Bring Your Alibis
Title: Bring Your Alibis
Pairing: None.
Warnings: Violence
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Everybody gets into the life somehow. Eliot-centric.
A/N: So, yeah, this is what I do when I find a new fandom shiny. I'm about five episodes short of the end of S2, so I'm not actually sure whether or not this is remotely canon-compliant, but as I'd already written the damn thing, I figured I might as well post it.
***
Contrary to popular belief, Eliot has never been a member of the United States armed forces. He wasn't a Marine. He wasn't Black Ops. He's never worked as a mercenary.
The whole thing that went down in West Africa back in '95 had nothing to do with him, except for the part where he was spending a summer working off the traveling itch teaching martial arts in a small village north of Kabala and ended up with the worst case ever of 'wrong place, wrong time.'
After he got caught up in the raid, he spent three years living by his wits and his fists in a stinking hole somewhere off the grid, and it turned out he had a gift for it. He learned some dirty tricks they never taught in Oklahoma bars or on the mats. Found out that he could sweet-talk a gun out of his face when he had to, that the combination of dumb-country-boy charm and fifteen years of martial arts training was usually enough to keep the tweakers and the crazies off his back.
He discovered the fine art of picking locks and scaling walls, fencing pilfered jewelery and coke for food and penicillin. Certain types of prisons are like goddamn thief school for a person with the right temperament, and twenty months in Eliot didn't even recognize himself anymore.
Two and a half years in, he tried to escape and made it all the way to the edge of the perimeter before he went down with a bullet in his left thigh. His cellmate, an inoffensive counterfeiter named François Leveque, sewed the hole up and procured antibiotics, nursed Eliot through the shakes and got him a good knife that he could use to protect himself while his leg was just so much useless meat.
"Why'd you do that?" Eliot asked after the fever broke and his mind was finally clear again. The grip of the knife was slippery in his hand and his clothes stank of sweat and sickness. It was a testament to the reputation he'd managed to build--or maybe the sheer violence of his hallucination-induced flailings--that the tweakers were squatting at the other side of the cell, watching him warily. Eliot bared his teeth at them before turning back to Leveque.
The little Frenchman shrugged, slow and elegant like he was in some fancy dinner party instead of crouched on the floor of a cell in Sierra Leone. "It was a stupid plan."
"Yeah," Eliot said. "I know. Why'd you help me? What do you want?"
The kid he used to be wouldn't have asked that, but the kid he used to be had never gotten all his fingernails torn out for getting smart with a guard. It paid to be careful.
"I have a better plan," Leveque said. "When you can walk again, we will discuss it."
***
Three months later, he was walking again. Leveque watched him jog a lap around the perimeter of the block, t-shirt sticking to his back with sweat. The ache in his leg was strong and unpleasant, but he'd managed not to do any permanent damage and pain he knew how to deal with.
"If you are quite finished," said Leveque when Eliot dropped down next to him. His thinning hair was slicked away from his face, and he was sketching a complicated diagram in the dirt at his feet. Eliot glanced up at the guard post above them, but the guard was looking away, AK-47 swinging idly at his side.
"I'm done. Talk."
"Good," said Leveque, and started talking.
***
Eliot was quiet for a long moment after he finished. "So, basically, your whole plan hinges on me sticking my neck on the chopping block."
"Yes," said Leveque calmly. At least he was honest about it. "Is this a problem?"
Eliot considered a little more, then grinned. Fuck it. "No."
Two months after that, he killed four people with his bare hands to get across the border into Guinea.
***
"You are free now," Leveque said, handing over a passport and a stack of bills. The street below them was noisy with chattering crowds and vendors hawking their goods at the top of their lungs. Through the window, Eliot could see hills in the distance, a hot blue sky and sunlight reflecting off the beaten-tin rooftops.
He flipped the passport open. The face in the picture seemed unfamiliar, a scruffy, haunted stranger. The last name wasn't his, but that didn't really matter. "Thanks."
"Yes," Leveque said, nodding and folding the clothes he'd gotten god-knew-where into a neat little suitcase. Scrubbed and shaved and buttoned-up like this, he looked more like a mousy bank manager than a professional conman. His blue-eyed gaze was sharp and assessing. "What will you do?"
Eliot shrugged, unwilling to admit that he hadn't thought much past surviving their headlong rush for the border. That he hadn't really expected to manage that much. "You got any ideas?"
It was mostly a joke, but Leveque smiled like it was the opening he was waiting for. "I have contacted some of my old business associates," he said. "They are of course overjoyed to hear of my survival, and have offered me a very lucrative contract in Mali. I could use a man of your skills."
Busting heads for a counterfeiting ring. Eliot ran a hand through his hair, thoughtfully, and wondered when he'd turned into the kind of man who didn't flat-out refuse an offer like that.
He could go home. Back to Oklahoma, back to days in the shop and a couple of nights a week in the ring; the taste of sweet-tea and apple pie, back to clean water, wide-open skies and country music on the radio. Maybe go back to school, maybe save up enough to start his own gym.
He looked down at his hands, at the handful of money he was still holding and hadn't bothered asking about. There was blood dried under his nails, and he nodded once, shortly, and looked back up at Leveque. "Tell me about the job."
Pairing: None.
Warnings: Violence
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Everybody gets into the life somehow. Eliot-centric.
A/N: So, yeah, this is what I do when I find a new fandom shiny. I'm about five episodes short of the end of S2, so I'm not actually sure whether or not this is remotely canon-compliant, but as I'd already written the damn thing, I figured I might as well post it.
***
Contrary to popular belief, Eliot has never been a member of the United States armed forces. He wasn't a Marine. He wasn't Black Ops. He's never worked as a mercenary.
The whole thing that went down in West Africa back in '95 had nothing to do with him, except for the part where he was spending a summer working off the traveling itch teaching martial arts in a small village north of Kabala and ended up with the worst case ever of 'wrong place, wrong time.'
After he got caught up in the raid, he spent three years living by his wits and his fists in a stinking hole somewhere off the grid, and it turned out he had a gift for it. He learned some dirty tricks they never taught in Oklahoma bars or on the mats. Found out that he could sweet-talk a gun out of his face when he had to, that the combination of dumb-country-boy charm and fifteen years of martial arts training was usually enough to keep the tweakers and the crazies off his back.
He discovered the fine art of picking locks and scaling walls, fencing pilfered jewelery and coke for food and penicillin. Certain types of prisons are like goddamn thief school for a person with the right temperament, and twenty months in Eliot didn't even recognize himself anymore.
Two and a half years in, he tried to escape and made it all the way to the edge of the perimeter before he went down with a bullet in his left thigh. His cellmate, an inoffensive counterfeiter named François Leveque, sewed the hole up and procured antibiotics, nursed Eliot through the shakes and got him a good knife that he could use to protect himself while his leg was just so much useless meat.
"Why'd you do that?" Eliot asked after the fever broke and his mind was finally clear again. The grip of the knife was slippery in his hand and his clothes stank of sweat and sickness. It was a testament to the reputation he'd managed to build--or maybe the sheer violence of his hallucination-induced flailings--that the tweakers were squatting at the other side of the cell, watching him warily. Eliot bared his teeth at them before turning back to Leveque.
The little Frenchman shrugged, slow and elegant like he was in some fancy dinner party instead of crouched on the floor of a cell in Sierra Leone. "It was a stupid plan."
"Yeah," Eliot said. "I know. Why'd you help me? What do you want?"
The kid he used to be wouldn't have asked that, but the kid he used to be had never gotten all his fingernails torn out for getting smart with a guard. It paid to be careful.
"I have a better plan," Leveque said. "When you can walk again, we will discuss it."
***
Three months later, he was walking again. Leveque watched him jog a lap around the perimeter of the block, t-shirt sticking to his back with sweat. The ache in his leg was strong and unpleasant, but he'd managed not to do any permanent damage and pain he knew how to deal with.
"If you are quite finished," said Leveque when Eliot dropped down next to him. His thinning hair was slicked away from his face, and he was sketching a complicated diagram in the dirt at his feet. Eliot glanced up at the guard post above them, but the guard was looking away, AK-47 swinging idly at his side.
"I'm done. Talk."
"Good," said Leveque, and started talking.
***
Eliot was quiet for a long moment after he finished. "So, basically, your whole plan hinges on me sticking my neck on the chopping block."
"Yes," said Leveque calmly. At least he was honest about it. "Is this a problem?"
Eliot considered a little more, then grinned. Fuck it. "No."
Two months after that, he killed four people with his bare hands to get across the border into Guinea.
***
"You are free now," Leveque said, handing over a passport and a stack of bills. The street below them was noisy with chattering crowds and vendors hawking their goods at the top of their lungs. Through the window, Eliot could see hills in the distance, a hot blue sky and sunlight reflecting off the beaten-tin rooftops.
He flipped the passport open. The face in the picture seemed unfamiliar, a scruffy, haunted stranger. The last name wasn't his, but that didn't really matter. "Thanks."
"Yes," Leveque said, nodding and folding the clothes he'd gotten god-knew-where into a neat little suitcase. Scrubbed and shaved and buttoned-up like this, he looked more like a mousy bank manager than a professional conman. His blue-eyed gaze was sharp and assessing. "What will you do?"
Eliot shrugged, unwilling to admit that he hadn't thought much past surviving their headlong rush for the border. That he hadn't really expected to manage that much. "You got any ideas?"
It was mostly a joke, but Leveque smiled like it was the opening he was waiting for. "I have contacted some of my old business associates," he said. "They are of course overjoyed to hear of my survival, and have offered me a very lucrative contract in Mali. I could use a man of your skills."
Busting heads for a counterfeiting ring. Eliot ran a hand through his hair, thoughtfully, and wondered when he'd turned into the kind of man who didn't flat-out refuse an offer like that.
He could go home. Back to Oklahoma, back to days in the shop and a couple of nights a week in the ring; the taste of sweet-tea and apple pie, back to clean water, wide-open skies and country music on the radio. Maybe go back to school, maybe save up enough to start his own gym.
He looked down at his hands, at the handful of money he was still holding and hadn't bothered asking about. There was blood dried under his nails, and he nodded once, shortly, and looked back up at Leveque. "Tell me about the job."