I Still Remember (Leverage, Alec/Eliot, 5/6)
Title: I Still Remember
Beta(s): amuly ♥, nevardevereaux ♥
Artists: cybel ♥, ryuutchi ♥
Characters/Pairings: Alec Hardison/Eliot Spencer
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Drama, Post-Series
Warnings/spoilers: None.
Summary: Alec's been running his own crew for five years when Eliot reappears- on the other side of a job. Remembering someone, it turns out, isn't the same as knowing someone.
Alec puts the crew on a two-week stand down, spends an afternoon running errands, and is back in front of his computer by five that night. Reports on the arrest have been filed, statements and charges made. Eliot's name is nowhere to be seen.
And more importantly, he tries convincing himself, there's no mention of his crew. Setting his alerts to inform him if there's any pertinent updates, he gets up after only a few minutes, all loose energy and tension.
By eight, his apartment hasn't been so clean in months. He's worked his way up through the living room, dusting the pictures down when he stops to look at what he's holding. It's the framed postcard Eliot sent way back when, still the same shitty picture of the Toronto skyline.
It's no longer the closest Eliot's been in five years, but it doesn't occur to him to throw it away. Instead, he digs out his phone. Brings up the edited Christmas footage he'd saved to his phone and sends it to Eliot.
Ten minutes later, it starts vibrating. He's got a message.
Video Message Delivery Failed.
He tries twice more, but he refuses to be convinced until he's in the phone company's records. Service to Eliot's number was cut off three hours ago. There's no record of a new account being opened.
On the off chance, feeling spiteful, he grabs Eliot's call history and backs out of the system. It's midnight before he knows that every number that's not his, or belonging to someone on his crew, has been terminated as well.
Eliot's doing it again. Disappearing.
For the first time in four years, Alec drinks until he passes out.
---
It's a month before they're forced to admit that Aisha's intel from Katsaros has dead-ended, and another three weeks after that before they're finished debriefing. Afterwards, it's three endless days of closeout security protocols, non-disclosure agreements, and one conversation too many that starts with the words, "If you ever want to get back in the game..."
It hits him suddenly, having a last beer with Aisha before she catches her flight to wherever she calls home. He's not Kevin Jackson any more, for the first time in years. He's religiously followed baseball, developed a taste for gin. Hell, he'd even invented a brother at the Supermax in Colorado and the paperwork to prove he was real, and none of it matters anymore.
He has no idea what to do with himself, now. He just can't remember. Drives around California for a few days like he'll find the answer lying in the middle of the road somewhere. He'll check out Death Valley, maybe, on the way to Las Vegas. It's the sort of thing Eliot would do. He's almost sure of it.
He switches cars in Barstow out of habit. Can't remember which identification to use, winds up going with Greg Markham, who he hasn't been in three years, and even then, only for a week or two. While the guy behind the counter is putting together the paperwork for the truck, he peruses the wall of tourist brochures next to the door.
The Deep Space Communications Center is only half an hour away. There's really not much else, heading into the Mojave. But it'll have air conditioning.
The tour really isn't his sort of thing, and inside, it's all computers and screens and geeks. Hardison would be into this. Nate too, probably. It's not the sort of thing Eliot would go in for, definitely not the kind of thing Kevin Jackson would like, but Greg Markham, he'd never really fleshed out. He'd just kept him in his pocket for a rainy day.
Maybe Markham's the type to stop in at a gift shop, pick up a postcard. Sit in a rental truck and just stare at it for hours, trying to figure out what to say. Where to even send it.
3332 North Sodales Road. 648-313-1964. 18 South Riverview. 617-254-6684...
---
Truehart International's CFO finally goes down after a month and a half, and honestly, if Alec wasn't as desperate to get home as the others clearly are, he would've booked himself a different flight. Ravi and Maria are having too much fun arguing over crap in the SkyMall catalog to even contemplate stopping, and now that Jason's painkillers are wearing off, he's growing more impatient by the mile.
At least they've finally stopped looking at him with so much concern in their eyes, like he's one of their clients. As if he's given them reason to.
In the taxi on the way home, he reads the latest email from Sophie and doesn't bother answering it. She's asking for details again, now that Tara's gone and told her about Eliot being back in town, and that's only to be expected.
By the time Alec gets in, he's too exhausted to do anything more than flip through the mail. Bills in plastic-windowed envelopes, shiny card stock ads from internet service providers and cell phone companies.
If he hadn't been glancing down when he'd been throwing out the junk mail, he would've missed the handwriting.
Hey. Think you'd like this place more than I did. Got a new number, the old one doesn't work. 702-898-4822.
He has no idea how to process this, flips the postcard over to snort at the other side. The huge satellite dish array is surprisingly familiar. Deep Space Communications out in California. He'd hacked them back in 2002, just for kicks.
It's easier to think about that than what's written on the other side. It's not until he's got a beer in his hand that he even flips it over again. 702 area code, that's Las Vegas. He has a location. And hell, with this, he can track Eliot easy as pie, get into the cell phone company's records, get a credit card, maybe an address that's not just another dead end.
It doesn't occur to him to actually try dialing the number until he's gotten up for another beer.
It's barely eight, here. Five in Las Vegas. If he starts making promises to himself like I'll call before this bottle's empty, he's just going to keep putting it off. Feel even more pathetic.
---
Eliot's startled by the annoying techno noise coming from his pocket, and realizes that he's never heard his phone ring before. He hasn't talked to anyone all week. But there's only one person on Earth that has this number.
Steeling himself, he answers.
"Hey, I was just about to call you." Opening up with what's probably a baldfaced lie. Nice.
"Uh huh. Wait. Really?" It's easy to picture Hardison standing around, trying to figure out what to say next, and even if it wasn't, it's easy enough to look in the mirror for reference. "Didn't think you had my number, seein' as how you ditched your phone."
It's not worth pointing out that he'd memorized every phone number and address on the list Hardison had given him, long before stashing it in that safe deposit box in Omaha. No need at all to mention the hours he's spent over the years, running down the list in his head, just to keep himself sane. "Ah, shit man, yeah." It's easier to treat this like a deposition. Chickenshit, but easier. "Wasn't really up to me, I was under orders, so..."
"That's cool, I get it. So. How's Las Vegas?"
And just like that, this entire thing? It's a stupid idea.
"Hot and dry, I'd expect. Same as ever. I'm actually in town." And was going to call you the moment I was done with this cup of coffee.
Just like I was going to call you halfway through the last one.
"Seriously?'
"Yeah. Had some business to finish up here, so... Anyway. I'm in the neighborhood. You doin' anything right now?" It should be more of a relief, spitting it out, but it turns out he's more anxious about Hardison's answer than he'd thought. He stares at the coffee rings on the table and remembers promising himself that he wouldn't get so hung up on this.
"Uh. No. I literally walked through the door just now. Comin' back from a job, you know?"
Not getting hung up on this. He can't help being disappointed, but at least he can cover for it easily enough. "Ah. Right on, well. If you're tired, that's cool. I'll be around for a few-"
"Never said I was tired," Hardison's voice changes suddenly, either he's caught a second wind or he's really trying to. "Just. Kinda need a shower. Um. You want to meet me up at my place? I'll be ready in like half an hour."
"Sure," Eliot replies calmly. They used to do this, sometimes. Grab a beer. Hang out. It's nothing to get worked up over.
... 1073 Lexington Avenue. 785-776-8723.
---
Alec's just getting the last of the clutter shoved aside when the intercom buzzes, and his last rational thought for the next several seconds is I should probably answer that. Then the vertigo sets in. Somehow he makes it to the doorway to stare towards the stairs.
Nerves pile upon nerves, he wonders how to play this as he listens to the footsteps climbing up towards him.
Eliot stops short, five feet away, out of reach and staring back at him like he doesn't really have a plan, either. He looks like he's been up for three days straight.
"Good to see you, man," Alec begins, and good. That's good. He should quit while he's ahead. Or he could blow it entirely. "Where you been this time?"
---
Okay, Eliot concedes. I probably deserved that. But Hardison's grimacing at the sound of his own voice, like maybe he didn't mean to come off like that, and he's opening the door, waving him inside.
His smirk is probably enough to cover for both of them. "Does it matter?"
"Not at all." He has half a second to glance into the apartment- it's nice- before Hardison's grabbing him by the shoulders, and he's too startled to hang on as tight as he wants to; the angle's all wrong. But Hardison doesn't let go, so Eliot doesn't have to, yet. "All bullshit aside, I missed you, man. You don't even know."
I might.
He rolls his shoulder a bit, gets a better grip on Hardison's side real quick before pulling back. You too, man, he's about to say, play it off like his pulse isn't skyrocketing like he'd been dreading, but Hardison, he's not playing this right, not backing off fast enough, not doing anything at all.
Eliot freezes under his regard and studies him right back. The door into the hallway isn't even closed yet, but if he shifts his eyes to notice, that's it, this'll be gone.
And hell, he's only just gotten here.
One last chance to back out, but Hardison's not taking it, he's feinting forward, too, and suddenly it's real and irrelevant.
---
Eliot's lips are dry, almost as chapped as Alec's own and his mouth tastes like coffee when they part. All he needs to do to get Eliot's hands back where they should be is lean into it a bit, not even half a step. For his part, now that they're past the point where either of them can pretend to mistake this for anything but what it is, he doesn't know where his arms are supposed to go. They land on Eliot's shoulders, dragging him in deeper.
It's not peaceful, kissing Eliot. He hadn't thought it would be, but it's fast and rough and just clumsy enough to be honest and his lip gets crushed painfully against Eliot's mouth, but that's no need to stop. Okay, well, that wince has Eliot pulling back anyway, but he's grinning, smirking as he stares, looking for blood.
"You're fine," Eliot decides, laughing before kissing him again, deliberate and careful and quick.
The moment hasn't past, it's just shifted. The urgency hasn't gone, it's just banking, now. It's been months, years really, and there's probably some stuff they should talk about first. And at some point, he should probably at least offer the man a beer.
But the kitchen table's no good, not for this. He's had enough of distance. Maybe they both have.
---
"Yeah," Eliot admits, easing back into the couch again when Alec finally gets the nerve to bring up the five year old elephant in the room. "That's on me. Went looking for a clean break, and... things got messy. But for what it's worth, I'm sorry I didn't stay in touch."
Yeah, Alec kisses him, the bravado coming easily now, and here's what you were missing.
---
"Was just starting to figure it out before you left, but it was months before I even admitted it to myself." Alec's thought about saying this for years, but actually doing so is giving him vertigo. "Parker's the first one I told."
"How'd she take it?"
"Relieved, mostly. Was weird for a while, but at least she had an excuse not to go on forcing herself into something she wasn't all that into in the first place." He doesn't actually mean to make it sound so pitiful, but Eliot, it turns out, has got a protective streak that extends to kissing things better. It's totally worth it.
---
Honestly, Alec's going to need Eliot to repeat some of the finer points later, but he's got the gist. He's also got Eliot's right next to him, shoulder pressing into his arm, and it's starting to feel like he might stay that way.
"...so yeah, gotta run up to Boston one of these days, get some things out of storage, but I was thinking maybe I'd grab something in the neighborhood."
"Well in the meantime," Alec could reach for his beer, but this'll work best if he doesn't shift away. He doesn't know why he's holding his breath. "You're welcome to stay here. Including tonight. Just so we're clear."
It turns out they're actually not so bad at talking, long as it's foreplay.
---
I thought about you, Eliot nearly says, but what he thinks he actually means by it, he doesn't get out either. You. It's been you for years.
It's starting to feel like he should say something, though, 'cause time's slowing down with Hardison's hands on his skin. He's just looking at him. Staring, touching, examining, whatever he's doing, Eliot's not sure, but this regard feels surprisingly weighty. His thumbs are pressed up against Eliot's ribs, hard points of contact ghosting out across the spread of his fingers. It's making him itch.
Do we really have to talk about this any more?
Hardison, suddenly, seems to be on the same page, and their hands keep getting in the way as they strip each other down piece by piece, until all that's left, finally, are Hardison's briefs. They're bright green, and he looks good in them, all long legs and smooth skin, and it's Eliot's turn to look. There's this gap in the leg opening, this fabric cave that he slips his fingers into, tracing back towards Hardison's hip, slow and light and teasing. Hardison's bucking closer, letting him get away with it for now, but that could all change. Another minute, and it does.
Hardison's groaning in irritation, hands twitching as they flail clumsily for whatever skin he can reach, settling on Eliot's side, first, enough to drag him down on top of him fully. He shoves a hand down, grazing along the inside of Eliot's leg before coming up again, stroking at him unsteadily, insistently.
His mouth is close enough to breathe into, close enough to kiss, but Eliot's aim's thrown off when Hardison shifts their hips together, thrusts up against him. Bracing himself against Hardison's chest, he rocks back into him, eyes falling closed as the spikes shoot through him, but he wants to see this, needs to see it hitting on Hardison's face.
There's a rhythm, here, but it's changing already by the time they find it. He's got his thigh jammed tight between Hardison's, Hardison's hands pulling his hair- tight out of the way, warm huff of breath against his collarbone and a barely muttered fuck filling the space between them.
The crash creeps closer, banking in his spine when he manages to get his hand wrapped around both of them in a clumsy grasp, all sweat and soft skin that somehow doesn't give way. His hand's not enough to steady them, but Hardison's shoulder's rolling against his chest as he shifts, he's reaching down, threading his own long fingers between and around, closing the gap and dragging. It's not enough.
Hardison's mouth is loose against his own, breathing harsh as much as kissing back; it's the only part of him not wound tight, too many muscles spent keeping them from collapsing into frustration, and this can't last for long, they're racing towards the end now. Rougher, faster, all Eliot knows is that they're shifting deeper into the couch with every move, and Hardison's clutching back tight, crushing his head against his shoulder, twisting his wrists when he pulls, too close now, eyes burning, and this- wild, mad, beautiful- is what he looks like just inches from coming.
When Hardison's hands go clumsy and he starts to thrash against him, Eliot shoves him back down against the couch, thrusts more quickly over them both. Everything is tight about Hardison now, his abs are twitching with the effort of holding back, his breath's coming jagged and hot. With a gasp, he goes suddenly rigid, his fingers digging tight into the skin on the inside of Eliot's thigh; Eliot's eyes slam shut as he's shocked into breaking. He's falling apart over him, with him, and finally, finally, crashing into him just to breathe.
---
One of the bottles on the table's been knocked over, its contents already pooling on the floor, but Eliot's steady breath is warm against his neck, and Alec could stop stroking his back, if he wanted to.
The bottle will still be there in the morning.
---
In the morning, Eliot is, too.
---
A week later, he comes to stay.
Epilogue
Beta(s): amuly ♥, nevardevereaux ♥
Artists: cybel ♥, ryuutchi ♥
Characters/Pairings: Alec Hardison/Eliot Spencer
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Drama, Post-Series
Warnings/spoilers: None.
Summary: Alec's been running his own crew for five years when Eliot reappears- on the other side of a job. Remembering someone, it turns out, isn't the same as knowing someone.
Alec puts the crew on a two-week stand down, spends an afternoon running errands, and is back in front of his computer by five that night. Reports on the arrest have been filed, statements and charges made. Eliot's name is nowhere to be seen.
And more importantly, he tries convincing himself, there's no mention of his crew. Setting his alerts to inform him if there's any pertinent updates, he gets up after only a few minutes, all loose energy and tension.
By eight, his apartment hasn't been so clean in months. He's worked his way up through the living room, dusting the pictures down when he stops to look at what he's holding. It's the framed postcard Eliot sent way back when, still the same shitty picture of the Toronto skyline.
It's no longer the closest Eliot's been in five years, but it doesn't occur to him to throw it away. Instead, he digs out his phone. Brings up the edited Christmas footage he'd saved to his phone and sends it to Eliot.
Ten minutes later, it starts vibrating. He's got a message.
Video Message Delivery Failed.
He tries twice more, but he refuses to be convinced until he's in the phone company's records. Service to Eliot's number was cut off three hours ago. There's no record of a new account being opened.
On the off chance, feeling spiteful, he grabs Eliot's call history and backs out of the system. It's midnight before he knows that every number that's not his, or belonging to someone on his crew, has been terminated as well.
Eliot's doing it again. Disappearing.
For the first time in four years, Alec drinks until he passes out.
---
It's a month before they're forced to admit that Aisha's intel from Katsaros has dead-ended, and another three weeks after that before they're finished debriefing. Afterwards, it's three endless days of closeout security protocols, non-disclosure agreements, and one conversation too many that starts with the words, "If you ever want to get back in the game..."
It hits him suddenly, having a last beer with Aisha before she catches her flight to wherever she calls home. He's not Kevin Jackson any more, for the first time in years. He's religiously followed baseball, developed a taste for gin. Hell, he'd even invented a brother at the Supermax in Colorado and the paperwork to prove he was real, and none of it matters anymore.
He has no idea what to do with himself, now. He just can't remember. Drives around California for a few days like he'll find the answer lying in the middle of the road somewhere. He'll check out Death Valley, maybe, on the way to Las Vegas. It's the sort of thing Eliot would do. He's almost sure of it.
He switches cars in Barstow out of habit. Can't remember which identification to use, winds up going with Greg Markham, who he hasn't been in three years, and even then, only for a week or two. While the guy behind the counter is putting together the paperwork for the truck, he peruses the wall of tourist brochures next to the door.
The Deep Space Communications Center is only half an hour away. There's really not much else, heading into the Mojave. But it'll have air conditioning.
The tour really isn't his sort of thing, and inside, it's all computers and screens and geeks. Hardison would be into this. Nate too, probably. It's not the sort of thing Eliot would go in for, definitely not the kind of thing Kevin Jackson would like, but Greg Markham, he'd never really fleshed out. He'd just kept him in his pocket for a rainy day.
Maybe Markham's the type to stop in at a gift shop, pick up a postcard. Sit in a rental truck and just stare at it for hours, trying to figure out what to say. Where to even send it.
3332 North Sodales Road. 648-313-1964. 18 South Riverview. 617-254-6684...
---
Truehart International's CFO finally goes down after a month and a half, and honestly, if Alec wasn't as desperate to get home as the others clearly are, he would've booked himself a different flight. Ravi and Maria are having too much fun arguing over crap in the SkyMall catalog to even contemplate stopping, and now that Jason's painkillers are wearing off, he's growing more impatient by the mile.
At least they've finally stopped looking at him with so much concern in their eyes, like he's one of their clients. As if he's given them reason to.
In the taxi on the way home, he reads the latest email from Sophie and doesn't bother answering it. She's asking for details again, now that Tara's gone and told her about Eliot being back in town, and that's only to be expected.
By the time Alec gets in, he's too exhausted to do anything more than flip through the mail. Bills in plastic-windowed envelopes, shiny card stock ads from internet service providers and cell phone companies.
If he hadn't been glancing down when he'd been throwing out the junk mail, he would've missed the handwriting.
Hey. Think you'd like this place more than I did. Got a new number, the old one doesn't work. 702-898-4822.
He has no idea how to process this, flips the postcard over to snort at the other side. The huge satellite dish array is surprisingly familiar. Deep Space Communications out in California. He'd hacked them back in 2002, just for kicks.
It's easier to think about that than what's written on the other side. It's not until he's got a beer in his hand that he even flips it over again. 702 area code, that's Las Vegas. He has a location. And hell, with this, he can track Eliot easy as pie, get into the cell phone company's records, get a credit card, maybe an address that's not just another dead end.
It doesn't occur to him to actually try dialing the number until he's gotten up for another beer.
It's barely eight, here. Five in Las Vegas. If he starts making promises to himself like I'll call before this bottle's empty, he's just going to keep putting it off. Feel even more pathetic.
---
Eliot's startled by the annoying techno noise coming from his pocket, and realizes that he's never heard his phone ring before. He hasn't talked to anyone all week. But there's only one person on Earth that has this number.
Steeling himself, he answers.
"Hey, I was just about to call you." Opening up with what's probably a baldfaced lie. Nice.
"Uh huh. Wait. Really?" It's easy to picture Hardison standing around, trying to figure out what to say next, and even if it wasn't, it's easy enough to look in the mirror for reference. "Didn't think you had my number, seein' as how you ditched your phone."
It's not worth pointing out that he'd memorized every phone number and address on the list Hardison had given him, long before stashing it in that safe deposit box in Omaha. No need at all to mention the hours he's spent over the years, running down the list in his head, just to keep himself sane. "Ah, shit man, yeah." It's easier to treat this like a deposition. Chickenshit, but easier. "Wasn't really up to me, I was under orders, so..."
"That's cool, I get it. So. How's Las Vegas?"
And just like that, this entire thing? It's a stupid idea.
"Hot and dry, I'd expect. Same as ever. I'm actually in town." And was going to call you the moment I was done with this cup of coffee.
Just like I was going to call you halfway through the last one.
"Seriously?'
"Yeah. Had some business to finish up here, so... Anyway. I'm in the neighborhood. You doin' anything right now?" It should be more of a relief, spitting it out, but it turns out he's more anxious about Hardison's answer than he'd thought. He stares at the coffee rings on the table and remembers promising himself that he wouldn't get so hung up on this.
"Uh. No. I literally walked through the door just now. Comin' back from a job, you know?"
Not getting hung up on this. He can't help being disappointed, but at least he can cover for it easily enough. "Ah. Right on, well. If you're tired, that's cool. I'll be around for a few-"
"Never said I was tired," Hardison's voice changes suddenly, either he's caught a second wind or he's really trying to. "Just. Kinda need a shower. Um. You want to meet me up at my place? I'll be ready in like half an hour."
"Sure," Eliot replies calmly. They used to do this, sometimes. Grab a beer. Hang out. It's nothing to get worked up over.
... 1073 Lexington Avenue. 785-776-8723.
---
Alec's just getting the last of the clutter shoved aside when the intercom buzzes, and his last rational thought for the next several seconds is I should probably answer that. Then the vertigo sets in. Somehow he makes it to the doorway to stare towards the stairs.
Nerves pile upon nerves, he wonders how to play this as he listens to the footsteps climbing up towards him.
Eliot stops short, five feet away, out of reach and staring back at him like he doesn't really have a plan, either. He looks like he's been up for three days straight.
"Good to see you, man," Alec begins, and good. That's good. He should quit while he's ahead. Or he could blow it entirely. "Where you been this time?"
---
Okay, Eliot concedes. I probably deserved that. But Hardison's grimacing at the sound of his own voice, like maybe he didn't mean to come off like that, and he's opening the door, waving him inside.
His smirk is probably enough to cover for both of them. "Does it matter?"
"Not at all." He has half a second to glance into the apartment- it's nice- before Hardison's grabbing him by the shoulders, and he's too startled to hang on as tight as he wants to; the angle's all wrong. But Hardison doesn't let go, so Eliot doesn't have to, yet. "All bullshit aside, I missed you, man. You don't even know."
I might.
He rolls his shoulder a bit, gets a better grip on Hardison's side real quick before pulling back. You too, man, he's about to say, play it off like his pulse isn't skyrocketing like he'd been dreading, but Hardison, he's not playing this right, not backing off fast enough, not doing anything at all.
Eliot freezes under his regard and studies him right back. The door into the hallway isn't even closed yet, but if he shifts his eyes to notice, that's it, this'll be gone.
And hell, he's only just gotten here.
One last chance to back out, but Hardison's not taking it, he's feinting forward, too, and suddenly it's real and irrelevant.
---
Eliot's lips are dry, almost as chapped as Alec's own and his mouth tastes like coffee when they part. All he needs to do to get Eliot's hands back where they should be is lean into it a bit, not even half a step. For his part, now that they're past the point where either of them can pretend to mistake this for anything but what it is, he doesn't know where his arms are supposed to go. They land on Eliot's shoulders, dragging him in deeper.
It's not peaceful, kissing Eliot. He hadn't thought it would be, but it's fast and rough and just clumsy enough to be honest and his lip gets crushed painfully against Eliot's mouth, but that's no need to stop. Okay, well, that wince has Eliot pulling back anyway, but he's grinning, smirking as he stares, looking for blood.
"You're fine," Eliot decides, laughing before kissing him again, deliberate and careful and quick.
The moment hasn't past, it's just shifted. The urgency hasn't gone, it's just banking, now. It's been months, years really, and there's probably some stuff they should talk about first. And at some point, he should probably at least offer the man a beer.
But the kitchen table's no good, not for this. He's had enough of distance. Maybe they both have.
---
"Yeah," Eliot admits, easing back into the couch again when Alec finally gets the nerve to bring up the five year old elephant in the room. "That's on me. Went looking for a clean break, and... things got messy. But for what it's worth, I'm sorry I didn't stay in touch."
Yeah, Alec kisses him, the bravado coming easily now, and here's what you were missing.
---
"Was just starting to figure it out before you left, but it was months before I even admitted it to myself." Alec's thought about saying this for years, but actually doing so is giving him vertigo. "Parker's the first one I told."
"How'd she take it?"
"Relieved, mostly. Was weird for a while, but at least she had an excuse not to go on forcing herself into something she wasn't all that into in the first place." He doesn't actually mean to make it sound so pitiful, but Eliot, it turns out, has got a protective streak that extends to kissing things better. It's totally worth it.
---
Honestly, Alec's going to need Eliot to repeat some of the finer points later, but he's got the gist. He's also got Eliot's right next to him, shoulder pressing into his arm, and it's starting to feel like he might stay that way.
"...so yeah, gotta run up to Boston one of these days, get some things out of storage, but I was thinking maybe I'd grab something in the neighborhood."
"Well in the meantime," Alec could reach for his beer, but this'll work best if he doesn't shift away. He doesn't know why he's holding his breath. "You're welcome to stay here. Including tonight. Just so we're clear."
It turns out they're actually not so bad at talking, long as it's foreplay.
---
I thought about you, Eliot nearly says, but what he thinks he actually means by it, he doesn't get out either. You. It's been you for years.
It's starting to feel like he should say something, though, 'cause time's slowing down with Hardison's hands on his skin. He's just looking at him. Staring, touching, examining, whatever he's doing, Eliot's not sure, but this regard feels surprisingly weighty. His thumbs are pressed up against Eliot's ribs, hard points of contact ghosting out across the spread of his fingers. It's making him itch.
Do we really have to talk about this any more?
Hardison, suddenly, seems to be on the same page, and their hands keep getting in the way as they strip each other down piece by piece, until all that's left, finally, are Hardison's briefs. They're bright green, and he looks good in them, all long legs and smooth skin, and it's Eliot's turn to look. There's this gap in the leg opening, this fabric cave that he slips his fingers into, tracing back towards Hardison's hip, slow and light and teasing. Hardison's bucking closer, letting him get away with it for now, but that could all change. Another minute, and it does.
Hardison's groaning in irritation, hands twitching as they flail clumsily for whatever skin he can reach, settling on Eliot's side, first, enough to drag him down on top of him fully. He shoves a hand down, grazing along the inside of Eliot's leg before coming up again, stroking at him unsteadily, insistently.
His mouth is close enough to breathe into, close enough to kiss, but Eliot's aim's thrown off when Hardison shifts their hips together, thrusts up against him. Bracing himself against Hardison's chest, he rocks back into him, eyes falling closed as the spikes shoot through him, but he wants to see this, needs to see it hitting on Hardison's face.
There's a rhythm, here, but it's changing already by the time they find it. He's got his thigh jammed tight between Hardison's, Hardison's hands pulling his hair- tight out of the way, warm huff of breath against his collarbone and a barely muttered fuck filling the space between them.
The crash creeps closer, banking in his spine when he manages to get his hand wrapped around both of them in a clumsy grasp, all sweat and soft skin that somehow doesn't give way. His hand's not enough to steady them, but Hardison's shoulder's rolling against his chest as he shifts, he's reaching down, threading his own long fingers between and around, closing the gap and dragging. It's not enough.
Hardison's mouth is loose against his own, breathing harsh as much as kissing back; it's the only part of him not wound tight, too many muscles spent keeping them from collapsing into frustration, and this can't last for long, they're racing towards the end now. Rougher, faster, all Eliot knows is that they're shifting deeper into the couch with every move, and Hardison's clutching back tight, crushing his head against his shoulder, twisting his wrists when he pulls, too close now, eyes burning, and this- wild, mad, beautiful- is what he looks like just inches from coming.
When Hardison's hands go clumsy and he starts to thrash against him, Eliot shoves him back down against the couch, thrusts more quickly over them both. Everything is tight about Hardison now, his abs are twitching with the effort of holding back, his breath's coming jagged and hot. With a gasp, he goes suddenly rigid, his fingers digging tight into the skin on the inside of Eliot's thigh; Eliot's eyes slam shut as he's shocked into breaking. He's falling apart over him, with him, and finally, finally, crashing into him just to breathe.
---
One of the bottles on the table's been knocked over, its contents already pooling on the floor, but Eliot's steady breath is warm against his neck, and Alec could stop stroking his back, if he wanted to.
The bottle will still be there in the morning.
---
In the morning, Eliot is, too.
---
A week later, he comes to stay.
Epilogue