Missing Scene, The Bottle Job
Title: Missing Scene, The Bottle Job
Author: fleurlb
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairing: Nate, Eliot
Word Count: 917
Spoilers: Up to and including The Bottle Job (211)
Warnings: Not really.
Disclaimer: I own nothing here and am just doing this for fun.
Summary: Nate returns to his apartment after the Bottle Job, and Eliot wants to talk.
Notes: Written for a leverageland challenge: Write a missing scene for an episode of Leverage as suggested by sheryden.
Nate stands in front of his apartment door, trying to pull his keys out of his pocket and open the door one-handed. His other hand grasps the half-full bottle of expensive Scotch that he’d bought for Doyle during the con. Cora had insisted he take it with him, he’d paid for it after all, and he was just too worn down and tired to resist.
After several minutes of fumbling, Nate presses his forehead against the slickly varnished wood and sighs. The break helps and he’s able to unlock the door, which swings open easily. He remembers to pull his keys out of the lock, but doesn’t bother to relock the door behind him.
Staggering into the apartment, Nate kicks off his shoes and drops his jacket on the the floor. In the dim light, he operates on auto-pilot, moving through the open space toward the kitchen, intent only on pouring another shot and seeing how much of a dent he can put in the bottle. His mind isn’t shutting off and dear god, he needs it to, and fast.
He doesn’t see Eliot in the kitchen until he’s within two feet of the hitter, who has paused from some sort of meal preparation to lean against the counter and watch Nate.
“You’re lucky I’m not here to kill you,” says Eliot, twirling the knife between his fingers before resuming his chopping.
“And you’re lucky I’m not killing you, you do remember this is my apartment, right?”
“I’d like to see you try,” mutters Eliot, a quick yet bitter smile flitting across his face. A timer squawks behind him and he silences it with a well-aimed slap of the knife. He drops the contents of the cutting board into a wok, where it sizzles and emits a faint fleshy smell that makes Nate’s stomach turn.
“What are you doing here, Eliot?” asks Nate as he pours Scotch into his coffee mug.
“You need to eat something, and we need to talk. Kind of a two birds, one stone sort of deal.”
Nate makes a show of turning around slowly, looking for Parker and Hardison. “Is this going to be another intervention? Because we all know how the last one turned out.”
Eliot shakes his head slowly, a bitter chuckle and rueful smile his only real reply.
“Then what?” asks Nate, sinking down onto one of the stools. He doesn’t think he can withstand any more disappointment and recrimination. The way Eliot looked at him, after he took that first drink at the bar, it had nearly undone him.
Eliot doesn’t answer, he just goes back to making dinner. Twenty silent minutes pass before Eliot slides a plate and a tall glass of water in front of him.
“What’s this?”
“It’s good for you. Brown rice, vegetable, chicken. It’ll soak up some of that alcohol.”
Nate doesn’t argue but he doesn’t really eat either. He feels a bit like a little kid, as he moves the food around the plate and waits for Eliot to start in on him.
“So, what’s the plan then?” Eliot finally asks, tilting his chin in the direction of the Scotch bottle.
Nate wipes his mouth and says nothing.
“You going to start drinking again, like before, after everything?”
“Haven’t quite decided. But don’t worry, it’s not a problem,” says Nate, leveling a defiant gaze in Eliot’s direction.
Eliot presses his palms on the table and leans forward, a gesture meant to intimidate but Nate’s both too drunk and too comfortable with him for it to have the desired effect.
“I know it’s not a problem,” says the hitter, his voice a low growl.
“Good, then we’re agreed,” replies Nate, eager to end this whole charade and get Eliot out of his apartment.
“It’s a symptom of way worse problems.”
Nate looks up, surprise and insult registering on his face. “Really, and are you going to let me know what those are?”
“I ain’t your therapist,” says Eliot, his smile finally edging into the dangerous territory.
“Then why are you here?”
“To give you a warning, before you’re too far gone to hear it.” Eliot pauses and looks Nate over carefully.
“I’m listening.”
“I protect the team, that’s my job. In the past, that meant protecting against external threats. But now that Sophie’s gone and you’re fixin’ to start drinking again, I want you to know that I won’t hesitate to protect the team from internal threats.” Eliot’s tone is so calm and matter-of-fact that some contrary part of Nate longs to do the rhetorical equivalent of poking him with a stick.
“Internal threats.....meaning me?” asks Nate, opting to travel a safer path.
Eliot wipes his hands on a dish towel, then drops it on the counter. “Meaning anyone, but especially you, especially now. And you know I’m not going to be as gentle and sensitive as Sophie.
“So I better straighten up and fly right,” says Nate with a smirk, gratified when he sees Eliot’s eyes flash momentarily.
“Yeah, Nate, that’s exactly what it means. You’re not dragging them down with you. I’m not gonna let that happen.”
Before Nate can respond, Eliot turns and leaves, shutting the door behind him just a bit more loudly than necessary. Nate pinches the bridge of his nose, wishing he could will it all away. But he knows that’s not possible, so he pours another drink and settles in for a long night.