowned and nodded slightly at the memory. There’d definitely been a subtle bite to Moreau’s words, an effort to belittle Eliot before men who obviously knew and were intimidated by him. And Eliot had stood there and taken it without snapping back, like a cowed dog used to accepting both blows and strokes from a harsh master’s unpredictable hand.
Or so Hardison had thought at the time. But maybe Eliot hadn’t been cowed so much as careful, only too well aware that he was all that stood between a helpless man in handcuffs and Moreau. Maybe Eliot had been trying to protect him after all.
“Don’t know if you noticed it or not,” Eliot went on, “but all those guns in that room were trained on me, not you. And Dam- Moreau was watchin’ me. If I’d so much as twitched wrong, we both woulda been dead. So I had to be real careful not to twitch. And you,” he shrugged, “you couldn’t be anything more to me than a paycheck.”
Hardison exhaled slowly and reached for his glass, taking a long drink of champagne and thinking. You work alone. Moreau had been shocked to see Eliot with anyone. It went against the man’s long habit, against his nature, and just that little deviation had made Moreau suspicious.
“Moreau had to be sure of me,” Eliot said, sitting back and running a hand through his hair. To Hardison’s relief, he seemed to have lost interest in the bottle before him. “One thing Moreau knows about me is that the job is just that - a job. And clients are just paychecks. It’s all professional, nothin’ personal. That’s why I couldn’t react when you went into the pool. My paycheck depended on me getting’ you in and out safely, and the best way to do that was to seal the deal with him, and not panic over you getting’ a little wet. I-”
“A little wet?” Hardison snapped, only at the last minute managing not to slam the wineglass down against the table. “Damn it, Eliot, I almost drowned-”
“No, you didn’t,” Eliot countered impatiently. “I know it mighta seemed that way to you, but, trust me, I knew exactly how long you had before that happened. And so did Damian. Like I said, he wasn’t tryin’ to kill you, he was just conductin’ business in the most efficient way he could.”
Hardison exhaled sharply and sat back, staring at him in shock. “Jesus, do you hear yourself?” he asked in disbelief. “‘Conducting business?’ That was my ass down at the bottom of that pool, my life on the line-”
“And if I’d done one thing any differently, it would’ve been your ass and mine shot full of holes and tossed into the Potomac!” Eliot snapped back. “And that fuckin’ b- Ram’s Horn,” he amended at the last minute, suddenly conscious of all the ears around them, “sold to the highest bidder! And then what?” He leaned over the table, snaring Hardison’s gaze with his. “Which city gets hit and how many people die?” he asked in a low, hard voice. “And what about the team? Moreau would’ve found out about them and killed them. Or if not, The Italian would’ve had ’em taken out. Goddamn it, Hardison, it’s my job to keep y’all alive, but I can only do that if I’m alive! This ain’t your world, it’s mine!” he snarled, jabbing a thumb toward his chest. “I know the rules, I know the limits, and I know Damian Moreau! So, no matter how much you hate me right now, you’re gonna have to trust me, because I am the only chance any of you have of stayin’ alive!”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Hardison cut in, raising his hands to silence Eliot’s tirade, his mind catching on the hitter’s words. “Just back the fuck up a minute.” He frowned deeply at Eliot. “Who the hell said anything about hatin’ you? I mean, yeah, I ain’t just real happy with you right now - it was my ass at the bottom of that pool - but I don’t hate you.” He arched his brows and stared pointedly at Eliot. “I do think we could’ve avoided a lotta this shit if you’d just been honest with us in the first place. Hell, I don’t even know what you were thinkin’, keepin’ this from us.”
“I was thinkin’ maybe I could find a way to take him out myself,” Eliot breathed, bowing his head and toying absently with his empty glass. “Give The Italian what she wanted and just leave y’all out of it.”
Hardison blinked and slowly licked his lips, more than a little unsettled by Eliot’s words. “You … were gonna go after him … after Moreau … all by yourself. Just you.”
Eliot lifted his head and regarded Hardison wearily. “You heard what he said,” he rasped. “I work alone.”
Hardison blinked again and shook his head slowly, unable to believe what he was hearing. What he knew Eliot had fully intended to do. Damn, where was Nate when they needed him? “Yeah,” he answered slowly, “but I also heard you. ‘Things change.’ That’s what you said.” He suddenly reached out and snagged Eliot’s wrist, holding tightly to it and staring intently at him. “Things change. You’re not alone any more, Eliot,” he said softly but with a fierce urgency, his gaze boring into Eliot’s. “You haven’t been alone for a long time now. And you can’t just go around makin’ stupid decisions about your life and our lives without talkin’ to us about ’em. Or don’t you remember how pissed you got at Nate for doin’ that exact same thing?”
Eliot jerked his wrist out of Hardison’s grasp. “It’s not the same thing,” he growled, absently rubbing the skin where Hardison’s fingers had dug in.
“No?” Hardison sat back and crossed his arms, frowning thoughtfully. “Lemme see. Nate: I’m gonna make a deal and get my ass thrown in prison to protect my team. Eliot: I’m gonna go after Moreau alone and likely get my ass killed to protect my team.” He arched a brow. “They sound any different to you? ’Cause they sound exactly the same to me. Except, you know, we got Nate outta prison. There ain’t no getting’ you outta dead.”
Eliot exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his hair. “Damn it, Hardison-”
“Yeah, no,” the younger man cut in angrily. “You do not get to be the injured party this time. I was the one in the pool, and we, your team, are the ones you didn’t trust enough to be honest with. For six months you ain’t said a word about knowin’ Damian Moreau. So you can just stop with the ‘damn it, Hardison’ and start tellin’ me what the hell you were thinkin’. ’Cause I know you do think, even if you don’t like to show it.”
Eliot scowled and shook his head in exasperation. “Damn it, I’ve been tellin’ you-”
“No,” Hardison said firmly, stubbornly. “You told me about some stupid idea you had of takin’ down the man yourself, but you ain’t said nothin’ yet about why.” He sat back and crossed his arms against his chest, staring compellingly at Eliot. “So,” he arched a brow, “why?”
Eliot sighed sharply and threw himself back in his chair, his temper rising. He drummed his fingers against the tabletop, snatched his gaze away from Hardison’s and glared another staring patron into spilling his wine and looking away, picked out which waitress he might enjoy flirting with if he were alone. And all the while Hardison’s stare pricked at his skin like needles.
Goddamn these people anyway! Why couldn’t they just leave him the fuck alone-
You’ve become my family. My only family.
Nate’s words from the deck of a ship … but they could be his own.
He sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping, his fingers ceasing their drumming. But he still didn’t look at Hardison, couldn’t look at him and get out his answer.
“Like I told Nate,” he breathed, “it’s my job to protect y’all. Only-” He winced and shook his head slightly, not quite understanding this part himself, “it’s not just a job any more. Hasn’t been for a while now.” He drew a sharp, quick breath, as if steeling himself, and snapped his gaze back to Hardison. “I know Damian,” he said quietly. “I know more about him than I want to. And I know how far in over our heads we are. I know what he does to people who cross him. Because I was the man who did it. And I couldn’t- I just-” The words dried up then and he shook his head slowly, staring helplessly at Hardison. “I couldn’t let y’all risk that,” he rasped thickly.
“But you could risk yourself,” Hardison said quietly. He tipped his head to one side and frowned. “And if you’d failed … what? You woulda just disappeared, and we never woulda known. You don’t think that woulda bothered us just a little?”
Eliot lifted his chin and stared coolly at the younger man. “I don’t usually fail,” he said with a chilling evenness. “I’m real good at what I do.”
But Hardison shook his head, irritated by the man’s refusal to understand. “What you used to do. You’re not that man any more, remember? And we don’t want you goin’ back to that for us.”
Eliot frowned and shook his head. “I’ll always be that man,” he said flatly. “Some things you never forget.” He dropped his gaze to his hands. “Some stains you can’t wash clean.”
Hardison felt a deep twinge of sympathy, of hurt, for the older man. He teased Eliot mercilessly about his “badness,” about his reputation and his seemingly endless supply of unsavory knowledge and skills. Sometimes he was convinced the man exaggerated his past and abilities just to get a rise out of him. Other times-
You think you know what I’ve done?
Other times, he knew Eliot was holding back just so he wouldn’t horrify them. And Alec couldn’t imagine what kind of a burden that must be for one man, even a man as strong as Eliot Spencer, to carry.
“All right,” he said quietly, unfolding his arms and leaning forward, catching and holding Eliot’s tired gaze with his own, “I’m gonna talk now, and you’re gonna listen. Ah!” Eliot opened his mouth to protest, but Hardison raised a hand sharply to stop him. “Uh-uh. I said I’m gonna talk. And you do know how much I love the sound of my own voice. So, you know, shut up.”
Eliot blinked, startled, then scowled and huffed out a sharp breath, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. But he stayed silent.
Hardison beamed. “Good. See? You can learn! Now-” He reached for his glass, lifted it and drank again from the champagne, then grimaced deeply and put it back down. “Damn, that stuff is dry! I mean, I know it’s what all the rich white folks like, but still-”
“Hardison,” Eliot growled, grinding his teeth.
“Nuh-uh,” Hardison warned, waving a scolding finger. “That’s you talkin’ and not me. It’s my turn.” He sat back, folded his arms again, and arched two brows at Eliot. “You, my man, are an idiot. And don’t make me tell you to shut up again,” he ordered at Eliot’s choked sound of outrage. “You’re an idiot, just man up and admit it. But, see,” he dropped his arms and leaned forward, suddenly and intensely serious, “you’re our idiot. Just like Nate and all his … Nate shit, just like Sophie and all her womanly art-shoe-shiny shit love, just like Parker and her Parkerness, and just like me and the one or two flaws I might possess.”
Eliot snorted sharply and rolled his eyes again, but stayed silent. And tried not to acknowledge the warmth seeping through him and gradually easing the cold ache that for six months had been gnawing at his soul.
“You’re ours, man,” Hardison said again, “and you don’t get to just throw yourself away without askin’ us first. Ain’t that what we went through with Nate? Or even with Parker, when she went up against that Steranko without us?” He shook his head slowly, willing Eliot to understand this. “You ain’t workin’ alone no more, and you ain’t just our secret weapon that we keep locked in the lab until we need to unleash you.” He leaned closer still, imprisoning Eliot’s gaze with his, refusing to let him look away. “You got a past, I get that,” he said softly, “we all get that. And, yeah, it’s an ugly past. But you got a present and a future, too, and you don’t get to throw those away like they’re nothin’. They ain’t nothin’. You ain’t nothin’. You’re ours, E. We stole you fair and square, and we don’t give up what’s ours. Especially not to the likes of Damian Moreau.”
Eliot exhaled hard and sat back, reeling beneath the impact of the younger man’s words. You’re ours, E. He shook his head slowly, dazedly, struggling to understand what Hardison was saying, what such a thing meant for a man like him. All he’d ever been was expendable, a weapon to be used and discarded-
You don’t get to throw yourself away.
He swallowed hard and tried to think. He’d die for these people-
But they wanted him to live for them. Even with all he’d done, with the blood on his hands and the sins on his soul-
We stole you fair and square.
He’d always known they were his. He’d just never imagined that, somewhere along the way, he’d become theirs, too.
Fuckin’ thieves …
Hardison bit his lip hard as he watched Eliot, aching for the struggle he could see going on within him. He’d thought they had all this settled, that coming so near losing Nate had finally solidified for them all exactly what they had together, in each other.
Of course, they hadn’t counted on Damian Moreau coming along and yanking Eliot’s world right out from under him …
Eliot swallowed and nodded slowly. “You’re right,” he rasped, his voice thick and tight, his eyes stinging suspiciously. “I j-” His voice broke and he swallowed hard, then cleared his throat. “I just- I wasn’t-” He swallowed again, then nodded. “I shoulda been honest with y’all. I guess Dam- Moreau still messes with my head.”
“Yeah, well,” Hardison said quietly, “I can see where he’d do that. Bastard’s scary.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Eliot sighed, wishing he didn’t know the half of it. Wishing he didn’t know any of it. “And,” he drew a breath and looked at Hardison, “I shoulda told you what you were walkin’ into.” He frowned and shook his head, trying to remember what he’d been thinking, and failing. Wasn’t sure he’d known even then. “Somewhere I got lost in my own head-” He fixed his gaze once more on Hardison’s. “I’m sorry, man,” he said softly, sincerely.
Hardison blinked, startled, trying to remember if Eliot had ever said those words to him before. If he’d ever heard the man say them to anyone. Damn, first Nate, now Eliot.
Had to be a sign of the apocalypse …
But he kept that thought to himself. He could imagine how hard admitting his mistake had been for Eliot, and he was determined not to do anything to spoil that gesture. Not now, not when he could see the man was still so fragile.
And wasn’t that a hell of a way to think of Eliot Spencer?
“We’re cool, man,” he said simply. Then he glanced at his watch and sighed. “We’d better be getting’ upstairs. We got a lot ridin’ on tomorrow, and Nate wants to be sure we got it all down.”
Eliot flinched at the thought of what tomorrow entailed.
“Hey,” Hardison said quietly, reaching across the table to touch Eliot’s arm, troubled by the sudden flicker of pain in his eyes, “it’s cool. It ain’t real, remember? It just has to look good. You can do this. We can do this.” He smiled reassuringly. “And then we’ll be done with Damian Moreau. It’s almost over, E. You’ve just got to hold it together a little while longer. Right?”
Eliot nodded slightly and managed a wan smile. “Yeah, I guess.”
Hardison studied him worriedly, praying he wasn’t the only one who saw what all this was doing to Eliot and determined to have a word with Nate and Sophie about it. Hell, maybe between the two of them they could hypnotize, brainwash or just flat-out drug the man into getting a decent night’s sleep …
“All right,” he said. “You flash that smile and get that waitress over here with the check, ’cause we need to go. Nate and Sophie are probably still goin’ over the plan, which means nobody’s watchin’ Parker or keepin’ her entertained. And she was seriously interested in the layout of the CIA headquarters.”
Eliot felt a sharp stab of panic at that thought, and immediately waved over the waitress. He did not want to be dragged in by any of his old “friends” at the agency to explain Parker to them.
“Seriously, man,” Hardison said, arching a brow and leveling a forefinger at Eliot, “you need to tell that girl there’s no such thing as ‘The Council’ and that you are not a covert operative for some secret one-world government cabal.”
Eliot snorted. “Don’t you think I’ve tried? But you’re the one who taught her the concept of plausible deniability, and she’s convinced- Thanks, darlin’.” He took the check from the waitress and looked at it, then choked and shot an outraged stare at Hardison. “A hundred and fifty dollars for one fuckin’ glass of champagne?”
Hardison shrugged. “You said anything I wanted.”
“You didn’t even like it!”
Hardison regarded him mildly. “That wasn’t the point.”
He swore again, but scrawled his signature. Then added a generous tip for the waitress and handed the receipt to her with a crooked smile. “For not kickin’ me out,” he explained, getting a warm smile in return. And maybe a promise of something more …
“Oh, puh-leeze!” Hardison groaned as the waitress winked and walked away. He couldn’t help but see the phone number written across the customer’s copy of the receipt Eliot folded and tucked away. “Seriously?”
Eliot flashed him a grin. “Hey, you said after tomorrow things get back to normal.” He shrugged and rose to his feet. “I take normal where I can find it.”
Hardison rolled his eyes and got up, following Eliot out of the bar. “You’re a slut, man. You know that, right? Do you even know that girl’s name?”
Eliot frowned thoughtfully. “It’s Kelly or Christie or somethin’ like that. It’ll be on the receipt.”
“You’re bad,” Hardison chided. “You are a very, very bad man.”
Eliot stopped short, then turned around slowly, staring up at Hardison with serious eyes. “Maybe I was, once,” he said softly. “But,” he shook the hair out of his eyes and gave the first real smile he’d managed in days, “I’m not that man any more, remember?”
Hardison relaxed and grinned broadly, feeling as if a leaden weight had slipped from him. “Yeah, I guess you’re not.” He winked. “C’mon, let’s go. We gotta save the world from Damian Moreau, and the CIA from Parker.” As they started forward once more, a sudden thought occurred to him. “Um, Eliot, you’re not really a covert operative with some secret government cabal. Are you?”
“Hardison,” Eliot sighed as they reached the elevators, “it’s been a long day. Don’t make me kill you.”
“Yeah, see, that was not a ‘no’ … ”
The End