Full Circle (22/23)
Title: Full Circle (22/23)
Author: neensz
Word Count: ~57,300 so far
Pairing: Eliot/Shawn
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language, violence, un-beta’d
Beta: If you feel the urge, drop me a line and I’ll send you the file.
Disclaimer: Psych and Leverage and SG:A do not belong to me, nor do any of the characters or places or quotes I'm borrowing for my nefarious slashing purposes. I make no profit from the aforesaid borrowing, or only in the currency of squeeing fangirly joy.
A/N: I wish to share my squeeing fangirly joy over the Kane concert me and J had tickets for on Sunday in Portland (finally, some good comes out of living in the pacific northwest! And I didn‘t die on the drive despite the storm and I managed to get up in time for classes Monday morning despite not making it back to my house till 3am Monday, because of said storm). It was so completely and utterly made of win (Kane and two rockabilly bands. And seriously, he looks taller on TV). I really just can’t say it any better than I did in my last post, which was: MOB OF YAY \o/\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/ (And now I have to stop talking about the actor while writing about the character because it’s creeping me the fuck out.)
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16.0 | Chapter 16.5 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21
***
“Colonel Sheppard,” the voice echoed in the room like the wrathful, if tinny, voice of God-with-a-big-G. It startled Shawn into paying attention to his surroundings again, rather than focusing in on John and his shiny knife with the bright red blood on it and the incessant mantra of Is he- he won’t- he’s not really going to- shit, yes he is running through Shawn’s head while he tried to suppress hysterical and inappropriate giggles. Because holding a gun on a guy being tortured was so far outside Shawn’s experience that his only recourse was hysteria.
While he wasn’t watching, the bland office had changed. The walls were a dull grey metal, as were the ceiling and floor, and the room was completely barren except for the four of them, Moreau, and the chair Moreau was duct taped to. All in all, the room gave off a vaguely submarine-ish vibe, which probably wasn’t helped by the small hatch-like door with the wheel thing in the middle of it (which, honestly, was something Shawn had though Hollywood had made up out of whole cloth, but apparently not. Or else someone’s interior decorator had seen way too many WWII movies).
And, son of a starfruit, that meant he’d totally missed being beamed up. Shawn scowled. Life was just so not fair.
***
It took Colonel Caldwell’s voice coming from the overhead speakers in the Daedalus’s Transit Room for John to realize that they’d been pulled out of the Trust’s skyscraper. “Motherfuck! Teyla!” he roared, whipping around to pin his glare on her, ignoring Caldwell for the moment. She was the only other person who’d been in the room with them who had the clearance to call for an extraction. She met his gaze calmly and didn’t flinch as he stalked towards her. “What the hell were you thinking? I had it handled,” he hissed at her, not quite under his breath.
“You do not need to become that man again, John,” she told him firmly in response. “I can see the path you are traveling down, and it is no longer necessary. Jesse needs his father back, not vengeance. Do not take his father from him again,” she warned him with that ominous voice that meant there’d be hell to pay if he didn’t listen. John glared at her, but flung his KA-BAR down in disgust, ignoring the sound of the bloody blade skittering across the brushed steel flooring until it came to rest in a corner of the barren room. She was right. As much as he hated it, she was right. He’d rather die and leave Jesse an orphan than be that guy again.
“It wasn’t your call,” he snarled at her. Just because she was right didn’t mean he had to like it. She only smiled tightly at him in response, her unspoken It was ringing loud in the silence between them.
“Colonel Sheppard!” Caldwell shouted over the Transit Room’s intercom, sounding like he was losing what little patience he’d had to begin with. John didn’t know how many times Caldwell had tried to get his attention, but it was apparently one too many.
“Colonel Caldwell,” John replied through gritted teeth.
“Sheppard, just what the hell have you stirred up?” Caldwell accused, and John clenched his jaw on the response that wanted to escape. “Last I heard, Colonel, you were supervising while civilians gathered information. I’d appreciate it if you would explain to me how a fact-finding mission requires extraction from a firefight.” Caldwell sounded about as happy as John felt at the moment.
John really just wanted to tell Caldwell where he could stick his explanation, but despite--or maybe because of--the fact they were now equal in rank, he managed to restrain himself. Steven Caldwell and he weren’t exactly the best of friends, but that didn’t give him leave to take his shit out on him. “Things went FUBAR in Houston, and I’ve got men down there still. I’d appreciate it if you’d send in some support or extract them.”
In John’s experience, the commanders who did well in a crisis were the ones who stayed calm and collected when the shit hit the fan, and Caldwell was one of them. John respected him for that, even if he didn’t like the guy. “Sending down two squads of Marines for backup; Charlie and Tango, they’re on channel two. Let your guys know friendlies are incoming.”
John tapped on his radio and filled Lorne in, letting him know which channel the Marines were on and arranging to rendezvous in Dallas after the cleanup. “And Sheppard,” Caldwell added after John had finished appraising Lorne, “I expect you to tell me just what the hell I just got myself into by helping you. Report to the bridge-”
A sudden movement from Moreau’s chair caught John’s attention, and he focused in on it just in time to see Eliot shove Shawn out of the way of a Zat blast and tackle Moreau and his chair to the ground. “Goddamn it,” John swore, leaping to pull Eliot off Moreau and deliver a well-placed kick to the head to take the Trust operative temporarily out of commission. “Colonel, I might be a few minutes. I’ve got a Trust operative down here that needs babysitting, as well as two civilians that probably need to sign non-disclosure agreements before they leave the Transit Room.”
John glared down at the now unconscious Moreau and offered a hand to Eliot to help him to his feet. “What guy keeps a disintegration ray gun tucked down the front of his pants?” John muttered to himself, reaching down to grab the Zat off the floor once he’d pulled Eliot to his feet. Eliot shrugged and smiled tightly at him.
The unfamiliar expression rang warning bells in John’s head. Before he could even open his mouth, though, Eliot cold cocked him in the face while John was still crouched down to pick up the Zat, knocking John to the floor on his hands and knees, the Zat sliding out of his hand to bump into Eliot’s feet. Eliot snatched it up and aimed it at John while John was still shaking off the punch. Eliot held the Zat on him while he freed John’s Barretta from John’s thigh holster, flicking the safety off with his thumb before aiming it at Shawn.
“El?” Shawn’s voice was full of confusion and fear, but John didn’t take his eyes off Eliot to see how Shawn was coping. Movement registered in John’s peripheral vision and Eliot took the Zat off John just long enough to send Teyla crumpling to the floor. A wave of relief washed briefly through him at the fact that Eliot had only shot Teyla once--she was still alive. But the relief was soon replaced with cold fear, because there was only one possible explanation that John could think of for what the hell was going on. When Eliot had tackled Moreau, he’d been in close contact with the operative for an extended period of time while he fought to get the Zat away from him. John swept his eyes over Eliot, searching for- there. Shawn said something, and when Eliot turned his head to look at him John caught a glimpse of the red line of an old-looking wound on the back of his neck, partially obscured by Eliot’s ponytail. Except that Eliot hadn‘t had a mark there earlier.
Great, just great. Not only was Moreau a child-threatening monster, he’d been a snake-head too. And now the poor guy that’d probably lived a pretty decent life before a snake took over his body was brain-dead, and Eliot was playing host to the thing that had threatened Jesse.
And, oh, right. The snake was on a spaceship with weapons that could probably destroy Earth if applied correctly. And it had hostages.
So, really, there was only one option. Even if the snake-head killed him for it, he could take comfort in the fact that the damn snake wasn’t going to get his hands on Jesse, because John knew Colonel Steven Caldwell well enough to know Caldwell would blow the ship before letting a Goa’uld take it. “Caldwell, Moreau’s snake just took over one of my civilians.” Eliot whipped around to fix him with glowing eyes and John felt the Zat blast fill his body with its horribly tickling pins and needles as he slumped down to join Teyla on the floor. The last thing John heard before the darkness of unconsciousness swept over him was a gunshot. But it was too soon for the cavalry to be there yet.
***
Eliot watched helplessly from a corner of his brain as his finger pulled the trigger of the alien gun, shooting a blob of crackling light at John, watching as it killed him like it had Teyla, screaming soundlessly while the other presence in his mind laughed with joy at his grief.
If it weren’t for the fact that he was handling the alien gun as if he’d used it countless times before, he’d suspect he’d finally just snapped--like Jake had 10 years ago after that mission in Columbia--but psychotic breaks didn’t impart skill with unfamiliar weaponry. Not to mention he remembered the snake burrowing into his neck in excruciating detail.
Eliot screamed and ranted and cursed to no effect, struggling against his mental prison, trying with every ounce of willpower to take his body back when Shawn’s face filled his field of vision. He fought, and he failed. Eliot watched his own hands tuck away the alien gun and raise the Berretta, aiming for that place right between Shawn’s eyes that marked a perfect headshot. He listened helplessly as his own voice told Shawn goodbye, and felt his finger squeeze the trigger.
And Eliot rejoiced fiercely when Shawn’s face hardened and fiery pain exploded in Eliot’s right shoulder. Eliot’s finger squeezed the trigger reflexively, but Shawn’s shot had thrown off Eliot’s aim, enough that the bullet impacted Shawn’s vest-protected chest instead of his forehead. Shawn grunted at the hit, and all Eliot felt was pride when Shawn stepped forward and cracked the butt of his P-90 against Eliot’s temple as blue light crackled between them.
***
Shawn woke up in a hospital bed, surrounded by blank white walls that just screamed ‘infirmary.’ His limbs were screaming at him with pins and needles, and his whole chest felt like one big bruise. The pins and needles was probably from being shot with one of those alien stun guns, he figured. He definitely knew why his chest hurt. He was never going to whine about Kevlar again, regardless of how hot or heavy it was or how unnecessary it seemed. He made to sit up and groaned, immediately aborting that plan. “What the hell is it with people and shooting me?” he asked the empty air rhetorically. There was a rustling over to his side, and he rolled his head over far enough to see Eliot in the next bed over, looking back at him. Shawn froze, unable to take his eyes off Eliot as his fight or flight instincts shrieked inside his head.
“Hey,” Eliot said weakly, and Shawn relaxed slightly. It wasn’t the weird booming bass from before, which might not mean anything, but. But. Eliot’s eyes weren’t cold and flat and dead anymore, either. Shawn relaxed slightly. Whatever the fuck had happened, Eliot seemed to be himself again.
Still, Shawn couldn’t make himself say anything back. He offered Eliot a fake-feeling smile, and returned to staring up at the ceiling. Eliot didn’t try to get him to talk again, and the silence quickly grew awkward. But, really, what do you say to someone who may or may not be your boyfriend-type person who’d shot you and tried to kill you while being possessed by an alien? Heloise wasn’t very helpful in this situation. Shawn made a mental note to write her a letter of complaint. After a few more minutes of awkward silence, the pins and needles feeling in his limbs started to fade. He was really getting tired of finding new and different ways to get tasered. Speaking of which. He rolled his head back to find Eliot still watching him and fixed him with a glare. “I blame you.” Eliot blinked at him in mute surprise. Shawn just talked over him when he opened his mouth to protest. “Every time I get tased, you’re there. Every single time. And that’s three times so far in less than a year--less than a month, really, if you don‘t count when we weren‘t in the same state, which I don‘t. What the hell, dude? Stop it.”
“Stop what?” Eliot asked in confusion.
“Getting me tased,” Shawn glared at him, trying not to grin, “or you’re sleeping on the couch for a week and not getting head again, like, ever.” Because while they still had to finish that earlier conversation, Shawn was pretty sure he knew now how the rest of it was gonna go.
Eliot opened his mouth to say something, then paled as someone cleared their throat. Shawn turned to focus on the bald and uniformed person staring at them. The military types seemed to like their stoic expressions, Shawn had noticed. This one was looking especially stoic as he shot Shawn a glance and turned to face Eliot. “Eliot Spencer? Colonel Steven Caldwell. I’m happy to report the extraction was successful, though the doctors say your neck and upper spine will be sore for a while, and not to move too much if you don’t have to. Now, I know the symbiote wasn’t with you very long, but we have a few people who’d like to talk to you and see if you remember anything useful. Sometimes the symbiotes unintentionally share information with their hosts without realizing it, and the debriefing will help determine if that happened with you, and whether anything you may have learned could be useful to us. One of our psychologists will drop by to talk to you tonight, and we’ll schedule a debriefing when the infirmary releases you.” With a sharp nod, the uniformed person turned to leave. Eliot’s face was still white as chalk for some reason, though. And then the uniformed person turned around and added with a smirk, “And son? You’re not in the military anymore. We no longer give a flying fuck where you put your dick,” before leaving.
Eliot turned bright red. Shawn stifled a snicker. Oh, yeah. Eliot was himself again.
***
Chapter 23
Author: neensz
Word Count: ~57,300 so far
Pairing: Eliot/Shawn
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language, violence, un-beta’d
Beta: If you feel the urge, drop me a line and I’ll send you the file.
Disclaimer: Psych and Leverage and SG:A do not belong to me, nor do any of the characters or places or quotes I'm borrowing for my nefarious slashing purposes. I make no profit from the aforesaid borrowing, or only in the currency of squeeing fangirly joy.
A/N: I wish to share my squeeing fangirly joy over the Kane concert me and J had tickets for on Sunday in Portland (finally, some good comes out of living in the pacific northwest! And I didn‘t die on the drive despite the storm and I managed to get up in time for classes Monday morning despite not making it back to my house till 3am Monday, because of said storm). It was so completely and utterly made of win (Kane and two rockabilly bands. And seriously, he looks taller on TV). I really just can’t say it any better than I did in my last post, which was: MOB OF YAY \o/\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/\o/ (And now I have to stop talking about the actor while writing about the character because it’s creeping me the fuck out.)
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16.0 | Chapter 16.5 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21
***
“Colonel Sheppard,” the voice echoed in the room like the wrathful, if tinny, voice of God-with-a-big-G. It startled Shawn into paying attention to his surroundings again, rather than focusing in on John and his shiny knife with the bright red blood on it and the incessant mantra of Is he- he won’t- he’s not really going to- shit, yes he is running through Shawn’s head while he tried to suppress hysterical and inappropriate giggles. Because holding a gun on a guy being tortured was so far outside Shawn’s experience that his only recourse was hysteria.
While he wasn’t watching, the bland office had changed. The walls were a dull grey metal, as were the ceiling and floor, and the room was completely barren except for the four of them, Moreau, and the chair Moreau was duct taped to. All in all, the room gave off a vaguely submarine-ish vibe, which probably wasn’t helped by the small hatch-like door with the wheel thing in the middle of it (which, honestly, was something Shawn had though Hollywood had made up out of whole cloth, but apparently not. Or else someone’s interior decorator had seen way too many WWII movies).
And, son of a starfruit, that meant he’d totally missed being beamed up. Shawn scowled. Life was just so not fair.
***
It took Colonel Caldwell’s voice coming from the overhead speakers in the Daedalus’s Transit Room for John to realize that they’d been pulled out of the Trust’s skyscraper. “Motherfuck! Teyla!” he roared, whipping around to pin his glare on her, ignoring Caldwell for the moment. She was the only other person who’d been in the room with them who had the clearance to call for an extraction. She met his gaze calmly and didn’t flinch as he stalked towards her. “What the hell were you thinking? I had it handled,” he hissed at her, not quite under his breath.
“You do not need to become that man again, John,” she told him firmly in response. “I can see the path you are traveling down, and it is no longer necessary. Jesse needs his father back, not vengeance. Do not take his father from him again,” she warned him with that ominous voice that meant there’d be hell to pay if he didn’t listen. John glared at her, but flung his KA-BAR down in disgust, ignoring the sound of the bloody blade skittering across the brushed steel flooring until it came to rest in a corner of the barren room. She was right. As much as he hated it, she was right. He’d rather die and leave Jesse an orphan than be that guy again.
“It wasn’t your call,” he snarled at her. Just because she was right didn’t mean he had to like it. She only smiled tightly at him in response, her unspoken It was ringing loud in the silence between them.
“Colonel Sheppard!” Caldwell shouted over the Transit Room’s intercom, sounding like he was losing what little patience he’d had to begin with. John didn’t know how many times Caldwell had tried to get his attention, but it was apparently one too many.
“Colonel Caldwell,” John replied through gritted teeth.
“Sheppard, just what the hell have you stirred up?” Caldwell accused, and John clenched his jaw on the response that wanted to escape. “Last I heard, Colonel, you were supervising while civilians gathered information. I’d appreciate it if you would explain to me how a fact-finding mission requires extraction from a firefight.” Caldwell sounded about as happy as John felt at the moment.
John really just wanted to tell Caldwell where he could stick his explanation, but despite--or maybe because of--the fact they were now equal in rank, he managed to restrain himself. Steven Caldwell and he weren’t exactly the best of friends, but that didn’t give him leave to take his shit out on him. “Things went FUBAR in Houston, and I’ve got men down there still. I’d appreciate it if you’d send in some support or extract them.”
In John’s experience, the commanders who did well in a crisis were the ones who stayed calm and collected when the shit hit the fan, and Caldwell was one of them. John respected him for that, even if he didn’t like the guy. “Sending down two squads of Marines for backup; Charlie and Tango, they’re on channel two. Let your guys know friendlies are incoming.”
John tapped on his radio and filled Lorne in, letting him know which channel the Marines were on and arranging to rendezvous in Dallas after the cleanup. “And Sheppard,” Caldwell added after John had finished appraising Lorne, “I expect you to tell me just what the hell I just got myself into by helping you. Report to the bridge-”
A sudden movement from Moreau’s chair caught John’s attention, and he focused in on it just in time to see Eliot shove Shawn out of the way of a Zat blast and tackle Moreau and his chair to the ground. “Goddamn it,” John swore, leaping to pull Eliot off Moreau and deliver a well-placed kick to the head to take the Trust operative temporarily out of commission. “Colonel, I might be a few minutes. I’ve got a Trust operative down here that needs babysitting, as well as two civilians that probably need to sign non-disclosure agreements before they leave the Transit Room.”
John glared down at the now unconscious Moreau and offered a hand to Eliot to help him to his feet. “What guy keeps a disintegration ray gun tucked down the front of his pants?” John muttered to himself, reaching down to grab the Zat off the floor once he’d pulled Eliot to his feet. Eliot shrugged and smiled tightly at him.
The unfamiliar expression rang warning bells in John’s head. Before he could even open his mouth, though, Eliot cold cocked him in the face while John was still crouched down to pick up the Zat, knocking John to the floor on his hands and knees, the Zat sliding out of his hand to bump into Eliot’s feet. Eliot snatched it up and aimed it at John while John was still shaking off the punch. Eliot held the Zat on him while he freed John’s Barretta from John’s thigh holster, flicking the safety off with his thumb before aiming it at Shawn.
“El?” Shawn’s voice was full of confusion and fear, but John didn’t take his eyes off Eliot to see how Shawn was coping. Movement registered in John’s peripheral vision and Eliot took the Zat off John just long enough to send Teyla crumpling to the floor. A wave of relief washed briefly through him at the fact that Eliot had only shot Teyla once--she was still alive. But the relief was soon replaced with cold fear, because there was only one possible explanation that John could think of for what the hell was going on. When Eliot had tackled Moreau, he’d been in close contact with the operative for an extended period of time while he fought to get the Zat away from him. John swept his eyes over Eliot, searching for- there. Shawn said something, and when Eliot turned his head to look at him John caught a glimpse of the red line of an old-looking wound on the back of his neck, partially obscured by Eliot’s ponytail. Except that Eliot hadn‘t had a mark there earlier.
Great, just great. Not only was Moreau a child-threatening monster, he’d been a snake-head too. And now the poor guy that’d probably lived a pretty decent life before a snake took over his body was brain-dead, and Eliot was playing host to the thing that had threatened Jesse.
And, oh, right. The snake was on a spaceship with weapons that could probably destroy Earth if applied correctly. And it had hostages.
So, really, there was only one option. Even if the snake-head killed him for it, he could take comfort in the fact that the damn snake wasn’t going to get his hands on Jesse, because John knew Colonel Steven Caldwell well enough to know Caldwell would blow the ship before letting a Goa’uld take it. “Caldwell, Moreau’s snake just took over one of my civilians.” Eliot whipped around to fix him with glowing eyes and John felt the Zat blast fill his body with its horribly tickling pins and needles as he slumped down to join Teyla on the floor. The last thing John heard before the darkness of unconsciousness swept over him was a gunshot. But it was too soon for the cavalry to be there yet.
***
Eliot watched helplessly from a corner of his brain as his finger pulled the trigger of the alien gun, shooting a blob of crackling light at John, watching as it killed him like it had Teyla, screaming soundlessly while the other presence in his mind laughed with joy at his grief.
If it weren’t for the fact that he was handling the alien gun as if he’d used it countless times before, he’d suspect he’d finally just snapped--like Jake had 10 years ago after that mission in Columbia--but psychotic breaks didn’t impart skill with unfamiliar weaponry. Not to mention he remembered the snake burrowing into his neck in excruciating detail.
Eliot screamed and ranted and cursed to no effect, struggling against his mental prison, trying with every ounce of willpower to take his body back when Shawn’s face filled his field of vision. He fought, and he failed. Eliot watched his own hands tuck away the alien gun and raise the Berretta, aiming for that place right between Shawn’s eyes that marked a perfect headshot. He listened helplessly as his own voice told Shawn goodbye, and felt his finger squeeze the trigger.
And Eliot rejoiced fiercely when Shawn’s face hardened and fiery pain exploded in Eliot’s right shoulder. Eliot’s finger squeezed the trigger reflexively, but Shawn’s shot had thrown off Eliot’s aim, enough that the bullet impacted Shawn’s vest-protected chest instead of his forehead. Shawn grunted at the hit, and all Eliot felt was pride when Shawn stepped forward and cracked the butt of his P-90 against Eliot’s temple as blue light crackled between them.
***
Shawn woke up in a hospital bed, surrounded by blank white walls that just screamed ‘infirmary.’ His limbs were screaming at him with pins and needles, and his whole chest felt like one big bruise. The pins and needles was probably from being shot with one of those alien stun guns, he figured. He definitely knew why his chest hurt. He was never going to whine about Kevlar again, regardless of how hot or heavy it was or how unnecessary it seemed. He made to sit up and groaned, immediately aborting that plan. “What the hell is it with people and shooting me?” he asked the empty air rhetorically. There was a rustling over to his side, and he rolled his head over far enough to see Eliot in the next bed over, looking back at him. Shawn froze, unable to take his eyes off Eliot as his fight or flight instincts shrieked inside his head.
“Hey,” Eliot said weakly, and Shawn relaxed slightly. It wasn’t the weird booming bass from before, which might not mean anything, but. But. Eliot’s eyes weren’t cold and flat and dead anymore, either. Shawn relaxed slightly. Whatever the fuck had happened, Eliot seemed to be himself again.
Still, Shawn couldn’t make himself say anything back. He offered Eliot a fake-feeling smile, and returned to staring up at the ceiling. Eliot didn’t try to get him to talk again, and the silence quickly grew awkward. But, really, what do you say to someone who may or may not be your boyfriend-type person who’d shot you and tried to kill you while being possessed by an alien? Heloise wasn’t very helpful in this situation. Shawn made a mental note to write her a letter of complaint. After a few more minutes of awkward silence, the pins and needles feeling in his limbs started to fade. He was really getting tired of finding new and different ways to get tasered. Speaking of which. He rolled his head back to find Eliot still watching him and fixed him with a glare. “I blame you.” Eliot blinked at him in mute surprise. Shawn just talked over him when he opened his mouth to protest. “Every time I get tased, you’re there. Every single time. And that’s three times so far in less than a year--less than a month, really, if you don‘t count when we weren‘t in the same state, which I don‘t. What the hell, dude? Stop it.”
“Stop what?” Eliot asked in confusion.
“Getting me tased,” Shawn glared at him, trying not to grin, “or you’re sleeping on the couch for a week and not getting head again, like, ever.” Because while they still had to finish that earlier conversation, Shawn was pretty sure he knew now how the rest of it was gonna go.
Eliot opened his mouth to say something, then paled as someone cleared their throat. Shawn turned to focus on the bald and uniformed person staring at them. The military types seemed to like their stoic expressions, Shawn had noticed. This one was looking especially stoic as he shot Shawn a glance and turned to face Eliot. “Eliot Spencer? Colonel Steven Caldwell. I’m happy to report the extraction was successful, though the doctors say your neck and upper spine will be sore for a while, and not to move too much if you don’t have to. Now, I know the symbiote wasn’t with you very long, but we have a few people who’d like to talk to you and see if you remember anything useful. Sometimes the symbiotes unintentionally share information with their hosts without realizing it, and the debriefing will help determine if that happened with you, and whether anything you may have learned could be useful to us. One of our psychologists will drop by to talk to you tonight, and we’ll schedule a debriefing when the infirmary releases you.” With a sharp nod, the uniformed person turned to leave. Eliot’s face was still white as chalk for some reason, though. And then the uniformed person turned around and added with a smirk, “And son? You’re not in the military anymore. We no longer give a flying fuck where you put your dick,” before leaving.
Eliot turned bright red. Shawn stifled a snicker. Oh, yeah. Eliot was himself again.
***
Chapter 23