[Leverage] the gun in your hands, [Leverage] idle hands
2 fics I wrote for leverage500 and forgot to put here.
title: the gun in your hands
characters: eliot, team
warning: 2nd person, disturbed point of view, experimental, unbeta'd, unedited
rating: pg-13
theme #002: forgotten
summary: Something is wrong. You look at the gun in your hands and for a moment, you don't quite know what to do with it.
the gun in your hands
You look at the gun in your hands and for a moment, you don't quite know what to do with it. It all happened so quickly. You look up and there's a man in front of you. He looks scared. His eyes flicker to something by your feet and you notice there's a guy lying there. He's unconscious, sprawled awkwardly, one arm at a funny angle. Your head feels full and tight, like your surroundings are pushing at you. You don't quite know what's going on.
There's a gun in your hand. You don't quite know what's going on with that, either.
Because, you see, you know, deep down inside, that you don't do guns. It started out as hatred. Silly, of course. You didn't just wake up one day and decided to hate guns. You had a reason. In the beginning, there was you and blood and your eyes were blurry from the heat around you. There was blood on your hands and on your face and you could have lived with it if it had only been yours. Yeah, it started out as hatred. But you look at that gun in your hand now and you don't quite remember what happened. Something must have happened that made you hate guns - something to do with blood on your hands and on your face. Shouldn't you remember something like that?
"Eliot."
It has become an automatic action. Press down on the little button with your thumb, hold out your hand, let the magazine fall into it and throw it away. And you know that sometimes you catch yourself looking if the magazine is full, as if it mattered. Sometimes, the more automatic action would be to push the magazine back in and shoot. Like right now. Right now, you're standing there with a guy at your feet and another guy looking at you and you have no idea if you were about to push the magazine in or throw it away. You peer at your left hand. The magazine is full. But why would you throw away a full magazine? There's blood on your arm. You can see that now. Your head hurts even worse, all of a sudden. Like it wants to tell you something. Remember?
"Eliot!"
You think that you would probably still hit anything in your way, even with your head tight and blood on you, because they trained you well. You used to look through the scope of a sniper rifle, used to sweat into your ghillie suit, waiting for the perfect moment. That guy seems to be waiting, too. He's standing there, eyes flickering to your right. Someone is coming towards you. You're in a fight - you must be, if you've got a gun. Your hand trembles, maybe because it knows that in a fight, when someone comes at you, you shoot them. But remember? You don't do guns. Because something happened. A long time ago, remember?
"Eliot, look at me."
The person that was coming at you is stopping. It's a woman. She's wearing a suit with a skirt instead of pants. High heels. Open hair.
"Eliot, put the gun down. We've got him."
You want to flinch when she talks to you, but her voice is so sweet. You think it would be an insult to her to flinch away from her. You look back down, at the gun in your hands and for a moment, you don't quite know what to do. Then her hand reaches out and she carefully takes the empty gun from you - and all the while she keeps talking, telling you it's okay, that everything's over. There is someone with her, a man with curly hair. He's snapping orders at someone invisible.
There are sirens coming closer and the woman steers you off somewhere. You're moving fast, away from the policija. The man is coming with you, a hand on the woman's back. You stop around a corner, and someone moves you against the wall, holding you up. People are talking around you. "Something's wrong," the woman says, and you know she's talking about you because the man with the curly hair turns his face away like he can't bear to look at you. "He hit his head pretty hard," a black guy says and you wonder if that's where the blood came from.
"I'm okay," you say, mostly to reassure the woman. You have no idea who she is, or why she is here, in a war zone, with high heels on. Something stings in your arm. You try to follow the conversation they have around you, about you, with you - but it gets slower and more quiet, as if someone turned the volume down. The tightness in your head leaves and everything goes numb. You want to ask what's going on, if you're in the safe zone already. Your lips won't move. The full magazine in your left hand clatters to the floor.
And then it's over.
+
end.
Title:Idle Hands
Author:iniq
Characters: Eliot Spencer, Alec Hardison, Bobby Singer
Rating: pg-13
Word Count:
Spoilers: Leverage episode 201 (you will be spoiled for what Eliot did during the break)
theme #022: abstinence
Summary: Eliot hasn't killed anyone in over two months.
Idle Hands
Something is missing, Eliot thinks. Something is off.
He's sitting on the couch in Nate's living room watching TV. The news is on right now, before the game commentators warm up and the pre-game interviews start. He's alone in the apartment because Nate isn't back from his meeting yet and Hardison is getting beer.
On TV, Eliot can see pictures of a war zone. The place looks familiar and Eliot is sure he's been there before. Eliot wonders why his black phone hasn't rung yet. He knows the place, the language, the culture. It wouldn't be a stretch for them to send him over there. He pulls the phone out and checks the display again. Nothing. It's not that he actually wants to go half across the world right now, but they're between jobs and he's getting a little antsy.
He taps his foot against the floor in a steady rhythm and puts the phone away again. They would call if they needed him. His hand almost absently finds his elbow, and he starts picking at the scab that has formed there since the fight a couple of days ago.
When the front door opens, he tilts his head to the side and waves at Hardison.
"Hey, is it on already?" Hardison asks and looks at the screen. He loves the interviews, loves to comment on the players' bad answers.
"Not yet," Eliot answers and looks at the destruction behind the news reporter. He had stayed in that bombed out hotel the last time he was there.
"Pakistan?" Hardison asks and squints at the caption on the screen.
Eliot nods. He knows that Hardison knows, so he doesn't say anything. Hardison looks at him in that way that makes Eliot uncomfortable. He hates it when Hardison eyes him with that questioning look, like he wants to ask a million questions and is too afraid of Eliot's reaction or the answers to actually ask.
Eliot forces himself to keep his eyes on the screen and not look at Hardison. The reporter finishes his story and the news cuts to the next article. Something about the car industry.
Suddenly, Eliot knows what's wrong. Thinking about Pakistan and that hotel, he realizes how long it's been since he was there. He looks at his watch, counts the weeks and months since his return. Huh.
He shoots a glance at Hardison and wonders how he would react if Eliot told him that he hasn't killed anyone in two months. If he would be surprised, or startled, or if he would look at him like Eliot is an animal. Hardison's kills are all virtual. Eliot's all had families and sons and parents.
There is something odd about knowing exactly when one has killed last, Eliot realizes. It's not that he likes it. There is nothing exciting about killing someone. He does appreciate it when they put up a good fight, though. When they want him dead, it's only fair to want them dead in return. He's hit a lot of people in the meantime, but small town thugs just aren't the same. He hasn't actually had to fight for his life in a while.
The thought startles him enough that he gets up from the couch without a real plan where to go. When Hardison looks at him expectantly, Eliot walks into the kitchen and grabs a glass from the cabinet. He fills it with water and gulps it down.
He wonders if he should be worried. He doesn't need to kill. He hurts people for a living, and sometimes, when the other phone rings, he gets to kill them. He reaches into the other pocket and pulls out his private cell phone. It's small and green and oddly shaped to make it easier to distinguish them. He presses #1 on the speed dial and waits.
"Hey," a familiar voice greets him on the other end.
"Hey, Bobby," Eliot says with a smile. He missed that gruff tone. "I was wondering… I'm between jobs right now," he started and moved to the window before continuing. "Do you have anything for me? Maybe within driving distance?"
In the background he can hear the front door open and close and then Nate's voice greeting them. He turns around for a quick wave of his hand before looking back out the window.
"As a matter of fact," Bobby says on the phone, "I do." Eliot hears Bobby rummage around and then the sound of paper rustling. Bobby knows him well enough to only offer him a certain type of job. He knows why Eliot is calling. "We could use someone in Catskill," he says when he has found what he was looking for. Eliot has no idea where that is, but Bobby's already giving him details. He listens closely to the case. Something is killing people in Catskill State Park. Bobby doesn't think it's a demon, so it would be a one man job - for a fighter.
"Alright," Eliot agrees. They catch up a bit and Bobby tells him a story of a case of ghost sickness that has him crack up loud enough for Nate and Hardison to shoot him curious looks.
"Be careful," Bobby warns him. "Call for backup if you need it," he makes Eliot promise.
"I will." Bobby asks after Eliot's job, but it's clear he is only trying to be polite. He thinks Eliot's knowledge is wasted on jobs in the realm of the natural. Eliot tried to explain it when he started to work with Nate. He tried to tell Bobby that he doesn't want to go after haunted baseball cards forever.
He knows what happened to Bela. There are few retrieval specialists in the paranormal business and most of them eventually get killed by what they're handling. Eliot likes helping people. There are even less people in the business he's in than there are hunters.
For now, he'll stick to this job - with the occasional freelance.
"Thanks, Bobby," Eliot says then. "I appreciate it."
"You're welcome, son." Bobby sounds like he wants to say something else, so Eliot stays on the line, but in the end Bobby just says, "Bye. Call again some time."
Eliot grins. "It's a two way street, man. You could call, too." He looks at his friends in the living room and thinks that maybe he's been a bit of an ass lately. "I'm serious, Bobby. If there is anything you need, anything at all."
Bobby pauses. "I might call you on that."
"You do that. I gotta go," Eliot excuses himself. "The game's starting. I'll fix that thing in Catskill tomorrow."
"Good hunting," Bobby wishes him and says his own goodbyes.
"Bye," Eliot finishes the call with and pockets the phone. Then he turns around and returns to the living room. "Hey, did I miss anything?"
Hardison whistles and rolls his eyes at Eliot like he just missed kick-off. "Everything."
Nate just shrugs and moves over so Eliot can sit between them. He grabs a beer, uncaps it and leans back. Yeah. Tomorrow. He can't wait to see what he's up against. He smiles, even through Hardison's stupid commentary and Nate's rallying cries.
+
end.
title: the gun in your hands
characters: eliot, team
warning: 2nd person, disturbed point of view, experimental, unbeta'd, unedited
rating: pg-13
theme #002: forgotten
summary: Something is wrong. You look at the gun in your hands and for a moment, you don't quite know what to do with it.
the gun in your hands
You look at the gun in your hands and for a moment, you don't quite know what to do with it. It all happened so quickly. You look up and there's a man in front of you. He looks scared. His eyes flicker to something by your feet and you notice there's a guy lying there. He's unconscious, sprawled awkwardly, one arm at a funny angle. Your head feels full and tight, like your surroundings are pushing at you. You don't quite know what's going on.
There's a gun in your hand. You don't quite know what's going on with that, either.
Because, you see, you know, deep down inside, that you don't do guns. It started out as hatred. Silly, of course. You didn't just wake up one day and decided to hate guns. You had a reason. In the beginning, there was you and blood and your eyes were blurry from the heat around you. There was blood on your hands and on your face and you could have lived with it if it had only been yours. Yeah, it started out as hatred. But you look at that gun in your hand now and you don't quite remember what happened. Something must have happened that made you hate guns - something to do with blood on your hands and on your face. Shouldn't you remember something like that?
"Eliot."
It has become an automatic action. Press down on the little button with your thumb, hold out your hand, let the magazine fall into it and throw it away. And you know that sometimes you catch yourself looking if the magazine is full, as if it mattered. Sometimes, the more automatic action would be to push the magazine back in and shoot. Like right now. Right now, you're standing there with a guy at your feet and another guy looking at you and you have no idea if you were about to push the magazine in or throw it away. You peer at your left hand. The magazine is full. But why would you throw away a full magazine? There's blood on your arm. You can see that now. Your head hurts even worse, all of a sudden. Like it wants to tell you something. Remember?
"Eliot!"
You think that you would probably still hit anything in your way, even with your head tight and blood on you, because they trained you well. You used to look through the scope of a sniper rifle, used to sweat into your ghillie suit, waiting for the perfect moment. That guy seems to be waiting, too. He's standing there, eyes flickering to your right. Someone is coming towards you. You're in a fight - you must be, if you've got a gun. Your hand trembles, maybe because it knows that in a fight, when someone comes at you, you shoot them. But remember? You don't do guns. Because something happened. A long time ago, remember?
"Eliot, look at me."
The person that was coming at you is stopping. It's a woman. She's wearing a suit with a skirt instead of pants. High heels. Open hair.
"Eliot, put the gun down. We've got him."
You want to flinch when she talks to you, but her voice is so sweet. You think it would be an insult to her to flinch away from her. You look back down, at the gun in your hands and for a moment, you don't quite know what to do. Then her hand reaches out and she carefully takes the empty gun from you - and all the while she keeps talking, telling you it's okay, that everything's over. There is someone with her, a man with curly hair. He's snapping orders at someone invisible.
There are sirens coming closer and the woman steers you off somewhere. You're moving fast, away from the policija. The man is coming with you, a hand on the woman's back. You stop around a corner, and someone moves you against the wall, holding you up. People are talking around you. "Something's wrong," the woman says, and you know she's talking about you because the man with the curly hair turns his face away like he can't bear to look at you. "He hit his head pretty hard," a black guy says and you wonder if that's where the blood came from.
"I'm okay," you say, mostly to reassure the woman. You have no idea who she is, or why she is here, in a war zone, with high heels on. Something stings in your arm. You try to follow the conversation they have around you, about you, with you - but it gets slower and more quiet, as if someone turned the volume down. The tightness in your head leaves and everything goes numb. You want to ask what's going on, if you're in the safe zone already. Your lips won't move. The full magazine in your left hand clatters to the floor.
And then it's over.
+
end.
Title:Idle Hands
Author:iniq
Characters: Eliot Spencer, Alec Hardison, Bobby Singer
Rating: pg-13
Word Count:
Spoilers: Leverage episode 201 (you will be spoiled for what Eliot did during the break)
theme #022: abstinence
Summary: Eliot hasn't killed anyone in over two months.
Idle Hands
Something is missing, Eliot thinks. Something is off.
He's sitting on the couch in Nate's living room watching TV. The news is on right now, before the game commentators warm up and the pre-game interviews start. He's alone in the apartment because Nate isn't back from his meeting yet and Hardison is getting beer.
On TV, Eliot can see pictures of a war zone. The place looks familiar and Eliot is sure he's been there before. Eliot wonders why his black phone hasn't rung yet. He knows the place, the language, the culture. It wouldn't be a stretch for them to send him over there. He pulls the phone out and checks the display again. Nothing. It's not that he actually wants to go half across the world right now, but they're between jobs and he's getting a little antsy.
He taps his foot against the floor in a steady rhythm and puts the phone away again. They would call if they needed him. His hand almost absently finds his elbow, and he starts picking at the scab that has formed there since the fight a couple of days ago.
When the front door opens, he tilts his head to the side and waves at Hardison.
"Hey, is it on already?" Hardison asks and looks at the screen. He loves the interviews, loves to comment on the players' bad answers.
"Not yet," Eliot answers and looks at the destruction behind the news reporter. He had stayed in that bombed out hotel the last time he was there.
"Pakistan?" Hardison asks and squints at the caption on the screen.
Eliot nods. He knows that Hardison knows, so he doesn't say anything. Hardison looks at him in that way that makes Eliot uncomfortable. He hates it when Hardison eyes him with that questioning look, like he wants to ask a million questions and is too afraid of Eliot's reaction or the answers to actually ask.
Eliot forces himself to keep his eyes on the screen and not look at Hardison. The reporter finishes his story and the news cuts to the next article. Something about the car industry.
Suddenly, Eliot knows what's wrong. Thinking about Pakistan and that hotel, he realizes how long it's been since he was there. He looks at his watch, counts the weeks and months since his return. Huh.
He shoots a glance at Hardison and wonders how he would react if Eliot told him that he hasn't killed anyone in two months. If he would be surprised, or startled, or if he would look at him like Eliot is an animal. Hardison's kills are all virtual. Eliot's all had families and sons and parents.
There is something odd about knowing exactly when one has killed last, Eliot realizes. It's not that he likes it. There is nothing exciting about killing someone. He does appreciate it when they put up a good fight, though. When they want him dead, it's only fair to want them dead in return. He's hit a lot of people in the meantime, but small town thugs just aren't the same. He hasn't actually had to fight for his life in a while.
The thought startles him enough that he gets up from the couch without a real plan where to go. When Hardison looks at him expectantly, Eliot walks into the kitchen and grabs a glass from the cabinet. He fills it with water and gulps it down.
He wonders if he should be worried. He doesn't need to kill. He hurts people for a living, and sometimes, when the other phone rings, he gets to kill them. He reaches into the other pocket and pulls out his private cell phone. It's small and green and oddly shaped to make it easier to distinguish them. He presses #1 on the speed dial and waits.
"Hey," a familiar voice greets him on the other end.
"Hey, Bobby," Eliot says with a smile. He missed that gruff tone. "I was wondering… I'm between jobs right now," he started and moved to the window before continuing. "Do you have anything for me? Maybe within driving distance?"
In the background he can hear the front door open and close and then Nate's voice greeting them. He turns around for a quick wave of his hand before looking back out the window.
"As a matter of fact," Bobby says on the phone, "I do." Eliot hears Bobby rummage around and then the sound of paper rustling. Bobby knows him well enough to only offer him a certain type of job. He knows why Eliot is calling. "We could use someone in Catskill," he says when he has found what he was looking for. Eliot has no idea where that is, but Bobby's already giving him details. He listens closely to the case. Something is killing people in Catskill State Park. Bobby doesn't think it's a demon, so it would be a one man job - for a fighter.
"Alright," Eliot agrees. They catch up a bit and Bobby tells him a story of a case of ghost sickness that has him crack up loud enough for Nate and Hardison to shoot him curious looks.
"Be careful," Bobby warns him. "Call for backup if you need it," he makes Eliot promise.
"I will." Bobby asks after Eliot's job, but it's clear he is only trying to be polite. He thinks Eliot's knowledge is wasted on jobs in the realm of the natural. Eliot tried to explain it when he started to work with Nate. He tried to tell Bobby that he doesn't want to go after haunted baseball cards forever.
He knows what happened to Bela. There are few retrieval specialists in the paranormal business and most of them eventually get killed by what they're handling. Eliot likes helping people. There are even less people in the business he's in than there are hunters.
For now, he'll stick to this job - with the occasional freelance.
"Thanks, Bobby," Eliot says then. "I appreciate it."
"You're welcome, son." Bobby sounds like he wants to say something else, so Eliot stays on the line, but in the end Bobby just says, "Bye. Call again some time."
Eliot grins. "It's a two way street, man. You could call, too." He looks at his friends in the living room and thinks that maybe he's been a bit of an ass lately. "I'm serious, Bobby. If there is anything you need, anything at all."
Bobby pauses. "I might call you on that."
"You do that. I gotta go," Eliot excuses himself. "The game's starting. I'll fix that thing in Catskill tomorrow."
"Good hunting," Bobby wishes him and says his own goodbyes.
"Bye," Eliot finishes the call with and pockets the phone. Then he turns around and returns to the living room. "Hey, did I miss anything?"
Hardison whistles and rolls his eyes at Eliot like he just missed kick-off. "Everything."
Nate just shrugs and moves over so Eliot can sit between them. He grabs a beer, uncaps it and leans back. Yeah. Tomorrow. He can't wait to see what he's up against. He smiles, even through Hardison's stupid commentary and Nate's rallying cries.
+
end.