The Season Six Job, Ch.19
Title: The Season Six Job
Characters: Nate Ford, Eliot Spencer, Alec Hardison, Parker, Sophie Deveraux, Patrick Bonnano, OC
Fandom: Leverage
Spoilers: None - takes place before Season 4 finale, they're still in Boston
Warnings: None for now. No network presidents were harmed during the writing of this fic.
Disclaimer: I do not own blah blah blah
Author's note: A sequel to 'The Occam's Razor Job', following cca one week after. (Parttwo in The Texas Mountain Laurel Series). After all this shit TNT put us
through, there was only one way to deal with it - see what The Team
would do when faced with TV Network. No need to read TORJ first, all you
need to know will be explained.
Special, special, special, special thanks to trappercreekd for Betaing :D
Banner for Chapter 19
***
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Eliot tried to wait until Hardison’s and Parker’s footsteps disappeared at the other end of the room, before blindly reaching for the railings, but he managed to stay upright only for a few seconds. Holding something firm helped when his knees buckled, he could ease the fall into a slow lowering.
Four minutes, right… he needed four days to recover from this, but he had to get rid of them as soon as possible. They would be slow - Parker was in the worst shape he had ever seen her, and Hardison was practically useless in this dark, with dizziness and double vision. They’d need three times as much time to reach the other end, if they didn’t get stuck somewhere in this fucking labyrinth.
He couldn’t walk. The good thing was, he didn’t need to. Those five would be here in the less than a minute, according to the sounds they made, closer every second, and at the moment they realized he was still here, they would stay until they found him.
By the time they spread out and started to search the endless rows of pens, garbage and ruined walls, he would be able to move and go around them and behind their backs. That’d do.
After that, he had a much more demanding task in front of him - go all the way up to the ground level. Fucking stairs. He remembered two large sets of stairs connecting the two levels, and he would find a way through the rooms that connected them.
Okay, one problem at a time.
Compared to That Night, this was nothing. He was just weak, nothing more. When he played hide and seek in the slam with Chileans chasing him, he was literally dying - and he managed to escape them. Just when he thought that, he became aware of the mistake he made, when the darkness around him changed and the remaining traces of the gunpowder still present in the air became stronger.
Fuck.
He could feel his pulse speeding up as he tried to stay focused, to stay here and now, but the damage was done, and disorientation hit him hard. For a few seconds he couldn’t decipher where he was - being chased through a slam in complete darkness, exhausted to the point he wished he was dead, or in the slaughterhouse, in the same darkness, and feeling pretty much the same.
Calm down, just breathe.
He forced himself up on his feet, dismissing all the plans and predictions - he had to move, do something, anything, that would return him back to the present.
He was half way across the giant place when the screaming voice in his head finally broke through the fog and dizziness, warning him of mistakes, so he slowed down before he jumped right in front of five armed men. Shit, they were close, on this level now, and he could expect them in seconds.
He lost track of the minutes and had no idea how far Hardison and Parker were on the opposite end, so he pulled a few rusty poles from the railings, letting them roll on the floor, making as much noise as he could. He blindly retreated deeper into the rows when the first torch lights started to penetrate the dark.
He was too weak to raise the dam in his mind, to stop the flood of images and sounds. A calm place in his mind kept talking that this was expected - a conversation with Hardison brought all that shit too close to the surface, and the darkness, gunshots and pain deranged him - but the voice couldn’t tell him how to fucking stop it.
He continued to walk, slowly, using one pole to make noise, and he could see the flashes that were gathering to him.
Concentration on the endless turns and pens he had to avoid lost him even further, and he only managed to keep track of basic directions, avoiding the part where the two of them disappeared.
“Stay where you are!”
He turned around to face a man who advanced around one wall, and found himself staring into the smiling, calm, very alive face of Gary Barclay. Cool. Hallucinations again. Missed them a lot. He almost laughed when his first thought was to bring Parker somehow, to prove to her, once and for all, that he didn’t cut off his head and put it in a box. Only after that he moved, waiting for the storming attacker. He had no idea what he had done, his body went into auto pilot for a few seconds - which was good, considering the pudding his brain was - and the man went flying over the half of the room, and stayed down.
This one came from the wrong direction, they had spread out too much and started to surround him, and it was time to retreat. He reached the first stairs that should take him up one more level, when he remembered he could have searched the fallen man for weapons. Well, he knew he would make mistakes, that was expected… just as long he was aware of them, he should be fine.
Before he started to climb - and he hoped he remembered the path through the upper story - he realized that this one was Goon D. They might all be awake by now.
He groped until he found a door, and slammed them as hard as he could, sending a sound louder than a gunshot, just in case. Parker and Hardison were probably already out, but he couldn’t risk them being followed and caught. Not now. He waited until he heard quick steps heading in his direction, then continued.
He couldn’t count those steps - their sound was covered by the gunshots echoing in his mind.
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***
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Lucille was a van, for crying out loud, and vans weren’t supposed to escape from SUVs on their tails… especially not from this one - Florence peeked in the rearview mirror at the nasty looking, powerful machine that was roaring after them. The road they were driving on was too narrow and the killers couldn’t align with them to shoot or to try to throw them off the road, but that could change… in fact, that was changing.
They must have been at least one mile away from the complex already, and the road was becoming straight, better, and wider. Nah, in the end it wasn’t making any difference, the SUV could outrun them both on a highway, and on a muddy forest path.
“Of course not,” Sophie answered to someone and Florence put her earbud in again, catching the end of Nate’s sentence. “… completely sure?”
“Yes. Don’t worry. Just do your part, we’ll be okay.”
Florence blinked, glaring at her and her light smile.
“Parker called Nate, she and Hardison are out. We’re supposed to pick them up somewhere behind the complex, they’ll go through the woods to the road. Eliot is still inside, but he’ll be out, probably, by the time we meet Nate.”
Florence took one long, long breath. “Sophie, we are being chased away from that point… and I don’t see how we can escape those guys in the SUV. I think our best chance is to continue and drive until we find the nearest village or town, and go directly to the police station.”
Sophie smiled, speeding up, looking right in front of her. “Good plan,” she said lightly. “It only has one mistake… we are not being chased, darling. We are simply stopping them from joining the others at the complex.”
“Okay, if you like to think positive, I won’t argue with that,” she sighed, noticing the slip in the grifter’s concentration; she started to slow down, looking more at the woods on the both sides of the road, than in front of her. “But I still-”
“I suggest you start screaming. That releases the tension and helps with stress,” Sophie cut off her words.
“Screaming? Why the hell should I-” Sophie gave her no warning, she just violently turned the wheel, and Lucille almost jumped up in the air, going from the main road to a barely visible path between two trees, with just enough room to pull through. Fuck, she screamed. She could hear branches screeching on their roof and on both sides. “What are you - So-… Sophie, they are in an SUV! They are much better for this kind of - Jesus, slow down, you’ll kill us - this is a fucking van!!”
The grifter just grinned - an extremely disturbing sight. Florence could do nothing except clutch at her seat, trying not to bump too hard against the door with Lucille’s violent jerks - it was just a matter of time before they would get stuck in the mud, or crash into a fallen tree - going onto an unknown path when being chased by someone was lunatic. And how was this helping? Lucille struggled, slower and slower, while the SUV followed them with ease. They were further from the place they had to go, and they would end up killed, and nobody would ever-
“Hold on.” Sophie’s warning sounded ominous, but the reality was much worse than her expectations. She hit the brakes and dug the van in the mud, changed gears and went back, directly into the approaching SUV.
Florence bit off a scream and curled into the seat, waiting for the impact that never came… just the agonizing roar of an overwrought engine, and a loud crash when the SUV, avoiding them, turned abruptly off the narrow path and crashed into a tree.
Sophie didn’t even blink, she continued to drive backwards, passing the car turned on its side, choosing her way with only two small mirrors, and Florence felt her eyes widening in horror… she wouldn’t dare take this road even on a bike, to say nothing about half blindly driving a giant van backwards.
She wasn’t able to form any word until they reached the main road again, when Sophie turned the van around and went back to the complex.
“Remind me to distract Hardison from examining the scratches,” was only Sophie’s interjection.
“Yes, Ma’am,” Florence squeaked.
Sophie raised one dark eyebrow, and winked.
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***
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Jesus, Betsy would bitch him out about his stress levels again. For days.
His heart beat was too rapid to be counted, and climbing each stair was a demanding task that needed at least five seconds to execute. Every other stair was invisible, they simply disappeared when his vision blackened out. Eliot wasn’t quite sure if he was making any progress; as far as he knew, he might be just standing. Or lying down.
With his mind playing tricks on him, he couldn’t trust anything he saw or felt.
Five times he almost stumbled, though he could see everything pretty well because those stairs opened into the ground level with huge windows, and dim light was coming through the holes in the walls. He felt like he'd been walking for hours, though he knew that outside was still just evening - dark and stormy, but with enough daylight to see.
The man that jumped him didn’t make a mistake and yell at him to stop like the last one did. This one sneaked silently, grabbed his shoulder and turned him to face a gun.
They were supposed to be one level below, his slow mind processed, but then he recognized him. Goon A - clearly awake. And clever enough to go up and wait him at the only entrance he knew about.
If this was Goon A... a warning thought formed in his mind.
He froze.
His gun was just ten inches from his face but he did nothing, he just stared into him, unable to move his arms. This could be Hardison, or Parker. Last time he killed the man with Nate’s face, with Nate’s voice, knowing it wasn’t him, but now he knew nothing. He stood frozen, unable to force himself to move.
Just one second before he pulled the trigger - and he knew that exactly - Goon A’s jacket exploded. Okay, maybe this wasn’t Hardison or Parker, somehow exploding jackets were not connected to them; Jesus, he was really completely out of it, he couldn’t believe the crap that was floating around in his brain - and he just watched the flames that burst from his pocket, trying to decipher the riddle. Goon A seemed to be surprised as well because his scream sounded more scared than pained. He turned his gun - again - on him, but something got in the way, jerking and twisting the hand with the gun, and the fired bullet went by his right shoulder. Goon A was spun in a familiar move, and he disappeared from his sight along with the burning jacket.
He should turn his head to see where he ended up, but that was too exhausting. Instead he just blinked, once. That was tiresome, too.
The thing that had knocked the man down stood in front of him, with wild eyes in a strangely ashen face. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Ah, Hardison. Half shouting, half squeaking Hardison. “Are you trying to kill yourself?!”
What a stupid question. No, he was pretty sure he wasn’t.
If he started to list what was wrong with him, he would never stop. He stayed silent.
“The hitter is the one who can deal with unexpected attacks, and get out alive? Did I remember it correctly? What was this, Eliot, huh?! You just, just… fuck, if we weren’t close…” Hardison sounded furious and scared. He couldn’t quite understand why, though, what was so disturbing in all of this, except that flaming jacket. Hardison put both of his hands on his shoulders, concentrated until he found his face, and stared at him as if he expected him to say something.
“What?” he whispered.
“What?! You’re asking me what…” Hardison moaned in frustration, but he let him go. “C’mon, let’s get the hell out of here.”
He knew they had to go, but his mind refused to cooperate, he didn’t know where, and why. Just one thought was clear. “Please, tell me… that you didn’t escape through one exit… just to go around the building, and enter again?”
“You weren’t coming out,” he said as if that explained it.
“You’re an idiot.”
Hardison just spread his arms in a helpless gesture. That was too much. He opened his mouth to tell him everything he thought about the utter stupidity of that, but the ground moved under him, and Hardison faded. And disappeared. He had no idea what just happened, why everything was black again, and where the hell the two of them had gone. Most of all, why he could still hear him speaking.
After some time he just gave up and put their voices somewhere behind him. The burning jacket, in fact, occupied the most of his thoughts.
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***
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The next thing Eliot felt was something cold and wet on his face, and he cursed and moved it away, but the thing was entwined in his hair and stopped him. Stopped him from doing what?
“Don’t move.” Parker’s voice was close to him and he could see her now - she was doing something with a branch and wet leaves around his face. She pulled it from his hair. She even smiled. “Here, we can go.”
Everything was dark - yep, stormy evenings usually are, you moron - but he could clearly see bushes and trees all around them. He was standing; Hardison’s hand was around his waist, he was obviously directing his steps. He took one deep breath. The sweet scent of wet soil, torn leaves and rain in the air cleared his mind more than anything.
“Knock, knock… everybody home?” the hacker grinned, looking somewhere beside him. “If we knew that a threat to your hair would get you together, I would have told Parker to pull.”
“Ten inches to the left,” he said. His own voice sounded strange.
Hardison moved his head in the given direction. “Ah, there you are,” he grinned again when he focused. “Though, the other Eliot looked softer. Are you with us again? Can you count to five?”
“One broken finger, two broken fingers… Can you?”
“One duck by the pond, two ducks by the pond, three-”
“Stop it,” he growled, shaking off his hand, regaining his balance. He could stand, for now, though everything was swimming around him. “Where are we?”
“Hundred meters away from the fence - going through the woods to the road - Sophie will pick us up when she gets rid of something.”
“Sophie? How did you-?”
“Parker knew Nate’s number. Apparently, she knows all our numbers, though I’ll still check that to believe that someone actually remembered numb-”
“And we are almost there,” Parker said quietly. “C’mon, just a few meters, and you can rest.”
Parker sounded… responsible and serious. He blinked, staring at her. Hardison chuckled. “Yep, whiskey is better than the happy pills.”
Nope, it was just fear; he was out of everything, though he obviously walked, and Hardison’s brain was clearly still bouncing around in his skull - she was the one that got them out and led them through the woods. Responsibility was a bitch, he knew that.
He shook his head to clear everything, which wasn’t such a bright idea, but it worked for now; at least he could walk, Hardison didn’t need to drag him along. Walking through the bushes and mud was worse than swimming, yet Parker was right. They passed the last five meters and they were on the road. He even managed to stop Hardison who was heading right toward the last tree, and turned him in the right direction.
“Now we wait,” Hardison cheerfully said, sitting on the wet grass, resting his head on the tree he almost hit, and they all followed him. Not cheerfully, of course. There was nothing cheerful in the awful rain; he was freezing already, and all three of them were shaking.
Hardison put Parker in the middle and pulled her closer into a hug, though it was doubtful how much heat he could provide, wet and cold as all of them were. Eliot thought about putting Hardison’s jacket over them, but looked at the dripping thing and changed his mind.
Jesus, he needed to rest - he felt his eyes closing, and although all the alarms in his head were warning him not to relax yet, he couldn’t fight it. The road and woods started to dance at first, then went to the left. Something tugged at his shoulder and the touch and the pain stirred him - he looked at Hardison. The hacker’s arm was over Parker’s back, and he reached for his jacket and kept him from falling.
“Not yet,” Hardison whispered over her head.
“Not yet what?” Parker mumbled from his chest.
“Nothing, Parker, just rest.” But it was too late, she lifted herself and buried her face in her hand.
“You okay?”Hardison quietly asked, soft worry clearly sounding in his voice.
“My head hurts.” She sounded surprised, and Eliot suppressed a smile. “So that’s why Nate sometimes wears dark glasses after drinking,” she went on, turning slowly her head around them, looking at the woods with narrowed eyes. “Is Nate’s drinking a form of upgrade, instead of a change?” she asked Hardison.
“See what you have started?” Eliot hissed at the hacker who just shrugged. Before Parker could continue, he went on. “What the hell happened with that guy’s jacket?”
Hardison beamed. “I remembered he had my phone. I simply called my number, with the addition of 1701 - that triggers the self destruction. My phone is not a wise thing to leave in the enemy’s hands, you have to agree on that. I was hoping he kept it in his pants, but jacket worked well. Gave me a couple of seconds to get closer.”
It was damn quick thinking, Eliot had to admit. That scene played again in his mind, clear for the first time, and only then he realized that he was just standing there in front of the gun, doing nothing to stop him from pulling the trigger. No wonder Hardison was so mad - his strange reaction was much clearer now. He felt the hacker’s eyes on him, he clearly knew what was going on his mind right now.
“Do you have any explanation-”
“Knock it off, Hardison,” he snapped much harsher than he wanted, but that definitely wasn’t a thing he would discuss with anybody, ever. Hardison huffed and looked away.
Parker turned to him, still looking surprised. “Don’t sound so annoyed, we’re doing great.”
Doing great? Three exhausted, beaten, freezing and wet creatures, sitting in the mud because they were unable to walk. He opened his mouth to tell her everything he thought about that, but Hardison darted him a warning look, close to frowning. He sighed, gathered his thoughts that were running in all directions in his brain, and smiled. “Of course, Parker. We’re doing great.”
“Just imagine what would happened if you didn’t change from your pajamas yesterday,” she whispered.
Both of them stayed silent, trying to figure out what gruesome thing would happen if he wasn’t in sweatpants and a shirt, exchanging a pretty helpless look over her.
“It would be ruined in the rain and mud,” she explained slowly, as if talking to children. “De-stro-yed.”
“Y-yes, that would be… terrible,” he whispered back. “I would be devastated. Depressed for days. Months. I don’t know would I ever find pajamas so-“ Hardison cleared his throat, and he stopped.
Parker gave him a strange look, but Lucille appeared at the end of the road, and saved him from further babbling.
“Look at her,” Hardison cooed, watching Lucille. “Isn’t she a beauty?” He tilted his head, cross eyed, with an insanely gentle smile. Hardison simply had to turn a simple concussion into something…weird. Eliot lowered his head, staring at the wet leaves; he started to dread the night.
If his luck held, he’d persuade Nate to leave him right here.
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***
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Nate was waiting for them, alive and without a scratch, at the outermost end of the ant hill. Sophie shooed her to drive when they went to pick up others. Florence thought to refuse at first - the damn van was huge - but then she saw Sophie’s eyes, flickering beside her to the woods, waiting to see the three of them.
It took just a few minutes to go around the complex, to the north, and she drove slowly so as not to miss them in the grayish remains of the day.
The fact that all three of them were alive when they got in the van only slightly lessened her guilt, especially when she saw the three wet, beaten, staggering creatures covered with mud and leaves, and Florence decided she had to apologize to all of them. Maybe not immediately, she added to herself when they all just stumbled into the van.
Hardison sounded more drunk than Parker who was silent, but who without any word accepted Sophie’s cooing over her, and taking care of her. Nate handled Hardison pretty well; in the rearview mirror she caught him examining his eyes and vision. Eliot just crawled into the other part of the van with a gruff, “I’m fine, leave me alone,” and she didn’t see him anymore, he was right behind her seat.
Nate came to sit beside her soon after, leaving Sophie with the others, but he was sitting half turned to the back of the van, keeping an eye on them. She dared not ask him how they were doing. She drove carefully and under the speed limit, ignoring the urge to step on it and take them home as soon as possible. She sighed in relief when they left the woods and went onto the bigger road, but the sound of the quiet quarrel alarmed her again. Sophie’s and Parker’s whispers sounded like the real arguing. She hoped there wasn’t any new trouble coming their way.
“Pull over, Florence,” Nate said after a minute.
“Thank you,” Parker hissed, sounding irritated. “I do know what I need, Sophie.”
“You need to close your eyes, that’s the way for nausea to pass, and not-”
“Move,” Parker said directly behind Florence’s shoulder. “I’ll drive.”
Florence looked at the shaking, wounded and drunk woman wrapped in a blanket, but Nate nodded, so she moved from the driver’s seat without a word.
She went to Hardison to tell him she was sorry, but she decided she would wait until he erased that crazy grin from his face; she doubted he could see her clearly because his head was slightly tilted as if he was trying to see things from a lower angle. His eyes seemed to roll around with every blink and every move.
She gathered all her courage and went to sit on the floor by Eliot, ready for pissed off growling. It was better to go through that in the van, it would be quick, if not painless, than in the apartment.
Just when she sat, she realized that only from the corner behind driver’s seat could he control both side doors and back doors at the same time. Yet, he didn’t look like he was able to move, much less to do something with the doors. He was resting his head on his raised knees, with wet hair that was still dripping, with a cut above his eyebrow that was still bleeding. He gave no sign he noticed she sat close by, and she shot a helpless glance at Sophie. She just nodded in return. Keep him awake.
“Are you okay?” she whispered, momentarily wanting to slam her head into the seat. She doubted she could ask a dumber question.
“Fine,” he said, not moving. That clearly meant go away and leave me alone with stupid questions, but she stayed.
“Look…” she started, gathered all her courage, and went on. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
When he finally looked at her, she had to hide her surprise - she expected an annoyed and pissed off glare, but she got only a tired one. It was more than tired, she realized, seeing the effort he put into that simple move. He was so exhausted that the border between being awake, and floating off somewhere was smudged and very wide. There wasn’t any intensity or watchfulness in his eyes, they were almost soft, and she finally saw how his face looked without that constant edge that sharpened his features. It was a shame that he had to get to this state to lose that tension.
“I’m sorry about this,” she said before she lost all her courage. He watched her for a few seconds, and she saw he was trying to concentrate and figure out what was she talking about. She shouldn’t have bothered him with this, damn… but it was too late now. “You were in this because of me,” she explained quietly.
His eyes changed. She couldn’t unravel what in her words was the cause of his smile, but it was a soft, slow smile, so untypical of him that she was certain he must have been hit in the head, hard, more than once.
“When decisions are made… the consequences of the actions are no longer on the initiator,” he whispered slowly. “When we took the job, that was it. Our job. Our mistakes.”
“It’s not that simple,” she said.
“But it is,” his voice went lower. “There’s nothing to feel guilty for. Guilt destroys and ruins... knock it off. Nobody’s been killed, we’re okay. Focus on that.”
He couldn’t mean that. She watched him, trying to see behind his words, but there wasn’t anything hidden.
“What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger?” she tried a smile, and it came easier than she thought.
He flinched visibly as if she had poked something that hurt, and his smile faded. “No, that’s bullshit. What doesn’t kill you leaves you broken, defeated, and in pieces,” he whispered. “What doesn’t kill you takes all your strength, sometimes your mind, and your heart… and if you’re lucky, it leaves you with just enough will to keep breathing. Enough to try to get up and rebuild all that shit from the scratch.” He lowered his head again. “Sorry. That saying is one of the few that make my blood boil,” he finished quietly. “It’s so fucking… ignorant.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” she said lightly. “You just showed me it’s completely true.”
He looked at her again.
“I’ve never heard a better explanation of strength before,” she smiled gently.
His eyes moved over her face and flew over her clothes, for a moment becoming even softer. She felt like a child who thought she had said something extremely clever, and the grown up before her was deciding if he should just nod and smile or tell her she was wrong- and yet, she knew she was right.
She only wanted to know what he was looking for when he watched her. What he saw. For his eyes flashed with something akin to sorrow.
“You know nothing about strength,” he breathed finally, a strange tone in his voice. He reached with his hand and stopped just before he touched her face. His fingers were trembling and ice cold, yet the gesture was incredibly gentle, just a feather light touch that lasted a second. As if he was checking to see if she was real and really here. “And you shouldn’t know. Ever,” he finished so quietly that she barely heard him.
“Why?” she whispered too, not knowing why she felt a normal voice would be wrong.
He shook his head, and she knew she wouldn’t get an answer. He wasn’t able to speak anymore, merely looking at her was draining his strength.
The jacket he wore, Hardison’s, was wet and torn apart, and she remembered the coldness of his hand; he must have been freezing. She quickly took off her jacket but stopped before she put it over his shoulders. “Uhm, you’re not allergic to avocado or shea butter, are you?”
That got her one more smile, this time more Eliot-like. And when exactly did she started cataloging his types of smiles? “No, ma’am,” he drawled. “It smells nice.”
“Good,” she said sternly, not letting her smile escape, and draped the jacket around him.
Strange, but she was grateful for the exhaustion that cracked his shield, and made this moment possible. She doubted he would allow himself this tenderness if he was able to keep his composure up.
He bowed his head again but she stayed beside him, to be one more source of heat, though not touching him. They had at least one hour to drive.
Enough time to think about all the possible reasons why his eyes, when he smiled touching her face, were so damn sad.
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***
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The last fifteen minutes of the drive was maybe the longest in her life. Sophie was driving again, she chased Parker to curl up in the passenger’s seat. Hardison lost that manic grin and was only left with the headache, dozing in and out, and Eliot stopped replying to Nate’s questions when they reached city traffic.
They needed dry clothes, the heater in the apartment set to the maximum, and Betsy. Definitely Betsy - she would take care of everything.
When Sophie finally stopped Lucille as close to the back doors as she could, Florence sprung to her feet. “I’ll go first and prepare everything,” she said to Nate. He could think of how to move all of them in the same direction.
She opened the back door and jumped out, happy that the rain had finally stopped, but she froze in the middle of the first step when a man simply materialized in front of her. Tall, in a suit, and with pissed off eyes. She bit back a scream; no no no, they had just escaped one group, they couldn’t, simply couldn’t fight another.
It was all her fault already.
She slammed the door of the van behind her. “They are here! Run!”
She would scream, and try to run to McRory’s, that would save her - but the door burst open, barely missing her back, and slammed into the wall.
Eliot was standing beside her in less than a second.
She squeaked and squinted, expecting a fight, but he was looking at her.
She opened her eyes. Something was strange here.
“And what the fuck do ya think ya’ doin’?” he snarled at her. She just pointed at the mobster, unable to find appropriate words for kill it before it shoots.
“That was my question to you,” the mobster snarled too.
“Get in line,” Eliot was still looking at her while responding. “You,” he whispered. “Never, ever, do something stupid like this - or we’ll have to have a serious talk.”
“Stop scaring her, Eliot,” Nate jumped from the van. “Hello, Patrick. Any reason to be standing there waiting and fuming?”
Okay, this wasn’t a mobster, obviously. But it could have been. She opened her mouth to explain that and abruptly changed her mind, hit by Eliot’s mad eyes. That man was worse than a bipolar with his change of moods, for god’s sake! Just when she thought that normal communication was possible, he was once again turned into a snarling... something.
“Cora called me; someone reported suspicious people in the building, armed - she found a bottle in the corridor and your doors open, nobody inside. She knew he wasn’t yet allowed to leave-”
“Wasn’t. Allowed,” Eliot rolled his eyes, shot one more nasty stare at her, and marched beside them into the building.
Nate sighed. “Go after him, he won’t get far,” he said to Patrick who looked at the rest of the team, wet, beaten, limping, Hardison running directly into the door and slamming into them, and just shook his head, going after Eliot.
Okay, things were back in normal. She knew it was too good to last for long. Florence took the end of the line, and decided to stay close to Sophie.
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Characters: Nate Ford, Eliot Spencer, Alec Hardison, Parker, Sophie Deveraux, Patrick Bonnano, OC
Fandom: Leverage
Spoilers: None - takes place before Season 4 finale, they're still in Boston
Warnings: None for now. No network presidents were harmed during the writing of this fic.
Disclaimer: I do not own blah blah blah
Author's note: A sequel to 'The Occam's Razor Job', following cca one week after. (Parttwo in The Texas Mountain Laurel Series). After all this shit TNT put us
through, there was only one way to deal with it - see what The Team
would do when faced with TV Network. No need to read TORJ first, all you
need to know will be explained.
Special, special, special, special thanks to trappercreekd for Betaing :D
Banner for Chapter 19
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Eliot tried to wait until Hardison’s and Parker’s footsteps disappeared at the other end of the room, before blindly reaching for the railings, but he managed to stay upright only for a few seconds. Holding something firm helped when his knees buckled, he could ease the fall into a slow lowering.
Four minutes, right… he needed four days to recover from this, but he had to get rid of them as soon as possible. They would be slow - Parker was in the worst shape he had ever seen her, and Hardison was practically useless in this dark, with dizziness and double vision. They’d need three times as much time to reach the other end, if they didn’t get stuck somewhere in this fucking labyrinth.
He couldn’t walk. The good thing was, he didn’t need to. Those five would be here in the less than a minute, according to the sounds they made, closer every second, and at the moment they realized he was still here, they would stay until they found him.
By the time they spread out and started to search the endless rows of pens, garbage and ruined walls, he would be able to move and go around them and behind their backs. That’d do.
After that, he had a much more demanding task in front of him - go all the way up to the ground level. Fucking stairs. He remembered two large sets of stairs connecting the two levels, and he would find a way through the rooms that connected them.
Okay, one problem at a time.
Compared to That Night, this was nothing. He was just weak, nothing more. When he played hide and seek in the slam with Chileans chasing him, he was literally dying - and he managed to escape them. Just when he thought that, he became aware of the mistake he made, when the darkness around him changed and the remaining traces of the gunpowder still present in the air became stronger.
Fuck.
He could feel his pulse speeding up as he tried to stay focused, to stay here and now, but the damage was done, and disorientation hit him hard. For a few seconds he couldn’t decipher where he was - being chased through a slam in complete darkness, exhausted to the point he wished he was dead, or in the slaughterhouse, in the same darkness, and feeling pretty much the same.
Calm down, just breathe.
He forced himself up on his feet, dismissing all the plans and predictions - he had to move, do something, anything, that would return him back to the present.
He was half way across the giant place when the screaming voice in his head finally broke through the fog and dizziness, warning him of mistakes, so he slowed down before he jumped right in front of five armed men. Shit, they were close, on this level now, and he could expect them in seconds.
He lost track of the minutes and had no idea how far Hardison and Parker were on the opposite end, so he pulled a few rusty poles from the railings, letting them roll on the floor, making as much noise as he could. He blindly retreated deeper into the rows when the first torch lights started to penetrate the dark.
He was too weak to raise the dam in his mind, to stop the flood of images and sounds. A calm place in his mind kept talking that this was expected - a conversation with Hardison brought all that shit too close to the surface, and the darkness, gunshots and pain deranged him - but the voice couldn’t tell him how to fucking stop it.
He continued to walk, slowly, using one pole to make noise, and he could see the flashes that were gathering to him.
Concentration on the endless turns and pens he had to avoid lost him even further, and he only managed to keep track of basic directions, avoiding the part where the two of them disappeared.
“Stay where you are!”
He turned around to face a man who advanced around one wall, and found himself staring into the smiling, calm, very alive face of Gary Barclay. Cool. Hallucinations again. Missed them a lot. He almost laughed when his first thought was to bring Parker somehow, to prove to her, once and for all, that he didn’t cut off his head and put it in a box. Only after that he moved, waiting for the storming attacker. He had no idea what he had done, his body went into auto pilot for a few seconds - which was good, considering the pudding his brain was - and the man went flying over the half of the room, and stayed down.
This one came from the wrong direction, they had spread out too much and started to surround him, and it was time to retreat. He reached the first stairs that should take him up one more level, when he remembered he could have searched the fallen man for weapons. Well, he knew he would make mistakes, that was expected… just as long he was aware of them, he should be fine.
Before he started to climb - and he hoped he remembered the path through the upper story - he realized that this one was Goon D. They might all be awake by now.
He groped until he found a door, and slammed them as hard as he could, sending a sound louder than a gunshot, just in case. Parker and Hardison were probably already out, but he couldn’t risk them being followed and caught. Not now. He waited until he heard quick steps heading in his direction, then continued.
He couldn’t count those steps - their sound was covered by the gunshots echoing in his mind.
.
.
***
.
Lucille was a van, for crying out loud, and vans weren’t supposed to escape from SUVs on their tails… especially not from this one - Florence peeked in the rearview mirror at the nasty looking, powerful machine that was roaring after them. The road they were driving on was too narrow and the killers couldn’t align with them to shoot or to try to throw them off the road, but that could change… in fact, that was changing.
They must have been at least one mile away from the complex already, and the road was becoming straight, better, and wider. Nah, in the end it wasn’t making any difference, the SUV could outrun them both on a highway, and on a muddy forest path.
“Of course not,” Sophie answered to someone and Florence put her earbud in again, catching the end of Nate’s sentence. “… completely sure?”
“Yes. Don’t worry. Just do your part, we’ll be okay.”
Florence blinked, glaring at her and her light smile.
“Parker called Nate, she and Hardison are out. We’re supposed to pick them up somewhere behind the complex, they’ll go through the woods to the road. Eliot is still inside, but he’ll be out, probably, by the time we meet Nate.”
Florence took one long, long breath. “Sophie, we are being chased away from that point… and I don’t see how we can escape those guys in the SUV. I think our best chance is to continue and drive until we find the nearest village or town, and go directly to the police station.”
Sophie smiled, speeding up, looking right in front of her. “Good plan,” she said lightly. “It only has one mistake… we are not being chased, darling. We are simply stopping them from joining the others at the complex.”
“Okay, if you like to think positive, I won’t argue with that,” she sighed, noticing the slip in the grifter’s concentration; she started to slow down, looking more at the woods on the both sides of the road, than in front of her. “But I still-”
“I suggest you start screaming. That releases the tension and helps with stress,” Sophie cut off her words.
“Screaming? Why the hell should I-” Sophie gave her no warning, she just violently turned the wheel, and Lucille almost jumped up in the air, going from the main road to a barely visible path between two trees, with just enough room to pull through. Fuck, she screamed. She could hear branches screeching on their roof and on both sides. “What are you - So-… Sophie, they are in an SUV! They are much better for this kind of - Jesus, slow down, you’ll kill us - this is a fucking van!!”
The grifter just grinned - an extremely disturbing sight. Florence could do nothing except clutch at her seat, trying not to bump too hard against the door with Lucille’s violent jerks - it was just a matter of time before they would get stuck in the mud, or crash into a fallen tree - going onto an unknown path when being chased by someone was lunatic. And how was this helping? Lucille struggled, slower and slower, while the SUV followed them with ease. They were further from the place they had to go, and they would end up killed, and nobody would ever-
“Hold on.” Sophie’s warning sounded ominous, but the reality was much worse than her expectations. She hit the brakes and dug the van in the mud, changed gears and went back, directly into the approaching SUV.
Florence bit off a scream and curled into the seat, waiting for the impact that never came… just the agonizing roar of an overwrought engine, and a loud crash when the SUV, avoiding them, turned abruptly off the narrow path and crashed into a tree.
Sophie didn’t even blink, she continued to drive backwards, passing the car turned on its side, choosing her way with only two small mirrors, and Florence felt her eyes widening in horror… she wouldn’t dare take this road even on a bike, to say nothing about half blindly driving a giant van backwards.
She wasn’t able to form any word until they reached the main road again, when Sophie turned the van around and went back to the complex.
“Remind me to distract Hardison from examining the scratches,” was only Sophie’s interjection.
“Yes, Ma’am,” Florence squeaked.
Sophie raised one dark eyebrow, and winked.
.
.
***
.
Jesus, Betsy would bitch him out about his stress levels again. For days.
His heart beat was too rapid to be counted, and climbing each stair was a demanding task that needed at least five seconds to execute. Every other stair was invisible, they simply disappeared when his vision blackened out. Eliot wasn’t quite sure if he was making any progress; as far as he knew, he might be just standing. Or lying down.
With his mind playing tricks on him, he couldn’t trust anything he saw or felt.
Five times he almost stumbled, though he could see everything pretty well because those stairs opened into the ground level with huge windows, and dim light was coming through the holes in the walls. He felt like he'd been walking for hours, though he knew that outside was still just evening - dark and stormy, but with enough daylight to see.
The man that jumped him didn’t make a mistake and yell at him to stop like the last one did. This one sneaked silently, grabbed his shoulder and turned him to face a gun.
They were supposed to be one level below, his slow mind processed, but then he recognized him. Goon A - clearly awake. And clever enough to go up and wait him at the only entrance he knew about.
If this was Goon A... a warning thought formed in his mind.
He froze.
His gun was just ten inches from his face but he did nothing, he just stared into him, unable to move his arms. This could be Hardison, or Parker. Last time he killed the man with Nate’s face, with Nate’s voice, knowing it wasn’t him, but now he knew nothing. He stood frozen, unable to force himself to move.
Just one second before he pulled the trigger - and he knew that exactly - Goon A’s jacket exploded. Okay, maybe this wasn’t Hardison or Parker, somehow exploding jackets were not connected to them; Jesus, he was really completely out of it, he couldn’t believe the crap that was floating around in his brain - and he just watched the flames that burst from his pocket, trying to decipher the riddle. Goon A seemed to be surprised as well because his scream sounded more scared than pained. He turned his gun - again - on him, but something got in the way, jerking and twisting the hand with the gun, and the fired bullet went by his right shoulder. Goon A was spun in a familiar move, and he disappeared from his sight along with the burning jacket.
He should turn his head to see where he ended up, but that was too exhausting. Instead he just blinked, once. That was tiresome, too.
The thing that had knocked the man down stood in front of him, with wild eyes in a strangely ashen face. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Ah, Hardison. Half shouting, half squeaking Hardison. “Are you trying to kill yourself?!”
What a stupid question. No, he was pretty sure he wasn’t.
If he started to list what was wrong with him, he would never stop. He stayed silent.
“The hitter is the one who can deal with unexpected attacks, and get out alive? Did I remember it correctly? What was this, Eliot, huh?! You just, just… fuck, if we weren’t close…” Hardison sounded furious and scared. He couldn’t quite understand why, though, what was so disturbing in all of this, except that flaming jacket. Hardison put both of his hands on his shoulders, concentrated until he found his face, and stared at him as if he expected him to say something.
“What?” he whispered.
“What?! You’re asking me what…” Hardison moaned in frustration, but he let him go. “C’mon, let’s get the hell out of here.”
He knew they had to go, but his mind refused to cooperate, he didn’t know where, and why. Just one thought was clear. “Please, tell me… that you didn’t escape through one exit… just to go around the building, and enter again?”
“You weren’t coming out,” he said as if that explained it.
“You’re an idiot.”
Hardison just spread his arms in a helpless gesture. That was too much. He opened his mouth to tell him everything he thought about the utter stupidity of that, but the ground moved under him, and Hardison faded. And disappeared. He had no idea what just happened, why everything was black again, and where the hell the two of them had gone. Most of all, why he could still hear him speaking.
After some time he just gave up and put their voices somewhere behind him. The burning jacket, in fact, occupied the most of his thoughts.
.
.
***
.
The next thing Eliot felt was something cold and wet on his face, and he cursed and moved it away, but the thing was entwined in his hair and stopped him. Stopped him from doing what?
“Don’t move.” Parker’s voice was close to him and he could see her now - she was doing something with a branch and wet leaves around his face. She pulled it from his hair. She even smiled. “Here, we can go.”
Everything was dark - yep, stormy evenings usually are, you moron - but he could clearly see bushes and trees all around them. He was standing; Hardison’s hand was around his waist, he was obviously directing his steps. He took one deep breath. The sweet scent of wet soil, torn leaves and rain in the air cleared his mind more than anything.
“Knock, knock… everybody home?” the hacker grinned, looking somewhere beside him. “If we knew that a threat to your hair would get you together, I would have told Parker to pull.”
“Ten inches to the left,” he said. His own voice sounded strange.
Hardison moved his head in the given direction. “Ah, there you are,” he grinned again when he focused. “Though, the other Eliot looked softer. Are you with us again? Can you count to five?”
“One broken finger, two broken fingers… Can you?”
“One duck by the pond, two ducks by the pond, three-”
“Stop it,” he growled, shaking off his hand, regaining his balance. He could stand, for now, though everything was swimming around him. “Where are we?”
“Hundred meters away from the fence - going through the woods to the road - Sophie will pick us up when she gets rid of something.”
“Sophie? How did you-?”
“Parker knew Nate’s number. Apparently, she knows all our numbers, though I’ll still check that to believe that someone actually remembered numb-”
“And we are almost there,” Parker said quietly. “C’mon, just a few meters, and you can rest.”
Parker sounded… responsible and serious. He blinked, staring at her. Hardison chuckled. “Yep, whiskey is better than the happy pills.”
Nope, it was just fear; he was out of everything, though he obviously walked, and Hardison’s brain was clearly still bouncing around in his skull - she was the one that got them out and led them through the woods. Responsibility was a bitch, he knew that.
He shook his head to clear everything, which wasn’t such a bright idea, but it worked for now; at least he could walk, Hardison didn’t need to drag him along. Walking through the bushes and mud was worse than swimming, yet Parker was right. They passed the last five meters and they were on the road. He even managed to stop Hardison who was heading right toward the last tree, and turned him in the right direction.
“Now we wait,” Hardison cheerfully said, sitting on the wet grass, resting his head on the tree he almost hit, and they all followed him. Not cheerfully, of course. There was nothing cheerful in the awful rain; he was freezing already, and all three of them were shaking.
Hardison put Parker in the middle and pulled her closer into a hug, though it was doubtful how much heat he could provide, wet and cold as all of them were. Eliot thought about putting Hardison’s jacket over them, but looked at the dripping thing and changed his mind.
Jesus, he needed to rest - he felt his eyes closing, and although all the alarms in his head were warning him not to relax yet, he couldn’t fight it. The road and woods started to dance at first, then went to the left. Something tugged at his shoulder and the touch and the pain stirred him - he looked at Hardison. The hacker’s arm was over Parker’s back, and he reached for his jacket and kept him from falling.
“Not yet,” Hardison whispered over her head.
“Not yet what?” Parker mumbled from his chest.
“Nothing, Parker, just rest.” But it was too late, she lifted herself and buried her face in her hand.
“You okay?”Hardison quietly asked, soft worry clearly sounding in his voice.
“My head hurts.” She sounded surprised, and Eliot suppressed a smile. “So that’s why Nate sometimes wears dark glasses after drinking,” she went on, turning slowly her head around them, looking at the woods with narrowed eyes. “Is Nate’s drinking a form of upgrade, instead of a change?” she asked Hardison.
“See what you have started?” Eliot hissed at the hacker who just shrugged. Before Parker could continue, he went on. “What the hell happened with that guy’s jacket?”
Hardison beamed. “I remembered he had my phone. I simply called my number, with the addition of 1701 - that triggers the self destruction. My phone is not a wise thing to leave in the enemy’s hands, you have to agree on that. I was hoping he kept it in his pants, but jacket worked well. Gave me a couple of seconds to get closer.”
It was damn quick thinking, Eliot had to admit. That scene played again in his mind, clear for the first time, and only then he realized that he was just standing there in front of the gun, doing nothing to stop him from pulling the trigger. No wonder Hardison was so mad - his strange reaction was much clearer now. He felt the hacker’s eyes on him, he clearly knew what was going on his mind right now.
“Do you have any explanation-”
“Knock it off, Hardison,” he snapped much harsher than he wanted, but that definitely wasn’t a thing he would discuss with anybody, ever. Hardison huffed and looked away.
Parker turned to him, still looking surprised. “Don’t sound so annoyed, we’re doing great.”
Doing great? Three exhausted, beaten, freezing and wet creatures, sitting in the mud because they were unable to walk. He opened his mouth to tell her everything he thought about that, but Hardison darted him a warning look, close to frowning. He sighed, gathered his thoughts that were running in all directions in his brain, and smiled. “Of course, Parker. We’re doing great.”
“Just imagine what would happened if you didn’t change from your pajamas yesterday,” she whispered.
Both of them stayed silent, trying to figure out what gruesome thing would happen if he wasn’t in sweatpants and a shirt, exchanging a pretty helpless look over her.
“It would be ruined in the rain and mud,” she explained slowly, as if talking to children. “De-stro-yed.”
“Y-yes, that would be… terrible,” he whispered back. “I would be devastated. Depressed for days. Months. I don’t know would I ever find pajamas so-“ Hardison cleared his throat, and he stopped.
Parker gave him a strange look, but Lucille appeared at the end of the road, and saved him from further babbling.
“Look at her,” Hardison cooed, watching Lucille. “Isn’t she a beauty?” He tilted his head, cross eyed, with an insanely gentle smile. Hardison simply had to turn a simple concussion into something…weird. Eliot lowered his head, staring at the wet leaves; he started to dread the night.
If his luck held, he’d persuade Nate to leave him right here.
.
.
***
.
Nate was waiting for them, alive and without a scratch, at the outermost end of the ant hill. Sophie shooed her to drive when they went to pick up others. Florence thought to refuse at first - the damn van was huge - but then she saw Sophie’s eyes, flickering beside her to the woods, waiting to see the three of them.
It took just a few minutes to go around the complex, to the north, and she drove slowly so as not to miss them in the grayish remains of the day.
The fact that all three of them were alive when they got in the van only slightly lessened her guilt, especially when she saw the three wet, beaten, staggering creatures covered with mud and leaves, and Florence decided she had to apologize to all of them. Maybe not immediately, she added to herself when they all just stumbled into the van.
Hardison sounded more drunk than Parker who was silent, but who without any word accepted Sophie’s cooing over her, and taking care of her. Nate handled Hardison pretty well; in the rearview mirror she caught him examining his eyes and vision. Eliot just crawled into the other part of the van with a gruff, “I’m fine, leave me alone,” and she didn’t see him anymore, he was right behind her seat.
Nate came to sit beside her soon after, leaving Sophie with the others, but he was sitting half turned to the back of the van, keeping an eye on them. She dared not ask him how they were doing. She drove carefully and under the speed limit, ignoring the urge to step on it and take them home as soon as possible. She sighed in relief when they left the woods and went onto the bigger road, but the sound of the quiet quarrel alarmed her again. Sophie’s and Parker’s whispers sounded like the real arguing. She hoped there wasn’t any new trouble coming their way.
“Pull over, Florence,” Nate said after a minute.
“Thank you,” Parker hissed, sounding irritated. “I do know what I need, Sophie.”
“You need to close your eyes, that’s the way for nausea to pass, and not-”
“Move,” Parker said directly behind Florence’s shoulder. “I’ll drive.”
Florence looked at the shaking, wounded and drunk woman wrapped in a blanket, but Nate nodded, so she moved from the driver’s seat without a word.
She went to Hardison to tell him she was sorry, but she decided she would wait until he erased that crazy grin from his face; she doubted he could see her clearly because his head was slightly tilted as if he was trying to see things from a lower angle. His eyes seemed to roll around with every blink and every move.
She gathered all her courage and went to sit on the floor by Eliot, ready for pissed off growling. It was better to go through that in the van, it would be quick, if not painless, than in the apartment.
Just when she sat, she realized that only from the corner behind driver’s seat could he control both side doors and back doors at the same time. Yet, he didn’t look like he was able to move, much less to do something with the doors. He was resting his head on his raised knees, with wet hair that was still dripping, with a cut above his eyebrow that was still bleeding. He gave no sign he noticed she sat close by, and she shot a helpless glance at Sophie. She just nodded in return. Keep him awake.
“Are you okay?” she whispered, momentarily wanting to slam her head into the seat. She doubted she could ask a dumber question.
“Fine,” he said, not moving. That clearly meant go away and leave me alone with stupid questions, but she stayed.
“Look…” she started, gathered all her courage, and went on. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
When he finally looked at her, she had to hide her surprise - she expected an annoyed and pissed off glare, but she got only a tired one. It was more than tired, she realized, seeing the effort he put into that simple move. He was so exhausted that the border between being awake, and floating off somewhere was smudged and very wide. There wasn’t any intensity or watchfulness in his eyes, they were almost soft, and she finally saw how his face looked without that constant edge that sharpened his features. It was a shame that he had to get to this state to lose that tension.
“I’m sorry about this,” she said before she lost all her courage. He watched her for a few seconds, and she saw he was trying to concentrate and figure out what was she talking about. She shouldn’t have bothered him with this, damn… but it was too late now. “You were in this because of me,” she explained quietly.
His eyes changed. She couldn’t unravel what in her words was the cause of his smile, but it was a soft, slow smile, so untypical of him that she was certain he must have been hit in the head, hard, more than once.
“When decisions are made… the consequences of the actions are no longer on the initiator,” he whispered slowly. “When we took the job, that was it. Our job. Our mistakes.”
“It’s not that simple,” she said.
“But it is,” his voice went lower. “There’s nothing to feel guilty for. Guilt destroys and ruins... knock it off. Nobody’s been killed, we’re okay. Focus on that.”
He couldn’t mean that. She watched him, trying to see behind his words, but there wasn’t anything hidden.
“What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger?” she tried a smile, and it came easier than she thought.
He flinched visibly as if she had poked something that hurt, and his smile faded. “No, that’s bullshit. What doesn’t kill you leaves you broken, defeated, and in pieces,” he whispered. “What doesn’t kill you takes all your strength, sometimes your mind, and your heart… and if you’re lucky, it leaves you with just enough will to keep breathing. Enough to try to get up and rebuild all that shit from the scratch.” He lowered his head again. “Sorry. That saying is one of the few that make my blood boil,” he finished quietly. “It’s so fucking… ignorant.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” she said lightly. “You just showed me it’s completely true.”
He looked at her again.
“I’ve never heard a better explanation of strength before,” she smiled gently.
His eyes moved over her face and flew over her clothes, for a moment becoming even softer. She felt like a child who thought she had said something extremely clever, and the grown up before her was deciding if he should just nod and smile or tell her she was wrong- and yet, she knew she was right.
She only wanted to know what he was looking for when he watched her. What he saw. For his eyes flashed with something akin to sorrow.
“You know nothing about strength,” he breathed finally, a strange tone in his voice. He reached with his hand and stopped just before he touched her face. His fingers were trembling and ice cold, yet the gesture was incredibly gentle, just a feather light touch that lasted a second. As if he was checking to see if she was real and really here. “And you shouldn’t know. Ever,” he finished so quietly that she barely heard him.
“Why?” she whispered too, not knowing why she felt a normal voice would be wrong.
He shook his head, and she knew she wouldn’t get an answer. He wasn’t able to speak anymore, merely looking at her was draining his strength.
The jacket he wore, Hardison’s, was wet and torn apart, and she remembered the coldness of his hand; he must have been freezing. She quickly took off her jacket but stopped before she put it over his shoulders. “Uhm, you’re not allergic to avocado or shea butter, are you?”
That got her one more smile, this time more Eliot-like. And when exactly did she started cataloging his types of smiles? “No, ma’am,” he drawled. “It smells nice.”
“Good,” she said sternly, not letting her smile escape, and draped the jacket around him.
Strange, but she was grateful for the exhaustion that cracked his shield, and made this moment possible. She doubted he would allow himself this tenderness if he was able to keep his composure up.
He bowed his head again but she stayed beside him, to be one more source of heat, though not touching him. They had at least one hour to drive.
Enough time to think about all the possible reasons why his eyes, when he smiled touching her face, were so damn sad.
.
.
***
.
The last fifteen minutes of the drive was maybe the longest in her life. Sophie was driving again, she chased Parker to curl up in the passenger’s seat. Hardison lost that manic grin and was only left with the headache, dozing in and out, and Eliot stopped replying to Nate’s questions when they reached city traffic.
They needed dry clothes, the heater in the apartment set to the maximum, and Betsy. Definitely Betsy - she would take care of everything.
When Sophie finally stopped Lucille as close to the back doors as she could, Florence sprung to her feet. “I’ll go first and prepare everything,” she said to Nate. He could think of how to move all of them in the same direction.
She opened the back door and jumped out, happy that the rain had finally stopped, but she froze in the middle of the first step when a man simply materialized in front of her. Tall, in a suit, and with pissed off eyes. She bit back a scream; no no no, they had just escaped one group, they couldn’t, simply couldn’t fight another.
It was all her fault already.
She slammed the door of the van behind her. “They are here! Run!”
She would scream, and try to run to McRory’s, that would save her - but the door burst open, barely missing her back, and slammed into the wall.
Eliot was standing beside her in less than a second.
She squeaked and squinted, expecting a fight, but he was looking at her.
She opened her eyes. Something was strange here.
“And what the fuck do ya think ya’ doin’?” he snarled at her. She just pointed at the mobster, unable to find appropriate words for kill it before it shoots.
“That was my question to you,” the mobster snarled too.
“Get in line,” Eliot was still looking at her while responding. “You,” he whispered. “Never, ever, do something stupid like this - or we’ll have to have a serious talk.”
“Stop scaring her, Eliot,” Nate jumped from the van. “Hello, Patrick. Any reason to be standing there waiting and fuming?”
Okay, this wasn’t a mobster, obviously. But it could have been. She opened her mouth to explain that and abruptly changed her mind, hit by Eliot’s mad eyes. That man was worse than a bipolar with his change of moods, for god’s sake! Just when she thought that normal communication was possible, he was once again turned into a snarling... something.
“Cora called me; someone reported suspicious people in the building, armed - she found a bottle in the corridor and your doors open, nobody inside. She knew he wasn’t yet allowed to leave-”
“Wasn’t. Allowed,” Eliot rolled his eyes, shot one more nasty stare at her, and marched beside them into the building.
Nate sighed. “Go after him, he won’t get far,” he said to Patrick who looked at the rest of the team, wet, beaten, limping, Hardison running directly into the door and slamming into them, and just shook his head, going after Eliot.
Okay, things were back in normal. She knew it was too good to last for long. Florence took the end of the line, and decided to stay close to Sophie.
.
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.