Fic: Fragility (Leverage, Gen, PG)
Title: Fragility
Author: sheryden
Rating: PG
Word Count: 794
Characters/Pairing: Gen, Eliot-centric
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Mention of past combat scenarios
Disclaimer: Not mine. If it was, Eliot would be shirtless in half the episodes.
Summary: After his PTSD becomes an issue, Eliot is ashamed to face the team.
Author's Notes: Written for angst_bingo for the prompt "Post-traumatic stress disorder."
Back when Eliot was still wearing a uniform, he’d served with a young dude named Robey St. Claire, a little guy with red hair and freckles. Not much to him, really, other than boundless enthusiasm. Eliot had never much liked the guy. He’d always been too damn cheerful. There they were, surrounded by death and gore, and Robey had still never lost his damn optimism. To be honest, it had always creeped Eliot out.
One day, Robey had taken a couple of bullets to the gut. Eliot could still remember the thud his knees had made when they’d hit the ground. There had been no optimism out of Robey that day. No, he’d died crying and wailing in Eliot’s arms.
At the time, Eliot had been twenty years old and scared shitless. Surrounded by a firestorm of bullets, he’d hung onto Robey’s body, even after life had left it, desperate for something solid to cling to in the midst of chaos.
Later on, when Eliot was trying to pick up the pieces of his sanity, he’d locked Robey’s death in a box somewhere in his mind where he kept such dark moments. Most of the time, he kept a lid on that box, and he trudged through life a little scarred but relatively intact. Every once in a while, though, something-maybe a song or a sound or smell-would shake loose a memory, and Eliot would crumble.
***
Eliot was sitting in the park propped up against a tree. He had his cell phone in one hand and with the other hand, he was picking at the hem of his shirt. He felt a little less shaky than he had a couple of hours ago, but he was still twitchy as hell.
When his cell buzzed at him telling him he had a call, Eliot bit his lip and glanced down at the name on the illuminated screen. It was Nate again. He and Sophie and Hardison had been trading off for almost two hours. Nate would call, then Sophie would do the honors. And periodically, Hardison would shoot him a text. Parker hadn’t done any of the above, but Eliot figured she was probably camped out in his living room or digging through his fridge for a snack. He hadn’t read the texts or answered the calls, but he could guess that they were well-intentioned attempts at comfort. Eventually, he might accept the comfort, but for now, he was hiding out in a park watching some guy toss a Frisbee at a German shepherd.
Two hours ago, the lid had come off of Eliot’s box. He wasn’t sure what had triggered the episode, but all of a sudden, something inside him had snapped, and he’d been twenty years old again and still covered with the blood and memory of Robey St. Claire. For a brief, terrifying moment, he’d completely lost it, and he hadn’t known where he was. The fear had gripped him by the throat and hadn’t let go until Nate’s voice had brought him out of it.
The team had seen Eliot lose his temper before, and they’d experienced his occasional dark moods. Fear, though… abject terror. Eliot had never been that raw and vulnerable in front of the team before, and he’d slipped out of Nate’s place as soon as he’d stopped shaking enough to hold his car keys.
It wasn’t so much that Eliot didn’t want to talk about what had happened to Robey. He’d spill his guts about it if they asked. It might even help a little to get it out. What he couldn’t handle, though, was the pity and uneasiness he knew would accompany the questions.
He was the protector. He was the one who stood in the line of fire to safeguard the rest of the team. He was the pillar of strength, dammit. And yet, earlier that day, he’d curled up in a ball next to Nate’s dining room table and tried to shelter himself from bullets that only existed in his mind. He’d shown a level of helplessness that he’d never wanted the others to know he was capable of, and now, the idea of facing them again… well, he’d rather be on a battlefield. At least he knew how to cope with that.
After a few minutes, his phone buzzed again. This time it was Sophie. Letting out a breath, he shoved it out of sight and rubbed his eyes. He knew he’d have to go home soon, or Hardison would pull out some fancy gizmo and track his ass down. Groaning, he stretched out his legs and combed his fingers through the cool grass as tried to shake off the shame that was throbbing on his cheeks and in his gut.
Master Fic List
***
Author: sheryden
Rating: PG
Word Count: 794
Characters/Pairing: Gen, Eliot-centric
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Mention of past combat scenarios
Disclaimer: Not mine. If it was, Eliot would be shirtless in half the episodes.
Summary: After his PTSD becomes an issue, Eliot is ashamed to face the team.
Author's Notes: Written for angst_bingo for the prompt "Post-traumatic stress disorder."
Back when Eliot was still wearing a uniform, he’d served with a young dude named Robey St. Claire, a little guy with red hair and freckles. Not much to him, really, other than boundless enthusiasm. Eliot had never much liked the guy. He’d always been too damn cheerful. There they were, surrounded by death and gore, and Robey had still never lost his damn optimism. To be honest, it had always creeped Eliot out.
One day, Robey had taken a couple of bullets to the gut. Eliot could still remember the thud his knees had made when they’d hit the ground. There had been no optimism out of Robey that day. No, he’d died crying and wailing in Eliot’s arms.
At the time, Eliot had been twenty years old and scared shitless. Surrounded by a firestorm of bullets, he’d hung onto Robey’s body, even after life had left it, desperate for something solid to cling to in the midst of chaos.
Later on, when Eliot was trying to pick up the pieces of his sanity, he’d locked Robey’s death in a box somewhere in his mind where he kept such dark moments. Most of the time, he kept a lid on that box, and he trudged through life a little scarred but relatively intact. Every once in a while, though, something-maybe a song or a sound or smell-would shake loose a memory, and Eliot would crumble.
***
Eliot was sitting in the park propped up against a tree. He had his cell phone in one hand and with the other hand, he was picking at the hem of his shirt. He felt a little less shaky than he had a couple of hours ago, but he was still twitchy as hell.
When his cell buzzed at him telling him he had a call, Eliot bit his lip and glanced down at the name on the illuminated screen. It was Nate again. He and Sophie and Hardison had been trading off for almost two hours. Nate would call, then Sophie would do the honors. And periodically, Hardison would shoot him a text. Parker hadn’t done any of the above, but Eliot figured she was probably camped out in his living room or digging through his fridge for a snack. He hadn’t read the texts or answered the calls, but he could guess that they were well-intentioned attempts at comfort. Eventually, he might accept the comfort, but for now, he was hiding out in a park watching some guy toss a Frisbee at a German shepherd.
Two hours ago, the lid had come off of Eliot’s box. He wasn’t sure what had triggered the episode, but all of a sudden, something inside him had snapped, and he’d been twenty years old again and still covered with the blood and memory of Robey St. Claire. For a brief, terrifying moment, he’d completely lost it, and he hadn’t known where he was. The fear had gripped him by the throat and hadn’t let go until Nate’s voice had brought him out of it.
The team had seen Eliot lose his temper before, and they’d experienced his occasional dark moods. Fear, though… abject terror. Eliot had never been that raw and vulnerable in front of the team before, and he’d slipped out of Nate’s place as soon as he’d stopped shaking enough to hold his car keys.
It wasn’t so much that Eliot didn’t want to talk about what had happened to Robey. He’d spill his guts about it if they asked. It might even help a little to get it out. What he couldn’t handle, though, was the pity and uneasiness he knew would accompany the questions.
He was the protector. He was the one who stood in the line of fire to safeguard the rest of the team. He was the pillar of strength, dammit. And yet, earlier that day, he’d curled up in a ball next to Nate’s dining room table and tried to shelter himself from bullets that only existed in his mind. He’d shown a level of helplessness that he’d never wanted the others to know he was capable of, and now, the idea of facing them again… well, he’d rather be on a battlefield. At least he knew how to cope with that.
After a few minutes, his phone buzzed again. This time it was Sophie. Letting out a breath, he shoved it out of sight and rubbed his eyes. He knew he’d have to go home soon, or Hardison would pull out some fancy gizmo and track his ass down. Groaning, he stretched out his legs and combed his fingers through the cool grass as tried to shake off the shame that was throbbing on his cheeks and in his gut.
Master Fic List
***