Even the Muscle Needs Comfort - Leverage - Eliot/Hardison
Title: Even the Muscle Needs Comfort
Pairing: Eliot/Hardison
Word Count: 423
Rating: PG
A/N: Written for comment_fic.
Summary: After coming back from a job, Eliot is more tense than usual.
Eliot's been pretty quiet since he got back - and by 'pretty quiet' Hardison means 'silent other than a few curses'.
And it's none of his business, really. Eliot got the job done, took out the guys he was supposed to. It all ran smoothly. Nothing to worry about. In theory, anyway.
In practice... Yeah, he's worrying. He's worrying a whole lot, because he's never seen Eliot like this before. Sure, maybe he doesn't know the members of the team as well as he thinks he does and maybe there's only so much that a good bit of digging through cyberspace can tell him, but he'd thought he'd known Eliot better than this. Maybe he'd thought that through some magically property of fucking he had some kinda connection with Eliot once he'd been taken to his bed.
He forces himself to keep his distance, to pretend to be busy; doesn't want to push too hard in case he pushes him away altogether. It's like taming an animal, right? Gotta let them come to you.
Eliot's been in the office for about an hour, cursing and avoiding everyone, before he comes through to find Hardison.
"Alec," he says - and Hardison thinks he's just about the only one he'd want to call him that. "Can I talk to you?"
Hardison nods, tense and ready for whatever it is that Eliot's got to say, but as it turns out no words come. Eliot closes the door firmly behind him and moves into the room, shoving Hardison's laptop out of reach then sinking down to sit on top of him, straddled over his thighs in the computer chair Hardison's sitting in.
"This isn't exactly talking, Eliot," Hardison points out. "Not that I'm complaining."
"Shut up," Eliot mutters, resting his head on Hardison's shoulder. "Just shut up."
Hardison complies, for once, gingerly winding his arms around Eliot; he never knows which parts are injured and which parts aren't. Eliot's skin is a minefield of bruises on the best of days. He's their human cannonball, and while Hardison knows he's the best at his job he can't help but wish that 'his job' were something a little bit safer.
One hand threads fingers through Eliot's hair and strokes that thick mane of his, offering comfort in any way he can. Hardison doesn't know what it is that's wrong or what's happened or anything at all, really - but just this once he doesn't have to. He knows how to be there for Eliot. Today, that's all that matters.
Pairing: Eliot/Hardison
Word Count: 423
Rating: PG
A/N: Written for comment_fic.
Summary: After coming back from a job, Eliot is more tense than usual.
Eliot's been pretty quiet since he got back - and by 'pretty quiet' Hardison means 'silent other than a few curses'.
And it's none of his business, really. Eliot got the job done, took out the guys he was supposed to. It all ran smoothly. Nothing to worry about. In theory, anyway.
In practice... Yeah, he's worrying. He's worrying a whole lot, because he's never seen Eliot like this before. Sure, maybe he doesn't know the members of the team as well as he thinks he does and maybe there's only so much that a good bit of digging through cyberspace can tell him, but he'd thought he'd known Eliot better than this. Maybe he'd thought that through some magically property of fucking he had some kinda connection with Eliot once he'd been taken to his bed.
He forces himself to keep his distance, to pretend to be busy; doesn't want to push too hard in case he pushes him away altogether. It's like taming an animal, right? Gotta let them come to you.
Eliot's been in the office for about an hour, cursing and avoiding everyone, before he comes through to find Hardison.
"Alec," he says - and Hardison thinks he's just about the only one he'd want to call him that. "Can I talk to you?"
Hardison nods, tense and ready for whatever it is that Eliot's got to say, but as it turns out no words come. Eliot closes the door firmly behind him and moves into the room, shoving Hardison's laptop out of reach then sinking down to sit on top of him, straddled over his thighs in the computer chair Hardison's sitting in.
"This isn't exactly talking, Eliot," Hardison points out. "Not that I'm complaining."
"Shut up," Eliot mutters, resting his head on Hardison's shoulder. "Just shut up."
Hardison complies, for once, gingerly winding his arms around Eliot; he never knows which parts are injured and which parts aren't. Eliot's skin is a minefield of bruises on the best of days. He's their human cannonball, and while Hardison knows he's the best at his job he can't help but wish that 'his job' were something a little bit safer.
One hand threads fingers through Eliot's hair and strokes that thick mane of his, offering comfort in any way he can. Hardison doesn't know what it is that's wrong or what's happened or anything at all, really - but just this once he doesn't have to. He knows how to be there for Eliot. Today, that's all that matters.