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thegeeksideofsr · 1 year

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Keeping Secrets

I had an idea about Eliot and a single mom of an eight year old, and I couldn't get it out of my head. I hope you enjoy!

Takes place around season two.

Content: mention of a kid slipping on a flight of stairs, bruises, and single parenting

" Look, we need this for the job. I know it's short notice, but you said you have some on hand."

"I said I had half finished ones. It would take at least six hours of painting to finish. Then the process to make the paint cure and ageing takes another four. I can't Nate." I say into my phone as I add cut carrot to the pot of soup on the stove, then turn to glance at my daughter drawing at the table. "I have priorities that are outside the team that are more important then conning someone."

" Alright. I talk to Hardison, see what he can cook up."

"Good plan. I'm sorry I couldn't help. See ya."

I pull the phone away and hangup, tucking it into my pocket. I turn back to the pot on the stove and give the contents a stir.

The call with Nate still on my mind after dinner, even though I tried to punch it out of my mind and focus on Odette

After she went to bed I texted Hardison to make sure it was all good, which it was of course, but the guilt of not telling the team was starting to get to me. Especially not telling Eliot.

He and I would flirt and dance around each other all the time, we have since I joined the team. But I still keep my life private, being one of the best forgers is dangerous. Even if it's part time.

The next morning I bring her to school, making sure to sign her field trip permission slip, then give her a long hug, before sending her inside.

I head to McRory's to check in and do some legitimate work.

I walk into Nate's apartment, finding him and Hardison there with security feeds on the screens.

" Hey guys. How's it going?"

" It's going. Managed to pull something together. Not as good as yours but it's getting the job done." Nate says with out looking at me.

"I'm sure he did a great job." I reply as I pull out my sketch book to work at Nate's dinner table.

"Nice of you to join us." Eliot's voice cracks through the comms.

"Nice hear you too, El. Sorry I couldn't help last night."

"S'alright. Hardison managed. But I'd love to hear about what kept you busy."

"Was it a date?" Parker asks.

" Kinda."

"Oh? Who with?"

"Somebody special. Now can we stop talking about my personal life?"

The rest day passes with out much excitement. The team comes and goes and soon enough we are all down in the pub. I note that school let out thirty minutes ago, but Odette has a practice for a school play for an hour and a half after school. Meaning I hang out for another half hour with the team, then head to pick her up, and grab some take out on the way home.

A light touch at my elbow makes me jump and turn to see Eliot grinning at me.

"Didn't mean to scare you, darlin'. I was just asking if you had plans later."

I let out a sigh and look down. This isn't the first time he's asked that, and I doubt it will be the last. He's asked me out before, but the thought Odette getting attached to him like I have, or getting caught up in something scares me enough to not risk it.

" I do. I'm sorry, Eliot."

"With the someone from last night?"

"Yeah. But please, Eliot, I want to keep my private life, private."

" I understand. I won't push it, but I wish you'd tell me why we do this dance, yet you always have mysterious plans."

" I know. But I can't tell you, El."

" Because you don't trust me?" His voice is low as he looks at his feet.

I step close to him, I cup his cheek and make him look at me.

"Eliot, I trust you with my life. But this is something I can't risk, this part of my life shouldn't touch the other side."

"What do you think would happen?"

"I don't know, and I am terrified to find out. But if something changes, you will be the first to know, okay?"

A small smile crosses his face, I return his smile and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. I wish I could let my self fall for him with out a care, kiss him properly, but I can't.

I pull away and step back, taking a deep breath, I grab my stuff and turn back to him.

"Good night, Eliot."

"Good night."

I turn and head out the door and once in the safety of my car I relax just a little. I check the time, almost an hour to kill till pick up, I drive over to Odette's school and park. I pull out my sketch book and wait.

*************

A rapid knock on my car window pulls my attention away from work to find my daughter's face pressed against the glass making a face, causing a laugh to bubble out of my chest.

When she pulls away I roll my window down.

"Hey kiddo! How's was today?"

"Good. Miss. Anne read to us and we got to make a recipe form the book."

"Cool! Hop in and you can tell me more on the way home."

She grins and runs to her side of the back seat, tossing her turquoise backpack next to her. She buckles in and kicks of her shoes before she begins retelling her day of school, while I drive towards home, stopping for take out on the way.

*********

"Are you okay, Mom?" She asks suddenly during dinner.

"Yeah. Yeah I'm fine, just thinking about work."

"Just work?"

I let out a sigh.

"I got asked on a date tonight before I left."

She lets out a shriek of excitement and starts bouncing in her seat.

"Was it Eliot? Did you say yes? Please say you said yes !!"

"Yes, it was Eliot, and no, I didn't say yes."

Her excitement fades, making my heart ache.

"But why? You like him a lot. You talk and tell stories about him all the time. You've even drawn him."

"Because it's complicated, love. We work together and it might end badly and mess up the friendship we have. And you. I don't want you to get hurt."

"But you like him!"

" Odette. It's not happening. I'm sorry."

She lets out a dramatic sigh and slumps back in her chair.

It's silent for a few minutes, then she starts telling me about something that happened during the play rehearsal.

*********

The con had been rough to say the least. A mark with trust issues, a head goon who was actually good at his job, and a forged master piece all part of Nate's plan. At least I wasn't a main option grifting or thieving.

Hardison, Parker and I were sitting in a booth while Nate and Sophie talked with the client. I was laughing at something Parker said, when out of the corner of my eye I see the flash of my phone ringing.

My heart drops to my stomach when I read her teacher's name.

"Shit." I mutter as I pick it up to answer.

"What? What's wrong?" Hardison asks as he looks at me concerned.

I ignore him as I put it to my ear.

"Hello? Anne, what's up?"

"Hi, Y/N, I'm calling because of an incident that happened during the field trip today."

"What happened? Is Odette okay?"

"We were at the top of the steps to the second floor of the museum, the kids were a few steps ahead of Rick and I, and her foot slipped on a step. And she fell about four feet to the next landing "

I try to stand, but the table of the booth stops me in my tracks.

"What?"

"I know, it's not the best news. And I feel terrible that it happened but she's ok. A small scrape on her knee and some bruises. I wish it had never happened but it could have been so much worse."

"Are you back at the school? Should I come get her?"

"We are at the school. She asked me to call you to come and get her. She seems ok for the most part, I think it just scared her."

"I'm on my way. I'll be there in twenty."

"Alright, I'll let her know. See you soon."

I pull the phone away from my ear and shove it in my pocket. I grab my stuff, slide from the booth, and head for the door.

" Yo, where you goin'?" Hardison calls after me.

" It's private. Tell the others I had to cut out early."

I head for the door of McRory's trying to dodge people, but failing as I run in to someone, nearly falling on my face.

But a familiar scent of warmth and spices floods my nose as a pair of strong arms wrap around my waist. Eliot.

"Careful, darlin'. Where you off to in such a rush."

"I'm sorry it's hard to explain. I have to go." I say to him as I detangle my self from his arms and rush out the front door.

I make it to my car and toss my bag in the passenger seat, start the engine, and pull out of my spot and head towards the school.

************

I practically run through the school to Odette's class room. I open the door to find her sitting on a beanbag chair with her teacher and a book.

She looks up when I enter, and starts to wiggle to get up. Once on her feet she runs over to me, and I drop to my knees to hug her tight.

"Hey, baby."

"Hi, momma." Her voice muffled by my shoulder.

I pull away from her and look over her arms and see a bruse forming on her upper left arm, some on her leg, and a few scrapes on her knees. I cup her face and kiss her forehead.

"Let's get you home, okay baby?"

She nods, then pulls away to grab her backpack.

I look to her teacher, who is now standing, then walk to give her a quick hug as well.

"Thank you, Anne, for taking care of her."

"You're welcome. I took her to the nurse when we got here, nothing broken, just bumps and bruises."

I offer her my hand, which she takes and holds tight, then we say goodbye to her teacher, and head to the car.

I give her a nod, then turn back to Odette who looks all too ready to go home.

Once she's settled in her seat, I get in as well, and head home.

A few minutes into the drive my phone starts to ring, I answer without looking at the contact.

"Hello?"

"Hey, I just wanted to check in. You flew out of here like a bat outta hell." Eliot grumbles with a concerned tone.

"Yeah. I'm okay. But it's personal. I might be out for a day or two."

" Hardison said it sounded serious. You sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine, it's just-"

My sentence is interrupted from the back seat, loud enough I know Eliot hears.

"Momma? Can we get pizza for dinner? With olives? Please?"

I glance at her in the rearview, she's barely awake, her eyes heavy and head lulling to the side.

"Sure thing, love." I say to her, receiving a sleepy smile in return.

Eliot is still silent on the other side of the line. I let to go a second longer, then start to speak.

"Look, I have to go. I see you when I see you."

I hear him try to say something, but ignore it and hang up. I know is rude to hang up on someone like that, but he already heard Odette, and it was the only way to not have to answer his questions.

************

As I pull into the driveway, I see Eliot leaning against the side of his truck, arms crossed and staring a hole into the ground.

I park next to him and shut the car off. I let out a sigh as he looks at me through the window. I toss my keys in my bag, swing it to my shoulder, open my door to climb out, then shut it quietly so I don't wake Odette.

I walk around to the front of the car and stand a few feet in front of Eliot. We stand in silence, just starring at each other.

"Hi, Eliot."

"That all you got to say. You ran out of the pub, then when I called to check in you brush it off, and then to top it off I hear a kid your car call you mom."

His tone is calm and even, but I know him well enough to know he's boiling under the surface.

" It's complicated, Eliot."

" Is it? Is that what you have been keeping a secret all this time? Why?"

"Because she is my whole world, and if something happened to her because of a job I would never forgive myself."

"Is she the reason you always said no?" His voice quiet and heartbreaking.

I take a step closer to him and cup his face in my hands.

"Eliot. You have no idea how many times I have wanted to say yes to you. How many times I have dreamt about what would happen if I did. But if I take that leap and something happens, it won't be just me who would be heartbroken."

"You think I'd hurt you?"

"Not on purpose. But with the jobs we pull, and the danger we put ourselves in, there are somethings we can't control. And if something happened to you during a job, and you didn't get back up."

I stop short, the lump that had been growing in my throat making it hard to speak. His hands come up to hold my head.

"I get it. I do. But you can't live with that fear forever."

"I know, I just-"

I cut off at the sound of a car door opening, and a sleepy voice calling my name.

I pull my head from Eliot's hands and turn to look at Odette, who looking between us confused and tired at the same time.

"Hey, baby." I hold my arm out to her as I take a step back from Eliot. "Come here, I want you to meet someone."

She walks over to us, never taking her eyes of Eliot. She hugs my waist, and I wrap and arm around her shoulders.

"Odette, this is El-"

" He's Eliot. I recognize him from your drawings." She says with a cheerful tone.

I feel my face heat up as I close my eyes, a low chuckle come from Eliot, causing me to open my eyes.

He's trying to fight a smile, the corners of his eyes crinkle as he looks between Odette and I.

"Not a word."

He raises his hand in surrender, then squats down to be eye level with Odette, offering his hand to her.

"You're right, I'm Eliot. And who might you be?"

" I'm Odette." She says shaking his hand.

"It's good to meet you."

I watch the interaction with a smile on my face. It's going better then I ever could have hoped. My feelings for Eliot growing more intense as he talks to Odette.

Odette's voice pulls me from my thoughts.

"Momma?"

"Yes, baby?"

"Can Eliot stay for supper?"

She has a pleading look in her eyes. I look to Eliot who is already looking at me with a soft smile.

"Sure. You asked for pizza earlier, you still want that?"

"Yes!"

"Alright," I laugh at her excitement, " go get your backpack and we'll go inside."

She lets out a squeak, then runs to the car. I look to Eliot as he stands up.

"Are you sure you want to stay?" I ask him.

"Yeah. I'm sure. I got win her over if I want to date you don't I? You come as a package."

We share a smile, then when Odette comes back with her backpack, we head inside.

Once inside I take Odette to her room to change and to give her a once over my self. She has bruises and scratches all down her side and on her arm and leg. The scrapes all ready treated my the school nurse.

"Oh baby. I'm sorry you have so many bruises. Do they hurt?"

"A little. But not bad, just when I poke them like this."

I watch as she pokes a dark bruise, then flinches. I pull her hands away, and hold them.

"Well don't poke them if they hurt. Why don't you pick out some comfys and get changed. Then we can go make Eliot watch a Disney movie. I don't think he's ever seen one."

She lets out a shocked gasp then runs to her dresser.

I leave her room and walk back to where I left Eliot in the living room. I find him looking at the wall full of photos from the day Odette was born, to one I took at the beginning of the school year.

I watch at he stops at a picture of me holding Odette when she was maybe eight months old, with matching grins on our faces.

"That one is my favorite." I say to him.

He spins around like he got caught looking at something he shouldn't.

"She looks like you."

I nod, walking forward to stand next to him.

"She also looks like my dad." I point to to picture of him and I.

Eliot nods, then takes a breath to say something, but let's it out without a word.

"What? What were you gonna ask?"

"Where's her dad? I don't want to step in anything."

I shake my head, slip my hand into his and give it a squeeze.

"You aren't stepping in anything. He was a one night stand. I don't think he ever even told me his name."

"So you did it all on your own?"

"Pretty much. My family helped as much as they could, and I took as much legit work as I could find, but then when Nate approached and asked for a favor, I said yes. Plus the paycheck was nothing to laugh at."

His face scrunches.

"You knew Nate before you joined the team?"

"Yeah. He and my dad worked together at IYS. My dad left because he couldn't stand Blackwell. But he kept in touch with Nate over the years."

He let's out a huff of a laugh, and shakes his head.

"I ordered a pizza while you were in there."

"You didn't have to do that."

"I wanted to. Made sure it had olives." He gives me a knowing smile.

"Well then you have won Odette's heart already."

"What about yours?"

"You won that a long time ago." I lean up and press kiss to his cheek.

I pull away when I hear little feet pound down the hallway, into the living room, then she bounces onto the couch.

Soon enough the pizza arrives, and we enjoy dinner in the living room. Eliot and Odette getting along like they've known each other for years, rather then an hour and half at most.

After dinner, and clean up, Eliot tries to leave, but Odette uses her professional puppy eyes get him to give in to her pleas for him to stay.

He finally caves and sits rigid of the couch while Odette diggs through our movie collection, and settling on Lilo and Stitch.

We manage to Eliot to relax, jacket and boots by the door, and sitting on the couch next to me, Odette squeezed between us, and a blanket over the three of us.

I notice Odette stops wiggling half way through the movie. I turn to check on her, and find he asleep, her face pressed into Eliot arm. He looks more relaxed then I have ever seen him in the entire time I've known him.

He turns to look at me and we share a smile.

When the movie is done, I turn it off, then get up and go to scoop Odette to bring her to bed, but Eliot raises a hand to stop me.

"I got her."

He moves slowly, so he doesn't wake her. Cradling her head, then lifting her into his arms resting her head on his shoulder.

I lead him to her room and open the blankets for him to lay her down. He lay's her among the blankets like she's made of glass. I pull the blankets up and tuck her in snugly, press a kiss to her head, then we both creep out of the room, latching the door behind us.

We walk back to the living room, sitting close enough the our legs are touching. He leans his head on the back of the couch, exposing his neck. It's a position I had never seen him in before, probably because it left his neck vulnerable, but it also made me want to kiss his neck. He looks peaceful. Head back, eyes closed, body completely relaxed.

" I can feel you starring."

I breathe out a laugh, then shift to sit on my knees, lean over him, cupping his face in my hand, turning his head gently towards me, the scruff on his cheek is rough against my palm. I lean down and kiss him. I feel him take a deep breath, then his hand comes up to hold the wrist of the hand on his cheek as he kisses me back.

It doesn't last long, but it's enough to take my breath away. When I pull away, he's already looking at me, his blue eyes fulls of confusion and hope.

"I've been wanting to do that for a long time." I whisper, rubbing my thumb along his cheek.

" So have I, darlin'. Can I kiss you again?"

I nod, leaning into him again. He wraps and arm around my waist, lifting and dragging me into his lap, wrapping both arms tight around me.

"Can I take you in a date?" He asks, pulling away just enough to mumble against my lips.

I humm in response, then lean in for another kiss.

Time seems to disappear as we sit there, making out like teenagers. We eventually separate, trying to catch our breaths. It's quiet, until he asks something I hoped he'd forgotten about.

" Did you really draw me enough that she could recognize me?"

I let out a groan and drop my head to his shoulder, his laugh ringing through the room.

××××××××××××××××

Eliot Spencer Taglist:

@katbratsupernaturalwhore @fictional-hooman

#leverage #eliot spencer #eliot spencer x reader #christian kane #eliot spencer x oc #leverage fanfic #leverage fanfiction

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swordandstars · 2 months

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Chapter 1: The Preztel Cart Job

Summary: Five times street food played a role in a job, and one time the street food WAS the job. Featuring pretzels, shawarma, bao, Scotch Eggs, breakfast burritos, paleta, pizza, and Eliot Spencer frequently questioning his life choices.

#leverage #eliot spencer #fanfiction #my writing #parker

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security-chief-odo · 6 months

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Masterlist

*NSFW

^ In progress

Requests open

Ted Lasso

Ted Lasso x Reader

As you wish*

Roy Kent x Reader

To Love and be Loved in Return ^

Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3 • Part 4

Supernatural

Dean Winchester x Castiel

What was and what should be

Leverage

Eliot x Reader

The Gala Job*

Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3*

The Fake Dating Job^

Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3 • Part 4

#fanfic #fanfiction #masterlist #reader insert #eliot spencer x reader #eliot spencer/reader #ted lasso fanfic #ted lasso x reader #roy kent x reader #dean x castiel #destiel

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eepersjeepers · 30 days

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Crying my eyes out? Over Leverage fan fiction? Over an Eliot!hurt fic? No. No I’d never do that. That would be silly.

Unrelated, but

Would anyone happen to have any tissues?

Anyone?

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grumpygreenwitch · 2 months

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The Witches and Wizards Job 7-8

Around this point I actually read back and asked myself, "Is this moving too fast?" Then I remember the speed at which a Leverage episode actually moves and the kind of beating Harry usually picks up each book, and went, "Nah."

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SEVEN

The divide between magic and technology is a known quantity. Every wizard knows to stay away from most mechanical things; the more complex they are, the more likely they were to break. The more powerful the wizard, the quicker it was gonna happen. Even knowing these things, I hadn't realized how deep that boundary ran until I tried to find out anything about my prospective employers.

If it had been a magical entity, a spell, an artifact, between Bob and I we could have probably found out at least the basics, but Bob couldn't find out anything about the Leverage people. I wasn't crazy enough to try and scry something in Boston, never mind the range.

All I could tell was that Leverage was, apparently, a purely mundane affair. Based in Boston as they were I didn't doubt they'd run themselves into something other that the average human, but as the afternoon dragged on I began to realize I was going to have more luck finding out what, rather than getting any sort of information on whatever Deveraux and Ford actually had going on.

A smart man would have said no on principle. What little I could find out told me that if things had gotten so bad that an entirely non-magical outfit like Leverage had come looking for a wizard, then they were bad enough that walking away unscathed to enjoy that absurdly large paycheck was not guaranteed. Not even 50/50 odds.

But 50/50 was still better than no odds at all.

And I hadn't lied when I told Deveraux that I'm a curious man.

She'd written a number on the back of the card. Not a hotel, so they could have been anywhere. I eyed it while I called Butters and asked him to look after Mister while I was away. Then I called it.

"Harry." Deveraux actually sounded happy to hear me; it was refreshing.

"Train. The older the better," I told her. "That applies to any tech you want near me, too. Mouse comes with me."

"Yes, of course."

"The daily fee is… good." My voice cracked a bit despite my best attempt at sounding like it was not a holy-heck amount of money. I cleared it. "It's good. But I can't go longer than a week. One week and I'm coming back home, even if your problem's not solved."

"That's fine."

"And I need a basement."

"A b… A basement?"

"It's contained in case something bad happens."

"Ah." The fact she didn't ask questions told me containment was a common concern in both her line of work and mine. "Anything else?"

"I can't think of anything off the top of my head. I'm sure something will come up." Something did almost immediately. "A full briefing as soon as I'm there. No secrets, no lies. If I find out you've lied to me, I'll leave."

"We'll tell you as much as we know," she assured me, and I found myself believing her. "Welcome to the team, Harry."

It felt weird to be welcomed, to be made to feel as if I were part of a team that actually wanted me there. "When do you think you'll have everything ready?"

There was laughter in her tone. "When do you think you'll be packed?"

Three hours later I was at Union Station, being escorted off the oldest VW minibus in existence and onto a rail car that apparently I had all to myself, like something out of an Agatha Christie book. I'd packed Bob, my tools, a quick-spell kit, any books I thought might help, and a change of clothes. Mouse looked mournfully at me as the train began to move, and I couldn't blame him; it felt as if I were leaving a piece of myself behind.

I knew Chicago. It was home. I knew the people, the streets. I knew its seasons, its weather. I knew the hangouts of most of the dangerous creatures in it, both human and inhuman. I knew every layer of it, every mood, every current.

I knew very little about Boston except that it was a supernatural melting pot. Most creatures that crossed from the Old World or from Other Places and didn't come through the Nevernever landed in Boston; many stayed there, made lives there. There were inhuman families that were generations old, living side by side with the descendants of human immigrants. The divide between mortal and supernatural was as thin as my willpower in Boston.

Look, Deveraux had handed me a really big number.

The train never stopped. That struck me as weird, but then I'd never traveled first class on a train before, so I had no bar for normal. I tried to sleep, but the novelty of everything wore off a couple of hours into the trip, and panic began to settle in. What the hell was I doing? I was Chicago's wizard, not Boston's!

Well, it was done. The AC broke about halfway through the trip, but with the windows open I never even noticed. I got my books out and read, trying to give myself a crash course on the magical scene in Boston, so to speak. Mouse took over one of the windows and seemed to have forgiven me, head thrust out into the wind of our passage, jowls flapping and the plume of his tail wagging sedately. He scared the crap out of the one person I did see, a young man who brought me breakfast and lunch, somehow still warm.

The sun had just set when the train pulled into the Back Bay. I could feel the air buzzing all around me with an imperceptible, invisible charge, the ambient energy of hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of supernatural creatures crackling against my senses. I felt both supercharged and itchy, and Mouse shook himself furiously when we finally made it off the rail car.

There was a man waiting for me on the concourse. He was tremendously solid, the sort of build I used to wish for when I was young, heavy muscle under a worn leather jacket, faded blue jeans and comfortable curb-stomper boots. He had long, very fine brown hair and oddly guileless blue eyes. He had stubble matching mine and he straightened up from his lazy slouch with the ease of someone perfectly at peace with the world around him.

I couldn't see the bulge of a gun anywhere, but I was pretty sure this was Leverage's heavy hitter.

Then he grinned at me, and his whole face lit up, and I thought maybe I was wrong. "Dresden?"

"That's me," I admitted.

He offered his hand without hesitation. "Eliot Spencer. Eliot's fine. Sorry to drag you so far from home."

This man was a walking contradiction. His hands told me I was right. His attitude told me I was wrong. He was the nicest, friendliest man with violence as his main occupation that I'd ever met up to that point in my life. He meant every word of his apology. He was sizing me up for threats.

Belatedly, I realized that Boston was literally supercharging me. My senses, both magical and normal, were trying to run away with me. I had nothing else at the moment; I clung to the hand Eliot Spencer offered, to the strength in it. "Oh, you didn't, not really. Too curious for my own good. Give me a second, would you?"

"You ok, man?"

"Just a little… drunk on the night air," I said, knowing how that had to sound to him.

I was not expecting the change that went over him. It was seamless, instantaneous. One moment Eliot Spencer was welcoming me to his home like a ray of sunshine; the next he was all deadly intent, a sort of quiet, intangible menace radiating from him like the darkest light. "A problem?" he asked mildly.

It told me two things; one, that I was right after all and two, that whatever had brought me to Boston was big enough to have this calm, steady man on a hair-trigger. "No, it's…. Boston's busy. Boston's real busy when it comes to magic. It hangs in the air, makes it thick, and it's giving me a head rush."

"Chicago's not like that?"

"No. The Lake grounds it. Water's good for that."

"I could take you by the Charles if it would help - hey!" And just like that the ray of sunshine was back when Mouse came trotting back from wherever he'd gone to take care of his business. Eliot dropped down to a crouch. "Who's this, Mouse, I think?"

"Yeah. Just watch out, he's not always -" Mouse, tail a blur, charged the Leverage man with a delighted huff and proceeded to lick anything Eliot didn't vigilantly protect, making him chuckle. Well. That was new. And good news for me. "Friendly. He was also a lot smaller when he was a puppy."

Eliot straightened up, rubbing Mouse's head with rough affection. My dog looked blissful, tongue lolling to one side. "Bait-and-switched you, huh."

"It might've been, if he'd given me any choice in the matter."

"He's big for a Tibetan Mastiff," Eliot pointed out. "Wrong color, too."

"He's not. He's a Tibetan Temple Mastiff."

Again that brief pause. Eliot looked down at Mouse. Mouse looked up at him.

The Leverage man grinned again and rubbed Mouse's ears. "Eh, he looks dog enough for me. Anyway. If you're feeling better, let's get you settled. I rented a van."

"Cars get temperamental with me around."

"Dresden, if you can break down a u-Haul, I'll believe you're a wizard no further questions. Where's your luggage?"

EIGHT

Apparently the Leverage people weren't unfamiliar with what happened when you put magic too close to tech. I was put up in their 'temporary' quarters, a small house a lick away from their actual place of business, a loft over a bar by the incredibly Irish name of John McRory's Place.

The house was nice. It had a fenced yard that Mouse promptly claimed as his own and a finished basement that I promptly claimed as my own. The bedroom looked suspiciously like someone had ordered it directly from a catalog, sheets and all. The only other rooms that were accessible were one bathroom and the living room, which had been set up as a meeting area of sorts. The kitchen was empty. The other rooms were full of crates.

There was dinner from the pub waiting for me that night, and a phone in a manila envelope. I offered to share my beer with Eliot; the phone died with a sad little squawk before we finished it.

"That's gonna make things hard," he admitted wryly, examining the dead screen of the phone. "I take it a bluetooth's out of the question?"

"The more parts to it, the quicker it goes."

I saw him get very thoughtful. "What about size? The bigger it is?"

"How big are we talking about?" I asked mildly, sensing a chance to finally get some information as to what had brought me to Boston.

"TV screen," Eliot answered without hesitation, then spread his arms. "Yay big."

"What were you doing at the time?"

"Trying to get a composite from a bunch of blurry pictures."

"What happened?"

"It cracked." He grinned wryly. "Top to bottom. We took that thing out to the recycling in two halves." His jovial mood faded. "I don't like the look on your face right now, Dresden."

"You shouldn't." I was trying to think of creatures that could shatter a screen like that, with just their image, without actually being there. It was a short list; it was also a very scary list. "It wasn't anything else, it had to be the picture?"

"The man who works our tech is the best, hands-down. His equipment doesn't blow up like that without a good reason," Eliot said calmly, then put his hands up. "Wait, no, I'm supposed to let you rest tonight. You're gonna hear all this tomorrow morning anyway."

"I did nothing but sleep on the train ride," I told him. I won't lie, it felt nice to know the Leverage outfit, whatever their business might be, gave enough of a damn to give me the night to myself. Most people who hire me for that kind of money expected 24-7 service, never mind what kind of shape I might be in at the end of the day. "Tell me what you can."

He gave me one of the few measuring looks I've ever gotten that didn't have my harm at heart before he made a decision and tipped his head toward the pub. "Come on."

"Mouse, watch the place." Mouse flopped in front of the door and settled down with a yawn.

The front of the pub was roaring, but we came in from the back. Eliot knocked softly on a door, poked his head in and murmured something to someone in there. I caught a faint whiff of something sweet, almost like licorice - probably a storage room, and a bottle of liquor had broken and been cleaned up. Eliot got his answer; he closed the door and we moved on. He peeked out into the main floor and called out something I couldn't hear over the noise of the crowd before heading to a pair of elevator doors.

I stopped walking. "Uh…"

He paused, turned, and led me to the stairs, grinning. "You know, I don't even think about most of this stuff. Tech's embedded so deep into our lives."

"I just wish for a hot water heater that didn't break in under a week," I told him.

"Yikes."

"Yup."

"Just keep your distance from Hardison's tech," Eliot warned me as he led me into a vast, elegant little loft. The bare brick walls had paintings on them that looked… modern. Expensive. I didn't know enough about art back then to appreciate what they were. A spiral staircase led up to what was probably a bedroom, and behind it was a typical modern kitchen. Most of the open space was taken up by a very modern, very sleek meeting room sort of setup, a wall full of screens and a small curve of desks before it. "He's still sore about those screens."

"Screens? More than one?"

"Yeah, a second one a day after -"

A young woman came flying into the loft. "Where is he? Where's the wizard?"

"Parker, don't -"

She whirled and faced me, and immediately made a face. "Aren't you supposed to have a white bushy beard?"

"Not for another couple hundred years."

I hadn't expected my quip to bring her up short, but it did. She seemed to really think about it, and it gave me a chance to examine her. She was young, wiry, blonde, pretty. She had the same kind of intensity Karrin had, but her focus seemed to change from minute to minute.

"Oh. I didn't think about that. There have to be young wizards to get old wizards."

"Parker." Eliot sighed.

"No robes?"

"Not if I can help it."

"Fancy spell books?"

"I do have one of those."

"Can I see it?"

"Parker, let the man catch his breath." Sophie Deveraux looked cozy and elegant and beautiful in a flowing blue blouse and a shimmering gray skirt. She beamed at me and I felt warm and fuzzy. Look, I'm man enough to admit it, I'm a sucker for a pretty lady, particularly one that doesn't want me dead. "Harry."

"Miss Deveraux."

"Just Sophie, Harry, please. Are you sure you wouldn't rather wait?"

"I'm good. I got all my rest in the train ride. Boston's full of energy, and it's making me buzzed, I rather put some of it to work, get it out of my system -"

"Why do you carry a stick?"

I whipped around. Parker had my wand in her hands.

Hell's Bells, I'd never even felt the theft. My wand, and I would have never known she'd gone for it if she hadn't said something.

Something in my face clued Sophie and Eliot that things had gone very badly, very quickly. "Parker!" Sophie cried out.

With all the care of someone handling live explosives, Eliot closed a hand over the 'stick'. "We are trying," he told her, sticking to his calm demeanor like tar, "to make a good impression, Parker."

"Oh, fine. Should I give everything else back?"

I took the quickest stock of my person I'd ever taken in my life. Immediately I found another thing missing that I would have never thought could be taken from me without my notice. How in the hell -!

"Yes!" Sophie told her firmly.

"Well, he didn't have anything interesting anyways," Parker put out her hand with my wallet on it.

And my shield bracelet.

Eliot offered me my wand back, looking sheepish. "Sorry, man."

"I just - how?" Seriously. Never mind the theft, everything was coming back to me, nothing was broken, no one was hurt, I just wanted to know how she'd done it.

"Parker is the best in the world," Sophie said, somehow managing to convey warm pride and icy disapproval all in one. Parker squirmed uncertainly. "She should also bear in mind that as of now you're part of our team, and we don't pickpocket teammates."

Parker held strong under the tone of disapproval longer than I would have. "Sorry," she muttered with ill grace.

"No harm no foul if you teach me how to do it."

She grinned, just a little. "Deal."

"Also, where should I stand so I'm as far away from anything tech-y as possible?"

"Right there." Nathan Ford had arrived, and the mask was off. He still looked vaguely friendly, a little rumpled, somewhat distracted. But there was nothing hiding the ruthless ice in his eyes anymore, or the deep mistrust in the gaze he leveled at me. I was in his world, in his domain, I was his employee. The carrot had done her job, the stick didn't have to mind his manners anymore. "Right there's fine, mister Dresden."

Ford passed everyone by and moved to the kitchen to find himself, apparently, some coffee. "Where's Hardison?"

"He said he wanted to take a few more pictures of the cylinder we found at the museum," Eliot told him. "He's in the storage room."

"What cylinder?" Something was bugging me. It wasn't big, at least not big enough to pin it down, but it was there, nagging at the back of my mind like a toothache after too much sugar.

"There was an issue at the Isabella Gardner Museum," Sophie told me. "Someone tampered with the fire suppression system. They attached some kind of homemade cylinder to the system and it started pumping something out in the air, some sort of perfume." She shrugged lightly. "We don't know why, there was no need for it."

"Perfume?"

"Yes. Fernflower."

I was running the next moment, going on a guess and a prayer. The guess was that the closed door was the storage room. The prayer was that I wouldn't be too late.

The moment I hit the bottom floor a faint reek of sweet, rotten candy and burning flowers made me reel back, coughing, my lungs burning. I could definitely smell the fernflower; worse, I could also smell night's breath. This was some deep, deep magic. Deep and old. Someone had cooked up a Burning Witchwell, and Leverage had blundered right into it. Only luck had kept any of them from being magically inclined, but that luck had run out with the fernflower.

Eliot was right behind me, and he threw a hand over his face. He snatched a bunch of cloth napkins from a nearby shelf and shoved them at me. "What is that?!"

I ran on and shoved the door open to the storage room. There was a man kneeling on the floor before a table, wheezing. The fernflower fumes burned my eyes and I actually heard my skin hiss on contact with the night's breath, but I was running on Boston air. I was so charged up I barely registered any pain.

"Venti, ventum!" I shouted. Wind poured into the storage room. Everything went flying off the shelves. I felt my magic careen out of control, as supercharged as I was, and fought to bring it back under control. I didn't want to wreck the room, I just wanted to get the man to safety, away from the fumes.

"Hardison!" Eliot had already dashed past me, catching the man. He was lanky, lean, deceptively muscled, possibly an inch or so taller than me. His skin was very dark and it had gone blotchy where the night's breath had had time to settle down and sink in. He slurred something unintelligible and squinted intently at me; I couldn't even begin to imagine what he was seeing.

"Dresden?!" Eliot asked, spitting his own hair out of his mouth.

"Go, get him out!"

He didn't question me. I could have danced a happy jig at that show of trust. I backed out of the room; I was one step past the doorway when helpful hands slammed the door shut. "Does the ventilation system here connect to the pub?"

"No, it goes straight out," Ford replied.

"Then just put some…" The borrowed energy from the Boston ambiance ran out. I felt pain creep up over any part of me not covered by fabric. "Put some…"

"Sophie, put some towels at the bottom," Ford's voice was full of calm, focused competency. "Parker, go tell the front of house no one is to come into this room until one of us says otherwise. Eliot." There was a pause. "Dresden, is a hospital going to help either of you?"

"He's fine." Oh, that was Ford's shoulder under my arm, holding me up. When had that happened? "Unless he's got magic, he's just drunk. Sort of."

"And you?"

"I'm a little blistered." I was a little more than blistered, but I had the advantage of knowing the damage wasn't real. "No hospital. A bath."

"Alright. Let's get you and Hardison up to the loft, then."

I wasn't in any shape to argue. I got shoved under a spray of miraculously hot water. Someone peeled my clothes off. At some point I realized I trusted only two people in the loft, and one of them was helping undress me. "Wash your hands," I told Eliot. "Wash the clothes."

"Can we burn them?"

"Don't burn my clothes, I didn't bring any more." I stared at him suspiciously; well, there was only one person I trusted anymore. "Tell Parker to watch my things."

Eliot offered a sound of deeply amused disbelief. Somewhere nearby a man's voice was tunelessly singing what sounded like a church song. "Drunk?"

"Intox… Intec… Sort of. Fernflower gives you magic. See things. Talk to animals. Sorta thing. But it's eph… emph…. It fades quick. You gotta lace it with… other stuff. It It wasn't the weapon, the night's breath was."

"Night's breath?"

"Old plant. Burns up magic. Night's breath was fire. Fernflower was gasoline. 's called a… a Burning Witchwell."

"You aren't breathing right, man."

"Fake. I'll be fine when my…. when my magic comes back. Easy, in this place."

"Fake damage." At that Eliot did look disbelieving. "Hurt's hurt."

"Particularly if you believe in it," I shot back, then put my head up to the spray of hot water. "Oh, that feels good."

I heard Eliot snort in amusement. "Well, enjoy it while you can. Haven't blown up this heater."

"Give me a chance, I just got here."

#leverage #nathan ford #alec hardison #sophie devereaux #eliot spencer #parker #the dresden files #harry dresden #crossover #my writing #fanfiction #urban fantasy #mild violence

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nival-kenival-art · 8 days

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Summary:

Eliot is Lindsey McDonald's identical twin. No one knows quite where he came from before he was found at the hospital his parents adopted him from, especially not him. So I'm sure nothing bad would happen if Eliot Spencer, the /identical/ twin of Lindsey McDonald, shows up in L.A. near the beginning of the Homecoming Job, right? After all, Lindsey is dead.

Rating: General Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: Gen

Fandoms: Leverage (US TV 2008), Angel: the Series

Characters: Eliot Spencer (Leverage), Angel (BtVS), Spike (BtVS), Charles Gunn, Lindsey McDonald (AtS)

Additional Tags: lindsey mcdonald and eliot spencer are twins, Lindsey is only mentioned tbh but he's important to the plot, Mistaken Identity, Set at the beginning of S1:E2 The Homecoming Job of Leverage, Twins, Fits with Leverage Redemption Season 2 Canon, Unbeta'd, Set post Angel: The Series but ignoring Angel:After the Fall, Implied/Referenced Character Death, it's canonical though (Lindsey)

Language: English Series: Part 1 of Eliot Spencer was once Eliot McDonald Stats: Published: 2024-04-17 Words: 1,165 Chapters: 1/1

#leverage #leverage fanfic #angel the series #angel fanfiction #angel the series fanfic #eliot spencer

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myveryownfanfiction · 9 months

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18+ MINORS AND THOSE WITHOUT AGE IN BIO DNI

warnings: swearing, talk of injuries

tags: @eclecticwildflowers, @illiana-mystery

I heard grumbling coming from the kitchen as I finished cleaning up the office. Venturing through the hallway, I leaned against the doorframe and watched Eliot try to wrestle his hair into a ponytail.

“everything alright?” I asked as I walked in. Eliot spun around towards me and growled in frustration. “I know. It’s after a job and you don’t like to be bothered while you’re decompressing but Eliot…” I held my hands up as I walked over to him.

“No matter how many times I put my hair up, it keeps falling out and getting in my face.” Eliot grumbled. I nodded and slipped my arms around his waist. He begrudgingly wrapped his arms around me. “Everything ok with you?” I shook my head.

“bad day.” I shrugged. “Just finished cleaning the office.” Eliot nodded and kissed my forehead. “I think I already what you’re going to say but…” I played with the back of Eliot’s shirt. “Can I braid your hair?” Eliot stared at me for a second before turning off the stove. Then he grabbed my hand and pulled me into the living room. Gently pushing on my shoulders, Eliot walked over to the bathroom. He came back with a hair tie and the hair brush.

“here.” He said, pushing them into my hands before sitting down on the floor in front of me. Reaching for the tv remote, Eliot put on the first sports game that he came across. Then he settled back between my legs against the couch. “Go ahead and start.” I hesitantly ran my fingers through his hair.

“you sure?” I asked as I gently scratched his scalp. Eliot hummed happily.

“yeah. I think we both need it.” Eliot looked over his shoulder at me. “Just don’t make it tight and make sure it wont come apart and get in my face.” I leaned down and kissed his cheek.

“thank you el.” I whispered. Eliot squeezed my knee before turning back towards the tv. Running my fingers through his hair, I sectioned it off into three parts. Grabbing the hair brush, I brushed it. Once I started braiding it, Eliot leaned further into the couch.

“How the hell is this as relaxing as it is?” He grumbled as he crossed his arms. I shrugged.

“beats me.” I carefully brushed the hair back from his face and made sure that it was tucked into the braid. “You going to fall asleep on me?” Eliot chuckled.

“maybe.” He teased. “You keep running your fingers through my hair and I just might.” I chuckled and gently tugged on his hair.

“behave yourself there mister.” I joked. Eliot groaned and leaned back further. Pulling the hair tie from around my wrist, I secured it to the bottom of the braid. “All done.” I patted his shoulders and his head lolled over onto my knee. He fake snored as I started laughing. Pushing his shoulder, Eliot couldn’t keep the smile off his face as he peeked at me laughing.

“got you in a good mood now though.” He laughed as he sat up. Kneeling in front of me, he leaned forward to kiss me. “Thank you.” Eliot whispered as he cupped my cheeks. “Wanna watch me cook?” I nodded.

“sure. If you want me to.” Eliot nodded. “You usually don’t.”

“what can I say?” He shrugged. “I think you need it as much as I do.” Kissing me again, he held his hand out to me and stood up.

#Eliot spencer #eliot spencer x reader #Eliot Spencer fanfic #Eliot Spencer fanfiction #Eliot Spencer imagine #christian kane #christian kane x reader #christian kane imagine #christian kane fanfic #christian kane fanfiction #leverage #leverage fanfic #leverage fanfiction #Leverage imagine

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running-in-the-dark · 5 months

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this just occurred to me and now I can't stop thinking about it

I need a crossover of Leverage and The Bear.

basically what I want is just Carmy and Eliot in a kitchen together. cooking or whatever, I don't care, cutting things with knives, just standing there, anything.

#leverage #eliot spencer #the bear #carmen berzatto #making out would be optional but encouraged #but no really I just want to see them cooking together oh my god #I don't read fanfiction literally ever but I would read that. now I want to go look if someone has written that. hm.#I'm afraid this is gonna be the only thing I'll be thinking about for the foreseeable future #they could fight too. yep that would be nice. there might be blood. on faces. totally optional. but not really.#I need this now. 😔

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geekynightowl1997 · 4 months

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Eliot Spencer, Parker, and Hardison- all skittish children/teenagers that Nate finds on the street.

Nate finding them in an alley in Boston. Eliot protecting Parker and Hardison- the meanest glare on his face. Snarling at Nate and using his body to shield them from this strange man. All three of the children look haggard and starving- Parker and Hardison holding onto each other with one hand- while the other is gripping Eliot's dirty torn shirt. Eliot whose blue eyes are hard as a stone- challenging Nate to come closer.

Nate, who has no qualms about three dirty, grimy, and... is that blood? Children in an alleyway. With placated hands in the air- looking directly at Eliot. Honesty on his face- "Come home with me."

They don't. Nate leaves.

The next day- Nate comes back. Asks the same thing. Same response. He leaves after leaving a bag of food behind.

Their wild animals and to get them to trust him- he needs to be gentle. So he continues to do this every time he passes the alley.

Something changes, when one day the girl- Parker- comes to the opening. She's gnawing on her bottom lip fear in her eyes.

"Please!" She begs, "Their hurt!"

Then she it's like a waterfall of words. Parker is explaining how Hardison tried to get food- but was caught and Eli fought the shopkeeper off- but had gotten shot and it's infected and Hardison tried to go for the gun and- and- and...

Nate follows Parker to the end of the alleyway and Eliot looks sick. Hardison isn't looking any better. Parker is crying. She's begging Nate to help.

He does. He convinces the EMT's that they are his adopted kids that ran away for three days. Somehow they don't question him. They take Hardison and Eliot in. Nate tells the doctors to keep them in the same room. He knows how protective Eliot is.

Somehow- they survive.

...Okay. That's all I got. 🙃

#leverage #leverage fanfiction story #nate ford #eliot spencer #alec hardison #parker #runaway! au #teenage/kid au!#street kids au!#is this something y'all would read?#protective eliot #hurt hardison and hurt eliot

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kookicat · 9 months

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Hair Braids and Bloody Bandages

They're worried, and it's making him uneasy under their gaze. Nate is the best at hiding it; head buried deep in Rucker's file, legs crossed, with one foot resting casually on his other knee. It'd fool the best, if that foot didn't keep twitching in a way that screams nervous energy. Eliot counts five twitches, feels his heart rate ramp up with each one and has to look away before number six, because there's already a coating of cool sweat starting to form on the curve of his spine. He downs the last of his beer, thinks about grabbing another and decides against it. He's already on his third, and the next day is going to suck enough without a hangover too.

Parker is busy picking the locks on a pair of battered wooden chests; Eliot isn't sure how or if they're relevant to the case, and he's not about to ask, because while she's busy with them, she's leaving him alone. She probably understands the best, because out of all of them, she's the only other one who regularly puts herself in physical danger to get the job done. The only one who relies on her body just as much as her mind. Her hands are steady, but there's a nasty little crease between her eyebrows that he doesn't like one bit. One chest clicks open, and she glances at him.

Eliot nods, tips his empty bottle at her, and forces a reassuring smile that he doesn't really feel. But even then, it's not like this. Not going in knowing she'll be bruised and bloody when she gets out, he thinks. Not knowing there's a damn fine line she has to walk, between selling the con and getting beaten to shit.

Sophie passes, neatly taking the empty beer bottle out of his hands and replacing it with a bottle of water that he doesn't really want, heading back to the couch she's claimed. She gets the same smile as Parker, the one that's carefully cultivated to hide the buzz of adrenaline dancing through him.

Sophie's the most anxious; her dislike of the sport clear and well stated, along with her opinion on Rucker. He opens the water, and she nods, once, before returning to the trashy romance novel she's pretending to read, though she hasn't turned a page in minutes. He's pretty sure she picked the book up at the airport on one of their jobs, and this is the first time she's even cracked the cover. The pages dance under her hands, and he realises that she's shaking. It makes him swallow hard, a sudden flare of nerves stealing his breath for a second before he gets his body back firmly under control.

Hardison is packing the ring bag with the same meticulous care he does everything, and something about the sight sends a quiver of nervous resignation through Eliot's gut. It’s the same feeling he used to get before deploying somewhere without a name, just a problem his squad needed to eliminate, on some foreign soil that's already soaked and stinking with blood.

Damn it, he thinks, and swipes his hands on his jeans. Not the first time I've taken a beating. Hell, it's not even the first time I've taken a dive, he thinks, but the nervous energy is only building. He glances at the clock, and knows the gym will be empty, because it's getting late.

"I'm going to the gym," he says and eases to his feet, almost flinching when they turn to look at him as one.

They're all talking at once, words mingling, but he catches their meaning easily. It’s touching, makes something deep in his chest go dangerously soft and tender and that’s the last thing he can afford to be, because the battle that’s coming can’t be won with kindness or compassion, just the penance of blood and bone-deep bruises. They know it as well as him, will be paying, even if the cost isn’t coming directly from their flesh.

"No, I'm fine," he says and makes himself smile. "I'll be back in a bit, don't worry." He wants to growl the words, but he can't do it, not while they're all looking at him like he's going to his execution in the morning. Like this might be the last time they see him.

Their eyes bore into his back all the way out of the door. He closes it quietly behind himself and tries not to sigh too loudly in relief. Love can be a burden as well as a blessing, and right now he’s feeling the weight heavy on his shoulders. Thank you, he thinks, sending it out to a God he’s not sure he still believes in, not after all the bad shit he’s seen and done. Still, he’s paying for that, a debt he’ll never repay in full, not that it’ll stop him from trying. Blood and sweat and pain are fine currencies, and ones he’s well versed in paying. Time to pay some more, he thinks, and heads towards the dark, rainy parking lot, and the gym beyond.

---

He doesn't bother flipping the main lights on in the gym; the moon is full and low, throwing enough light to illuminate the space as he moves through the jumble of equipment towards the changing room. The gym smells like sweat and effort, cut with the tang of leather and rosin. It's a familiar, comforting scent, loosens the tension in his shoulders, and by the time he reaches the changing room, he's feeling much steadier, the armour he spent years building firmly back in place. Like it or not, him and violence have an unbreakable and undeniable link, and he's been spending and receiving that particular coin for more of his life than not.

Putting himself on the line isn't anything new; he's been doing that since he was nine years old and big enough to get between his Pop's fist and his Mother's face. And yet, it is different, because he knows they're all blaming themselves for not finding a different way and that's the bit he's not used to, not used to people caring for him, past the skills he brings to the job and how capable of applying them he is at the right time. It’s disconcerting to realise they care for him as a person, that his wellbeing matters. He shakes his head, dismisses the thoughts, because they're the opposite of helpful and to pull this off, to keep the balance right and not walk away too broken, he needs all the focus he can get.

He strips off his hoodie and hangs it neatly, bending to take off his shoes. He's only sparring, so he doesn't feel the need to tape his feet, and he wants to feel the mat under them, get his bearings on any soft or slippery spots. Hair tangles around his fingers as he scrapes it back and he pauses, letting it fall as he digs in his bag for the tiny elastics that he keeps there.

He can't remember, exactly, when the braids started, just knows it was post Moreau, back when he didn't like himself very much and when connecting with something clean from his family history felt just like another way of hiding how far he'd fallen. There's still a bit of the shake in his fingers when he parts the hair, smoothing it under his fingers before he starts to braid. It's a soothing, methodical process and he makes quick work of the first, securing it with an elastic from between his teeth before he moves to the other side and starts again. Once it’s done, he pulls the rest of his hair back from his face in a messy half ponytail, and stands, rolling his shoulders to loosen them as he heads towards the ring.

The floor shifts and settles under his weight as he makes a quick lap around the enclosed space, and he bounces a little, listening to the ring creak. It doesn’t seem like it’s going to collapse, so he shrugs and stoops to pick up his gloves, slipping them on and flexing his hands against the mild constriction. It’s been a while since he wore gloves and they feel strange against his skin until he starts moving, gets his blood pumping. He starts off slow, gives his muscles the chance to warm up, which is a luxury he doesn’t often get, not when he’s punching bad guys to keep his people safe.

The moves are familiar, soothing and he gives himself over to the routine of them, letting them build the walls he uses to protect the soft parts of himself high and wide and thick, knowing he's going consenting to the sacrifice. A better man, or a worse one, would see the nobility in that, but he's right in the sweet spot where the blood on his hands weighs heavily enough that there's no grace in this act. It's simple, and terribly complicated all at once, brings to mind a Spanish proverb he'd read once, in a book with pages so brittle they crumbled under his fingertips; take what you want, God says, as long as you pay for it. He's not sure exactly how much want played into what he'd taken, but need certainly had, and he's paying the cost still. Isn't sure if he'll ever clear his slate, isn't sure if he even wants to, because the things he'd done feel like they should never be repaid.

The door creaks, and he tips his head, wondering which one of them it'll be. He's a betting man, and his money is on Sophie, so when her perfume wafts through the gym, he can't help but crack a smile. He expects her to speak, but she doesn't, not right away, just finds a comfortable spot next to the ring and watches him. He's vain enough to want to show off a little, display the skills he'd spent a lifetime building in a way he usually doesn't get to, because he's too busy using them to keep everyone safe.

He starts slow, running through a simple routine of punches and feints and dodges, can feel her eyes on him as he moves around the ring, one bit of his mind tracking changes in the floor even as he trades punches with his imaginary opponent, finishing with a one-two combination that would put even the toughest fighter down. He lets his hands drop, rolling his shoulders to ease the mild lactic burn in his muscles, and walks over to the edge of the ring.

She offers him a water bottle. "Don't worry, I brought it from the hotel," she says dryly.

"Thanks," he says and swallows a few mouthfuls. It's cold and sweet, and goes down easy.

"Eliot-" Sophie starts, and he's been around her long enough to know that they're about to have a Conversation, so he leans against the ropes and waits for her opening gambit.

---

The fight is awful; brutal in a way she doesn't expect. There's blood on Eliot's face, and bruises already blooming on his shoulders and arms. He takes a punch he would have usually blocked, the sickening crack-crunch of knuckles hitting unprotected flesh making her stomach turn. Another punch smacks into his cheek, snapping his head back hard enough to splatter blood on the ropes and send him reeling backwards until he catches his balance, shaking his head like he’s trying to clear the stars from his eyes.

Parker, beside her, is pale, sleeves pulled down over her hands as they watch Eliot get pummelled. It doesn't hide how tightly her fists are clenched or the way she keeps swallowing, like there’s something foul lodged in her mouth that she can’t force down.

The fight flips in an instant, the man they're more used to seeing breaking free and taking Tank down, hard, in a flurry of moves that have some of the hardcore wrestling fans cheering in awe. Tank goes limp under Eliot’s hands and the dark haired man looks up, eyes distant and dazed until he blinks, shaking his head as Hardison and Nate gather him up like a load of dirty laundry.

None of them relax until Hardison gets his hands on Eliot, nodding once as he cups the back of Eliot's neck, because it's the only place without blooming bruises.

"You good?" the hacker asks, and Eliot nods once, wearily, swiping a gloved hand over his bleeding lip. There's a shake in his fingers he can't quite control, and he shivers, heated muscles quickly going cold and stiff in the chilly gym air.

Hardison hands over a tshirt and hoodie- zip through, because he thinks of everything, and Eliot pulls them on, carefully, because he's battered enough that he's already hurting. Knows that once the endorphins and adrenaline wears off, he’s in for a bad time, but the thought of swallowing any meds makes his already dicey stomach churn even more.

"You good?" Hardison asks again, shoulders tight with concern. His fingers play over the strap of his bag, eyes running over Eliot.

Eliot isn’t sure what he’s looking for, but the other man seems to find it, because his chin dips in a tiny nod, but he doesn’t move away.

"Go," Eliot says, voice hoarse, and offers a hand for their usual handshake. The contact hurts, because even with the gloves, Eliot’s hands feel bruised and battered.

It's enough. It has to be, because Hardison is needed elsewhere, if they're going to pull any sort of success out of this mess. He claps Eliot once, on his shoulder and steps away, making room for the doc.

Eliot submits to the exam quietly and that's enough to set alarm bells ringing in Sophie's head. She threads through the crowd, one of her biggest, softest scarves in her hand. He's still sitting, elbows on his knees, hands clasped around the back of his neck like he has a monster headache. There’s blood on his knees, and she can’t tell where it’s from, hopes it isn’t his, until he shifts, looking up and she spots the cut through his eyebrow that’s steadily dripping. Even with the hoodie draped over his legs, he looks chilled and all Sophie wants, suddenly, is to go back in time a few hours and find a way to stop this fight from happening.

Parker is digging through their bags by the side of the ring. It’s not her usual, methodical search, but a semi-frantic hunt as she drops things on the floor next to her. She looks up, eyes flicking to Eliot, and Sophie nods, but keeps going, knowing Parker will catch up.

"Here," Parker says, and presses a bottle of ibuprofen into Sophie's free hand as they cross the ring. "We left the prescription stuff in the hotel room," she adds softly.

"He looks like he needs it," Sophie says, quietly, and Parker nods.

The doctor steps away, touching Sophie's arm as he passes. She glances at Eliot, wordlessly handing over the scarf with a quick nod, then turns her attention to the doctor. "What's the verdict, doc?" she asks.

"Concussion, for sure. Some cracked ribs, maybe a busted cheekbone, though it's impossible to tell without an x-ray and he's refusing that…" the Doc pauses, lips pressing together before he shakes his head and moves on. "He's going to be sore as hell in the morning, but I'm guessing he's been through that once or twice before. Damn fool thing he did, but damn brave, too." He shakes his head again, pats her arm and slips away to check on Tank.

Parker has claimed the closest seat, so Sophie sits down on the other side of Eliot, nails digging into her palms as she surveys the damage. He's halfway into the hoodie, face carefully blank as he tries to get his left arm in the sleeve. Parker reaches around, tugging the sleeve into place, neatly evading his hands as she fastens the zip, and sits back.

"What do you need?" Sophie asks, simply and he blinks at her like he was expecting a different question. She holds up the bottle of ibuprofen, and he shakes his head, mouth twisting, because he’s pretty sure the pills wouldn’t stay down.

There's blood in his mouth, tasting like old copper pennies and he swallows hard, touching the cut in his lip with the tip of his tongue. The fierce pounding in his head makes it hard to think, and his stomach is churning in a way that screams concussion. He's cold, despite the hoodie and the silk scarf that's magically spread itself over his legs.

"Can we get the hell out of here?" he asks at last, and the team - minus Nate, who is still tying up loose ends - gather around him like swirling leaves, gathering him up so that he's on his feet and heading towards the cool, dark parking lot before he has chance to think.

The gym door slams closed behind them and he closes his eyes, lets out a breath that he didn't know he was holding.

It's done, he thinks and pushes the gnawing ache in his bones to the back of his mind as he starts walking. Each step jars through him, like he has ground glass filling his joints, and the gatorade he’d swallowed churns uneasily in his stomach like it’s not quite sure if it wants to stay put. Just thinking about it makes the nausea worse, and he has to stop, pulling in slow breaths through his nose until the sensation passes.

A warm hand lands on his back, rubbing circles that are more soothing than he thinks he deserves. “Okay?” Sophie says, and he’s not quite sure if it’s an order or a question. Decides it’s an order, because he’s never been able to disobey one, and right now, he needs all the help he can get.

The hotel lights shine through the night like a sanctuary, and he fixes his blurring vision on them, nods once and starts walking.

---

The hotel is only a short walk away, but he's sweating and seriously uncomfortable by the time he gets there. Parker walks one one side, Sophie on the other, and it should bug him, but he's stiff and sore enough to almost welcome the mothering. The phantom warmth of Sophie’s hand on his back is a comfort he’d never admit to needing, but it helps, because it means she cares, and he’s battered enough for the affection to slink through the chinks in his armour. Knows how dangerous that is, to allow the softness in, but after what he just did, the small bit of grace feels hard earned.

Parker unlocks the suite door and he shuffles in, feeling three times his age. Hardison squeezes past them, heading for the bathroom to get the tub running while Sophie pulls out meds and ice packs. Parker digs in his duffle for the soft, worn sweats he only wears on really bad days and something about the entire, rehearsed routine makes him want to run back out into the damp night. Sends something like panic clawing at the back of his throat, because in his line of work, getting too close is dangerous, and he’s fallen for that trap once already, can’t forget the dark path it sent him down, or the things he’d done because of the attachment. They’re not like… him, he thinks, knows it for a fact, just like he knows his eyes are blue or water is wet or that the glinting silver edge of a knife can cut you deep without you feeling it. Still, he can’t help glancing back at the door, wonders if he could find another room and hunker down until the worst of the pain eases, slink back to the team like a stray when he’s feeling more himself. Not let them get so close, even though in the deepest part of himself they've already wormed so far into his heart he'd have to cut it out to be rid of them.

He blows out a harsh breath instead of retreating, limping over to the recliner so he can toe his sneakers off. Halfway down, he realises that sitting isn't his best idea; it's been a while since he wrestled and his muscles are protesting the abuse in a way that tells him standing back up is going to be about as much fun as a root canal, sans lidocaine. His ribs hurt, a bright flare of pain, and he presses his elbow to them as he sits down. The overhead light stabs into his brain like an ice pick, and he closes his eyes, waits for the throbbing to ease.

“Sorry, man,” Hardison says, and clicks the main light off, leaving the bathroom light on so the room is filled with a soft glow that's much easier to handle. “Better?” he asks, and Eliot peels his eyes open, blinking in relief.

“Yeah,” he says, hoarsely, and takes the wrapped ice pack Sophie offers him, pressing it against the gnawing ache in his cheek.

Hardison sets a bottle of lemon-lime gatorade down next to him. It's not his favourite, exactly, but it's the flavour he finds the least objectionable and that bit of thoughtfulness makes his chest ache for a whole new reason.

Parker is pawing through his duffle for the pouch of meds he keeps in there, stocked with painkillers, anti sickness drugs, and the allergy pills he uses to help him sleep on the really bad days. He fishes through his options, weighing up, because he knows a couple of the options will knock him out and he's hurting enough for that to sound appealing.

He settles for a well used combination of muscle relaxant and painkiller, swallowing the pills with a gulp of yellow flavoured gatorade. Lemon-lime, my ass, he thinks, because it's easier than looking up and facing his team. He shifts, biting the inside of his lip, holding his breath until the flare of pain passes.

"Do you want the bath?" Hardison asks.

Eliot knows the hot water will help, but the thought of moving makes his stomach roll. He's not exactly comfortable as he is, but everything has faded to a background ache and he knows that'll change as soon as he stands. He's itchy, through, sweat and blood dried in his skin in an irritating film. "Yeah," he says and eases his feet down, breath hissing in between his teeth.

Fuck, he thinks as he stands, joints popping as he gets upright. It's ten steps to the bathroom and every one of them jars him.

The tub is full and steaming softly, scenting the air with the herbal Epsom salts mix he uses. Three faces stare at him from the doorway, and while he’s never been shy, the thought of stripping down to his birthday suit in front of them isn’t exactly appealing.

“I don’t need an audience,” he rasps, trying for his usual gruffness, but he knows he’s not quite getting there. Not with the touch memory of them taking care of him still lingering on his skin.

They glance at each other. Sophie breaks first, wagging a finger at him. “Fine,” she says, and turns, towing Parker with her. “But I’m sending Hardison in to check on you in half an hour.”

She closes the door softly behind her, leaving him alone in the steam filled room. The bath is big and deep, the water steaming gently, and he suddenly can’t wait to sink into it. There’s a big mirror on the wall above the sink, and he rests his aching hands on the cold porcelain as he leans close, taking a look at the damage.

One eye is already starting to swell closed, bruising spreading from his cheekbone right up to his hairline. He presses his fingers to his cheek, a vague memory of a heel contacting with his face rising up. The inside of his cheek is raw and bloody, bitten even with the mouthguard. He grabs one of the paper cups and fills it, sloshing cold water around his mouth with a wince. It’s pink when he spits it back into the sink.

Let’s see the rest of the damage, he thinks, and unzips the hoodie, sliding his good arm out first before working it down his left. He’s sweating, breath straining through his teeth by the time it’s off, and he leans against the cool tiles, letting his pounding heart settle. The drops to the floor and he glances down, thinks about picking it up, but the long muscles down his spine are already starting to stiffen and he’s not sure he can bend that much.

He lifts the hem of the t-shirt and stops as the motion pulls on every abused bit of his torso. Thinks about the small silver nail scissors Sophie keeps in her washbag, but he’s pretty sure it’s in the other bathroom. Any of them would be glad to help - except maybe Nate, who tends to leave the Eliot wrangling to the others- but the idea of asking and letting them undress him like a toddler… I’d rather gnaw my way out of the fucking thing, he thinks and sits down on the closed toilet seat. By the time he has the t-shirt off, he’s sweating bullets. Black spots swarm the edge of his sight, and he bends carefully, leaning his forehead on the cool edge of the sink until they stop.

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, he thinks, and closes his eyes, just breathing until everything feels a little less awful. The soft joggers come off easy and he stands, glancing down at his body in appraisal. He’s had worse, he’s sure, but that doesn’t make the blooming bruises any less ugly. Or painful, he thinks, pressing the flat of his hand to a livid purple welt across his ribs.

Despite the steam, he’s chilly, goosebumps rising on his bare skin until he sits on the side of the bath to carefully lower himself in. The hot water envelops him in a soothing cocoon, and he sighs in relief, tipping his head back and letting his eyes close.

He's not sure how long he stays like that, in a doze too light to be considered real sleep. Knows at some point that one of them has been in to top up the hot water, because when he rouses himself, the water is still warm rather than cold like he'd expected. Parker, probably, he thinks, damn women is like a cat. It should unnerve him that she came and went without disturbing him, but it doesn't, and he's too tired and sick and sore to figure out why.

There's a neat stack of fluffy blue towels and his softest joggers in the vanity, a small, thoughtful touch that makes something dangerously fond bloom in his chest. Getting attached is asking for trouble in their line of work. Too late for that, he thinks, because he might lie to other people, but he never does to himself.

Standing hurts enough that he almost gives in. Not the first time I've slept in the tub, he thinks, and probably not the last. He's hungry, in a vaguely sick sort of way, so he keeps going until he's up, clinging white-knuckled to the handy grab rail until he's sure his knees aren't going to give out on him.

The water is vaguely pink around his feet, darker drops hitting the surface. He lifts a shaky hand, feeling the cut through his eyebrow. Needs a stitch, he thinks, and sighs, because being poked and prodded is the last thing he wants.

"Eliot?" Sophie calls through the door, and he startles hard enough to make his breath catch.

"Yeah?" he croaks, then swallows hard and tries again. "Yeah?"

"We're ordering food - do you want anything?" There's a thread of concern in her voice and it makes him feel warm and trapped at the same time.

"Baked potato?" he asks, because the thought of chewing anything isn't appealing.

"Got it," she says, and he can practically feel her worry through the door.

"I'll be out in a minute," he says, trying for gruff, and failing, because he just doesn't have the energy. Instead, his voice comes out flat and a little hoarse, a clear sign of exactly how exhausted he is.

He holds his breath until she moves away from the door, setting the shower running before he lets out the heartfelt groan. Hair clings to his face and he tips his head back, carefully, letting the warm water sluice over him. It feels damn good, soothing out of all proportion, and he’d stay under it longer if his legs weren’t already shaking with the strain. Even with the painkillers, he aches, ribs and face and knees and wrists all throbbing like a bad tooth.

If this wash wasn’t as symbolic as it was practical, he’d step out of the shower, come back later, when everything didn’t feel so raw, so terrible, but there’s a need in him, deep inside, to wash off this latest bit of violence and so he clings stubbornly to the grab rail. He’s not naive or stupid enough to think washing away the physical signs can remove the cost of what he’s done, knows there’s not enough soap and water in the world to do that, but just like the hair braids, somewhere along the line bathing became just another way to lock away the bad shit in the vault in his head, separate himself as a man from the acts he commits. Somehow, somewhere, it became a ritual, and it’s one he can’t think about too hard or the whole thing will unravel.

There's shampoo in easy reach, and he picks it up, fumbling one handed, because his left shoulder doesn't want to bend. He lifts it, gets his elbow to shoulder height and stops with a pained hiss, closing his eyes until the streaks of red fade from his sight. Fuck, he thinks, and blinks, trying to remember if he packed a sling for this little jaunt. Rubs the faint scar that runs from his collarbone to his armpit, breathing through the rush of phantom pain until the clock in his head nags him into moving. Because if they come in here and see you like this, the little cautious voice in his head thinks, and he lets his hand drop, grabbing the shampoo and getting to work.

It stings in a dozen little scrapes and cuts he didn’t know he had until they start screaming at him, and he grits his teeth, doing the best he can one-handed. Any of them - minus Nate, because he tends to dodge anything too personal - would have helped him, but the thought of asking - no. It skates too close to too many things he can't let himself think about.

He rinses, giving himself thirty seconds to just stand under the hot spray, letting it soothe what it can, before he shuts the water off and steps carefully out of the tub, grabbing a towel because the steam-filled bathroom is chilly after the hot water. The clothes- soft as they are- feel like armour as he slips them on, draping a towel around his neck to catch the water running from his hair. The braids are still there, and he touches one, grounding himself before he swings the door open and shuffles out into the hotel room, shoulders a little hunched, like he’s expecting an ambush.

It doesn’t come- Parker, Hardison and Nate are all missing, leaving Sophie alone, in the same spot as earlier, the same book in her hands. If he had a gun to his head, he’d say she hasn’t read a single page.

“Where’s-” he starts, limping over to the recliner and easing down. Sitting feels good, takes some of the strain off his bruised and battered legs.

“Small town.” Sophie shrugs, keeping her voice carefully bland. “Only one delivery driver, and he’s off sick, so they’ve gone to collect.”

It’s a neat bit of thoughtfulness, slickly arranged, and he can’t help but smile because of it. “Thanks, Soph,” he says, and picks up the new bottle of Gatorade sitting on the table by the recliner.

The movement pulls at everything that hurts, and he feels his face go blank as he breathes through the pain. Knows he’s not fooling Sophie, but it’s an old trick and one he can’t quite shed, back from the bad old days.

She activates an instant ice pack and wraps it in a hand towel before passing it over, picking up his med bag on the way.

“Here,” she says, and he takes the pack, blinking down at it for a long second while he tries to figure out which throbbing bit needs it the most. Settles on pressing it to his cheek, breathing out a shaky sigh as the pain radiating through his head eases.

“Eliot-” she starts, and he shifts, tipping his head back against the slowly warming leather. Taps the button to lift the foot rest, because his lower back is killing him in his current position.

“Yeah?” he rasps, because this feels like another Conversation and he’s not sure he’s up to it.

“How do you do it?” There’s genuine concern in her voice that stops his impulsive sarcastic remark in its tracks.

Do what? he almost asks instead, but he knows what she’s asking. Just doesn’t have a good answer for her. Shifts the ice pack while he thinks, breath catching when the movement jostles his ribs.

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” he says at last, biting his lip when a shiver runs through him. The hotel room is chilly and the ice pack isn’t helping. Exhaustion drags at him like a sail that wants to haul him away. He yawns, tasting blood as the cut in his lip opens again. Can’t keep his eyes open, so gives in, letting them close, letting the darkness soothe the ache in his head.

“As simple as that?” she asks, and draws the blanket over his legs.

“Has to be,” he murmurs. “I take the punishment. It’s what I do.” There’s none of his earlier bravado in his voice, none of the cocky, well earned confidence, which somehow makes his words hit her all the harder. It’s soft with exhaustion, burred with sleep.

Eyes closed, bruised and bloody, curled carefully around his broken ribs, he looks a totally different man. The duality strikes her, brings tears to her eyes for reasons she can’t quite name. He shivers again, and she takes the ice pack, carefully, setting it down on the table and pulling the blanket up over his shoulders.

“You take the punishment,” she says, softly, “and we’ll be here to pick up the pieces. Always.”

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