Healing Hands
Title: Healing Hands
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Hardison, Nate
Verse: Steal The Sky
Fandoms: Leverage, Firefly, Supernatural
Summary: Healing isn't linear, that's what his nana always told him. Even after seven months Hardison still has the ocasional set back but he'll get there eventually.
Notes: Yes it's a Steal the Sky fic that only mentions Eliot at a passing. Weird huh?
Anyway, written for the Electrocution square on my H/c bingo card. I've actually wanted to write about this for awhile. I might come back to it later.
Healing isn’t linear.
That’s what his Nana told him as his hands and his heart healed from the war-games.
Healing isn’t linear.
He might go a week without nightmares, might have a day of physical therapy where he was able to close his hands into fists without the pain making his eyes water.
He might jerk out of bed the next night, the terrors returning, practically catatonic for hours. His hands might twitch and jerk and refuse to move.
It wasn’t lost ground. He was still okay. He’d get better.
There was no straight line to better. He didn’t have to find the flaws in the code until it strung together perfectly.
But you got there all the same.
In his first few weeks aboard Leverage Hardison had found himself repeating those words over to himself. Healing wasn’t linear.
And then, Almost seven months after faking his death, after breaking free…
He’d been on the bridge, messing with some of the computer wiring and the comms during his watch. The door had opened and Nate had come in and Hardison had looked up to say something.
It was only for a second. Only for a moment. His attention was away, not where it should have been, and two wires brushed.
The jolt that went through him was barely more than a bad static shock, a snap, almost but not quite painful.
But instinct kicked in, he dropped to his knees, hands pressed against the floor, head tucked down, teeth preemptively clenched against the effects of a worse shock.
A sigh and someone settled onto the floor in front of him. Hands, empty, appeared in his line of vision. “Three months.”
Hardison registered Nate’s voice, registered that it had been three months since something had last triggered this sort of reaction in him.
“You alright?” Nate asked, the hands retreating. Hardison sat up, still not able to force himself to look at Nate. “You got shocked right?”
No. He wasn’t alright. Hardison wanted to say. He was frustrated, with himself, with the damn verse.
The powers that be back on Olympus would beat the Low Techs to keep them in line but they used psychology and basic conditioning to manage the high techs. The first few weeks on board Leverage Hardison had discovered exactly how deeply engrained on his subconscious the laws he’d lived by were.
“Yes.” He ground out, trying to push down the frustration. Healing wasn’t linear. He was making
progress. “I’m fine.”
“Can I see your hands?” Nate asked, the question sounding awkward from the guy Hardison was used to snapping orders.
It didn’t help his frustration to hear Nate revert back to that.
For the first few weeks, when it had been just the two of them on Leverage, it had taken Nate maybe two days after Hardison arrived to start phrasing everything as a suggestion or a request.
It took Hardison twice that long to realize why. It had hurt to realize despite his newfound freedom he only barely registered that he had an option of *not* following Nate’s suggestions or requests. He’d instinctively followed direct orders immediately.
Hardison had told himself for a long time that he was only a Beta classification because the powers that be didn’t want to classify him as a Delta. Four days into his stay on Leverage he’d stood washing the dishes at Nate’s polite “would you mind doing the dishes again?” and realized he might have been on his way to being an Alpha.
He may not have liked Project Olympus but before Dubenich he’d done little except dream of some vaguely better life.
It took him two more dishes to stop what he was doing, ten minutes to get up the nerve, and he could barely hear himself over his heart pounding in his ears when he went over to Nate and said. “Actually, it’s your turn.”
Nate had looked up over his files and smiled. “I think you’re right.”
It had never been like therapy. No long talks about his feelings. No homework or journals or meditations. Nate never really talked about what he was doing, and was never more than subtle about it but slowly…
Nate would ask him if he would cook dinner or clean the septic vat or whatever chore they had to do outside of work. When Hardison told him no Nate did it. Hardison understood enough about psychology to recognize an attempt to recondition him. Not doing something he didn’t want to when phrased as a request meant he had more time to relax.
And it worked alarmingly well. By the end of the second week Nate had them sit down and work out a duty roster for the chores, the sign that Hardison had passed some sort of benchmark unspoken in that moment.
From requests and suggestions they’d worked up to indirect orders and the night before Dean and Sam arrived on the ship Nate had gotten up from the table and called back over his shoulder. “Do the dishes Hardison.”
Hardison had barked back. “It’s your turn.”
It felt had felt good.
Even if Hardison had found himself falling back into old rhythms and mind sets and he knew half the reason he’d made “Progress” was he had half the battle already won in *wanting* it…
And that hadn’t been the only battle. Wanting things, doing things, hell… not being terrified he was about to be electrocuted the moment someone around him spoke harshly was something he still had to work with but.
“Can I see your hands?”
“No, you can’t.” Hardison responded after the silence stretched between him and Nate too long. “They’re fine. It was just a jolt.”
“Hardison.” The word came out sharp, just a hint of annoyance and threat on it.
Hardison sucked in a breath and let it out, shoving down the old gut deep terror that told him to do as told and not make them hurt him or his clan. He wasn’t on Olympus anymore and Nate might sometime wish he hadn’t taught Hardison how to be disobedient but Nate would never hurt him.
He looked up, making himself meet Nate’s eyes steadily. “No.” He said, forming the word that still felt strange in his mouth sometimes.
The hard look stayed on Nate’s face for a moment before it softened into a pleased smile.
“You know how I react to mind games, Nate.” Hardison complained, looking down to his hands, tension easing from his shoulders. “Negatively.”
And that’s what it had been, more or less. Grudgingly Hardison could recognize there had been good intentions behind it, challenge Hardison’s new found power of choice to remind him that he had it, though it barely lessened his annoyance.
Nate waved the comment off, getting up, and going to the console. “How are your hands?”
Hardison grumbled quietly but clenched and unclenched them, making sure the shock hadn’t damaged their somewhat delicate design. He’d run a diagnostics of them later once he was alone. “Feel fine.”
“No need to budget in a stop at a bio-mechanic then?” Nate asked.
“No, I don’t th-“ The question really registered and Hardison looked up. “The hell did you know?”
Nate was just grinning that infuriating grin of his. “Well then. If you feel fine then I suppose you’ll have no problem pulling my shift of watch for me.”
“Oh hell no.” Hardison responded. “I just got electrocuted. I need to go visit Eliot in the med ward. Maybe have some tea. Go to sleep early. Don’t want me at the wheel. I think I got a twitch.” He made a show of his hands twitching from the shock. “Better take me off detail for the rest of the week.”
Nate rolled his eyes but gestured toward the door. “Get out of here.”
Hardison gave a mock salute and headed for the door, escaping out onto the catwalks. He stopped, seeing Parker playing on the structures, and wondering if the third of their clan…
There, sitting on the steps to the lowest catwalk, one of books from the small library they’d acquired by now in his lap, was Eliot.
Parker flipped across empty space, her laughter ringing across the hold. Eliot sat, enjoying reading a book he would have struggled with a single page of a year ago.
And Hardison stood there, trying to decide whether he felt like doing some work for the case they were heading for or taking a break for a while.
A slight jolt ran through him, his eyes stung, hand gripped onto the railing to stop the slight shake.
It had been seven months but like a jolt of electricity, the moment when the code ended and the programs changed, the explosion of a missile, or the echo in the silence after the last word of a book…
He was free and he’d never have to go back. This, right here, was what his life would be. He’d keep healing. No matter what came next. He had chosen…
He brushed at his eyes with his hands. With his hands of metal stained with blood that had always belonged to him. That always would belong to him.
That kid, that boy who’d looked into his father’s eyes as he was told he had killed for the alliance and would continue to do so when told, who’d nodded and mouthed all the right words and walked into the Hephaestus labs and not even hesitated for a second before shoving his precious hands into the machinery…
Who’d been silenced and stifled and made to follow orders as he was pushed and shoved and shocked and praised and threatened and told it was his fault his little clan brother was being demoted to a Low Tech or that a member of his team was killed on a raid…
That long haunting ghost settled ghost hands of bone over hands of flesh and metal and finally faded away.
Healing wasn’t a linear process.
But somehow you got through it all the same.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Hardison, Nate
Verse: Steal The Sky
Fandoms: Leverage, Firefly, Supernatural
Summary: Healing isn't linear, that's what his nana always told him. Even after seven months Hardison still has the ocasional set back but he'll get there eventually.
Notes: Yes it's a Steal the Sky fic that only mentions Eliot at a passing. Weird huh?
Anyway, written for the Electrocution square on my H/c bingo card. I've actually wanted to write about this for awhile. I might come back to it later.
Healing isn’t linear.
That’s what his Nana told him as his hands and his heart healed from the war-games.
Healing isn’t linear.
He might go a week without nightmares, might have a day of physical therapy where he was able to close his hands into fists without the pain making his eyes water.
He might jerk out of bed the next night, the terrors returning, practically catatonic for hours. His hands might twitch and jerk and refuse to move.
It wasn’t lost ground. He was still okay. He’d get better.
There was no straight line to better. He didn’t have to find the flaws in the code until it strung together perfectly.
But you got there all the same.
In his first few weeks aboard Leverage Hardison had found himself repeating those words over to himself. Healing wasn’t linear.
And then, Almost seven months after faking his death, after breaking free…
He’d been on the bridge, messing with some of the computer wiring and the comms during his watch. The door had opened and Nate had come in and Hardison had looked up to say something.
It was only for a second. Only for a moment. His attention was away, not where it should have been, and two wires brushed.
The jolt that went through him was barely more than a bad static shock, a snap, almost but not quite painful.
But instinct kicked in, he dropped to his knees, hands pressed against the floor, head tucked down, teeth preemptively clenched against the effects of a worse shock.
A sigh and someone settled onto the floor in front of him. Hands, empty, appeared in his line of vision. “Three months.”
Hardison registered Nate’s voice, registered that it had been three months since something had last triggered this sort of reaction in him.
“You alright?” Nate asked, the hands retreating. Hardison sat up, still not able to force himself to look at Nate. “You got shocked right?”
No. He wasn’t alright. Hardison wanted to say. He was frustrated, with himself, with the damn verse.
The powers that be back on Olympus would beat the Low Techs to keep them in line but they used psychology and basic conditioning to manage the high techs. The first few weeks on board Leverage Hardison had discovered exactly how deeply engrained on his subconscious the laws he’d lived by were.
“Yes.” He ground out, trying to push down the frustration. Healing wasn’t linear. He was making
progress. “I’m fine.”
“Can I see your hands?” Nate asked, the question sounding awkward from the guy Hardison was used to snapping orders.
It didn’t help his frustration to hear Nate revert back to that.
For the first few weeks, when it had been just the two of them on Leverage, it had taken Nate maybe two days after Hardison arrived to start phrasing everything as a suggestion or a request.
It took Hardison twice that long to realize why. It had hurt to realize despite his newfound freedom he only barely registered that he had an option of *not* following Nate’s suggestions or requests. He’d instinctively followed direct orders immediately.
Hardison had told himself for a long time that he was only a Beta classification because the powers that be didn’t want to classify him as a Delta. Four days into his stay on Leverage he’d stood washing the dishes at Nate’s polite “would you mind doing the dishes again?” and realized he might have been on his way to being an Alpha.
He may not have liked Project Olympus but before Dubenich he’d done little except dream of some vaguely better life.
It took him two more dishes to stop what he was doing, ten minutes to get up the nerve, and he could barely hear himself over his heart pounding in his ears when he went over to Nate and said. “Actually, it’s your turn.”
Nate had looked up over his files and smiled. “I think you’re right.”
It had never been like therapy. No long talks about his feelings. No homework or journals or meditations. Nate never really talked about what he was doing, and was never more than subtle about it but slowly…
Nate would ask him if he would cook dinner or clean the septic vat or whatever chore they had to do outside of work. When Hardison told him no Nate did it. Hardison understood enough about psychology to recognize an attempt to recondition him. Not doing something he didn’t want to when phrased as a request meant he had more time to relax.
And it worked alarmingly well. By the end of the second week Nate had them sit down and work out a duty roster for the chores, the sign that Hardison had passed some sort of benchmark unspoken in that moment.
From requests and suggestions they’d worked up to indirect orders and the night before Dean and Sam arrived on the ship Nate had gotten up from the table and called back over his shoulder. “Do the dishes Hardison.”
Hardison had barked back. “It’s your turn.”
It felt had felt good.
Even if Hardison had found himself falling back into old rhythms and mind sets and he knew half the reason he’d made “Progress” was he had half the battle already won in *wanting* it…
And that hadn’t been the only battle. Wanting things, doing things, hell… not being terrified he was about to be electrocuted the moment someone around him spoke harshly was something he still had to work with but.
“Can I see your hands?”
“No, you can’t.” Hardison responded after the silence stretched between him and Nate too long. “They’re fine. It was just a jolt.”
“Hardison.” The word came out sharp, just a hint of annoyance and threat on it.
Hardison sucked in a breath and let it out, shoving down the old gut deep terror that told him to do as told and not make them hurt him or his clan. He wasn’t on Olympus anymore and Nate might sometime wish he hadn’t taught Hardison how to be disobedient but Nate would never hurt him.
He looked up, making himself meet Nate’s eyes steadily. “No.” He said, forming the word that still felt strange in his mouth sometimes.
The hard look stayed on Nate’s face for a moment before it softened into a pleased smile.
“You know how I react to mind games, Nate.” Hardison complained, looking down to his hands, tension easing from his shoulders. “Negatively.”
And that’s what it had been, more or less. Grudgingly Hardison could recognize there had been good intentions behind it, challenge Hardison’s new found power of choice to remind him that he had it, though it barely lessened his annoyance.
Nate waved the comment off, getting up, and going to the console. “How are your hands?”
Hardison grumbled quietly but clenched and unclenched them, making sure the shock hadn’t damaged their somewhat delicate design. He’d run a diagnostics of them later once he was alone. “Feel fine.”
“No need to budget in a stop at a bio-mechanic then?” Nate asked.
“No, I don’t th-“ The question really registered and Hardison looked up. “The hell did you know?”
Nate was just grinning that infuriating grin of his. “Well then. If you feel fine then I suppose you’ll have no problem pulling my shift of watch for me.”
“Oh hell no.” Hardison responded. “I just got electrocuted. I need to go visit Eliot in the med ward. Maybe have some tea. Go to sleep early. Don’t want me at the wheel. I think I got a twitch.” He made a show of his hands twitching from the shock. “Better take me off detail for the rest of the week.”
Nate rolled his eyes but gestured toward the door. “Get out of here.”
Hardison gave a mock salute and headed for the door, escaping out onto the catwalks. He stopped, seeing Parker playing on the structures, and wondering if the third of their clan…
There, sitting on the steps to the lowest catwalk, one of books from the small library they’d acquired by now in his lap, was Eliot.
Parker flipped across empty space, her laughter ringing across the hold. Eliot sat, enjoying reading a book he would have struggled with a single page of a year ago.
And Hardison stood there, trying to decide whether he felt like doing some work for the case they were heading for or taking a break for a while.
A slight jolt ran through him, his eyes stung, hand gripped onto the railing to stop the slight shake.
It had been seven months but like a jolt of electricity, the moment when the code ended and the programs changed, the explosion of a missile, or the echo in the silence after the last word of a book…
He was free and he’d never have to go back. This, right here, was what his life would be. He’d keep healing. No matter what came next. He had chosen…
He brushed at his eyes with his hands. With his hands of metal stained with blood that had always belonged to him. That always would belong to him.
That kid, that boy who’d looked into his father’s eyes as he was told he had killed for the alliance and would continue to do so when told, who’d nodded and mouthed all the right words and walked into the Hephaestus labs and not even hesitated for a second before shoving his precious hands into the machinery…
Who’d been silenced and stifled and made to follow orders as he was pushed and shoved and shocked and praised and threatened and told it was his fault his little clan brother was being demoted to a Low Tech or that a member of his team was killed on a raid…
That long haunting ghost settled ghost hands of bone over hands of flesh and metal and finally faded away.
Healing wasn’t a linear process.
But somehow you got through it all the same.