Predator and Prey - Part 4 of 4
Title: Predator and Prey
Genre: Angst, hurt/comfort
Total Story Word Count: ~16,500 words
This Chapter's Word Count: ~3,000 words
Rating: PG-13 (language, violence)
Pairings: None (Gen)
Warnings: None
Summary: Tag to the Leverage episode "The Tap Out Job." Eliot's used to being in control, to being able to fight back against individuals who mean him or his teammate's harm. So what happened in the first few minutes of that fight where he let himself get beat up, for the sake of his team and the success of their con? Add that to the physical trauma from the fight and maybe it's affecting him a lot more than he's leading on.
Author's Note: A thanks, as always, to my wonderful beta phoenix_laugh. This fic was written to fill the prompt "build-up of job related trauma" on my hurt/comfort bingo card. This fic is completely written and will be posted in 4 installments over the next week or so.
Predator and Prey - Part 4
[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4]
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“Bullfight critics, ranked in rows,
Crowd the enormous plaza full,
But only one is there who knows,
And he's the one that fights the bull.“
-Anonymous poem
-----------------------------------
Eliot stood in his corner of the ring. Eyes closed for the moment, he took deep breaths. Other fighters, they each had their own pre-fight routines. Some liked to play up the drama, rile the fans. Some liked to stretch one more time to ensure that each muscle was ready for the fight. But Eliot, he had his own curious routine. It wasn't theatrical, it wasn't noisy or flashy. It was the exact opposite, in fact. He leaned back against the ropes, felt the heat of the lights above him, the thrum of the fans around him. He wrapped all of that commotion into a tight little ball and banished it to the furthest corner of his mind. The moments before the fight were dedicated to mediation. To relaxing every fiber of his being and playing out the fight in his mind so that when his eyes finally snapped open, when he took his position across from the other fighter and nothing stood between them but a ref's arm, he was ready for that serenity to fall away. He was ready to fight.
Granted, it was a bit different this time. Gone were the fans that normally threatened to drown out his thoughts. Gone was the pressure of delivering for his promoter or the people betting on him. This fight was for him. It was for him to prove to himself that he wasn't prey for another fighter to kick and choke and trod upon. He was a predator in his own right.
It was a tap to his shoulder that drew him back out of his own thoughts and into the world again.
He turned to look at the person who'd stirred him.
Parker gazed back at him. "The other guy's lining up. Thought you might want to know," she said, shrugging.
Eliot directed his gaze to where Parker was looking to see the man he'd fight tonight. The man had a name to match his appearance. Tank, the man was certainly built like one. Each limb was thick as a tree trunk; his bald head reflected the light from the lamps. Eliot flashed back to a time when he'd worn military fatigues and a helmet on a daily basis. He'd jogged after a tank or two in his time and the feeling was hauntingly familiar. Jogging through the desert, sweat gluing his shirt to his back, the steel exterior of the tank catching the sun at just the right angle as it began to dip behind the mountains off on the horizon.
"You ready?" Parker whispered softly, "You know we're not putting you up to this, right? We can still go home."
Eliot turned his gaze back to her, the black bruising around her eye contrasting with her pale complexion. He'd become sloppy since the first fight. He'd made mistakes he shouldn't have made. And Nate was right, every time they went into a con and he was off-kilter, the whole team was off. He'd already proved that once. He'd hit Parker as if she were a common thug. He shook his head, Parker was wrong. There was no walking away from this; there was no option to retreat. To crawl back into that plane and limp home was to permanently cripple his team and endanger them. "No, I'm good. I'm ready. Let's do this."
She nodded and pulled back from the edge of the ring a pace, giving him the room he needed to stand and make his way over to where Mark was standing in the center of the ring.
"Eliot, you ready?"
"Sure as hell I am."
"Tank, you ready?"
"Let's get this started."
"Alright then," Mark added as he backed up two paces to the edge of the ring, "Fight!"
Eliot slunk to one side of the ring, balanced on the balls of his feet as he advanced forward a few feet. Tank remained rooted in place. Eliot held one arm up defensively in front of his turned torso. With the other gloved hand he threw a few experimental jabs. Testing the waters. Tank responded in turn, blocking each blow and throwing one of his own.
Eliot parried the blow and skated backward a few steps, backing up just enough to miss the kick his opponent had aimed for just below his knee.
The match continued on in much the same manner for the next minute or so. Each was trying to get a feel for the other. Looking for an opening, a weakness. Something to provide an opening past the defense where a fist might meet chest or face, might do some damage and move one of them that much closer to a victory.
As the fight progressed, though, something began to feel off to Eliot. He couldn't quite put his finger on it. He jabbed, fully expecting a return parry and strike. But luck was on his side, his fist connected with Tank's upper chest on the right side. The man stumbled and grunted but quickly regained his composure. The only evidence that showed that Eliot had done any damage was that the man was breathing a bit heavily, a piece of drool hung off the edge of Tank's lip.
Tank threw a sloppy blow which Eliot didn't even attempt to block. He simply danced around it and circled around Tank to the side. The man made a clumsy pivot and raised both arms in a defensive posture.
Eliot bounced his weight from foot to foot. Needed to keep limber. And then he moved in for another attack, this time throwing a kick-punch combo. Tank blocked the kick but then his movements slowed. Something was....strange. For a moment he thought he'd seen doubt or uncertainty in Tank's eyes. But that thought faded as Eliot's fist connected with the same spot on his opponent's torso as before.
Tank grimaced and folded forward. Eliot took the opportunity to trip him and take him to the ground. They tussled for a moment, rolling over one another as they struggled to be on top. Eliot eventually got his arm wrapped around Tank's throat and he began to tighten his grip. Tank's breaths became shorter, his struggling became more intense. But Eliot didn't relent. Keeping half of his attention on Tank's thrashing, he replayed the previous sequence in his brain, trying to put a name to what seemed to be funny about this fight.
Tank was fighting differently than last time. Last time the man had been all out offensive, leveling punch after punch in a relentless cycle. But this time, it was slower. Tank was putting up a front, he'd thrown a few jabs, blocked a few. But it was jerky. Like the man was calculating as he fought. Eliot replayed the previous sequence in his brain. And then, there! It was the blow that had allowed Eliot the opening to bring him down. Tank had turned his torso forward, baring it open for Eliot. A fighter, even a novice one, knew to stay twisted at an angle to minimize the target area available to an opponent. And yet Tank had twisted to expose that part of him. Eliot had seen it in his eyes too, Tank had done that fully knowing it went against everything he'd been taught.
Eliot growled and released his grip on Tank's throat. The man panted and rolled away.
"Time out!"
Mark stepped in between the two of them. "What's up, Eliot? Something wrong?"
"Sure as hell it is," he snarled. But the statement wasn't directed at Mark. No, Eliot's glare was aimed at Nate.
"This fight is just as dirty as the last one I fought here. You rigged the fight, didn't you Nate?"
Nate kept a neutral expression as he responded. "This match is clean. I don't know what paranoia's plaguing you now."
"Tank here isn't fighting like I know he can. If I had to put a name to it, I'd say he was taking it easy on me. And the only reason any fighter does that in the ring is if someone's paid them off."
He looked down at Tank this time. The man had recovered a bit. He was still gasping for air but he was slowly rising to his feet, aided by a firm grip on the ropes at the side of the ring.
Eliot addressed his opponent this time. "What's he paying you?"
"Don't know what you're talking about," the man responded automatically.
Eliot walked to the edge of the ring and started slipping between the ropes to exit.
"Where're ya going?" Nate asked.
"Well, seems to me I came here for a clean fight. But seein' as I ain't gonna get that, we may as well be going home," Eliot said.
Nate sighed, "Fine. Fine. Hold up. Yeah, ok. I rigged the fight. But I didn't think it would hurt. You just needed your confidence back. Who cares if I was just making sure that you found what you needed to accomplish that?"
Eliot glared, "I care. If I'm going to win anything in that ring, if I'm going to find closure or whatever, it's gonna be done on level ground. In a fair fight. You don't think I've done enough dirty fighting under this roof?"
"Fine," Nate relented, "We'll give you a clean fight."
This caught Tank's attention. "That mean I'm not getting paid here tonight? If that's the case, I'm out."
Eliot responded, "Oh, Nate'll still pay you whatever he promised. Plus he'll be doubling that fee since we're switching the conditions on the fly-"
"Eliot! You don't have a right to promise anyone any of my money!" Nate said as he cut Eliot off.
"Just the same way you got no right meddling with the outcome of my fights?" Eliot shot back.
Nate shook his head, "Fine."
"Sounds like we're all squared away then," Eliot finished, "Now can we get back to the fight?"
There was a murmur of agreements from the people in the warehouse as Eliot and Tank went to square up again. And just like that, they were off again in a flurry of strikes and blocks that blurred their movements together.
And Eliot couldn't help but feel his spirits lift as the match went on. It was fighting in its purest form. Two evenly matched men in a ring. Predators dancing around one another looking for a fatal mistake to seal their opponent's fate. Everything else slid away like water off a well-sealed roof. The baggage he'd been carrying, the filth that had come to stain his favorite sport was carried away and replaced with the sting of a cinderblock-strength strike hitting his bruised ribs. He responded with a hiss and a kick of his own. The smack of sweaty fist against unyielding muscle. This was fighting.
Fighting wasn't money being exchanged between hands. It wasn't trainers fixing a fight one way or another or drugging an opponent to ensure a victory.
A foot swiped low against his ankle, throwing him off balance. Next thing he felt was his head smacking against the floor, a figure climbing upon his own and pressing down with all its weight. Eliot went to roll over and use the momentum to trade position with his opponent. He was met in turn with an elbow to the face.
He vision spotted red, then black. Then back to white as he stared up at the blinding lights. Tank was going for the choke hold. Eliot barely recovered enough to get his hands between Tank's arm and his own throat. It was all that prevented his opponent from closing off his air source and choking him out.
With a grunt he applied all of his strength against countering the onslaught. He got a foot under him and managed to roll to the side, throwing Tank off him as the man rolled across the floor like dead weight.
Eliot was on him, punching him again and again and again. Blood flew from Tank's nose, spotting the otherwise white mat.
"Ok..."
Eliot paused, his fist just an inch from Tank's face.
"Ok, I'm out. That's match," Tank said as he tapped out with a shaky hand. "I'm done."
Eliot sat there for a moment. The adrenalin pumping through his body was screaming for action, for a release. It took every ounce of his self-restraint to silent the urge and move from pure action to complete standstill. He rolled off his opponent and retreated to his corner. Mark knelt down next to Tank to make sure he was ok.
Eliot sank down on his stool, leaning back against the ropes. Someone shoved the nozzle of a water bottle into his mouth and he gulped greedily.
"You ok, Eliot?" Nate asked.
"Yeah. I'm good."
A hand pressed against the lump that was forming on the back of his head from where he'd hit the mat earlier. Eliot hissed at the pain that announced itself.
Parker settled a hand on his shoulder, "Easy, Eliot. Looks like you got a nice goose egg there."
"You don't say," Eliot muttered.
Nate chuckled, "Go on then, back to the locker room. Doc's waiting for you there to check you over."
Eliot groaned, "You were serious about that?"
"You bet I was. Someone's gotta be the responsible parent in this bunch. Now go on, shoo! The gang and I'll clean up out here."
-----------------------------------
"Glad to see you walking back here on your own two feet. I had my doubts going into the match," the doctor spoke skeptically.
Eliot threw him a cocky smirk. This man, Jon, was such a far cry from his cousin. Mark was a fighter like Eliot. He understood the need to prove himself, the need to test himself against other men in the ring. Mark also understood the sacrifice fighters would make to get to that point at the end. The point where they stood over their opponent and knew once again that they had reaffirmed their rank and respect amongst those of the fighting creed.
Jon, on the other hand, was a healer. He cleaned up after they crawled out of the ring with split lips and swollen eyes and bruises dotting their flesh. And for the life of the man, it was clear he didn't quite understand the madness that drove them to willingly climb back between the ropes the moment they were able to test themselves against an opponent anew.
"I won, if you're wondering," Eliot said nonchalantly as he dropped down onto the locker room bench with a wince.
"I assumed that was the case. Figured I'd be dragging your unconscious form out of the ring myself if it had gone any other way. You don't strike me as the type to tap out."
Eliot shook his head, "I've never tapped out. Never will."
"Which was exactly my concern when I didn't want to let you fight tonight. You went in with what? Two cracked ribs, a barely-healed knock on the head, and enough bruising to boot," he complained as he expertly ran a hand along Eliot's ribs.
He paused in one region that had struck him as a bit off. He pressed a bit, eliciting a groan from Eliot as the man tried to wriggle away from the doctor's administrations.
"Like I said, your stubborn refusal to admit it's time to call it quits doesn't do your body any favors. Those two previously cracked ribs? Let's call them cleanly broken now. I'll bind them before I send you off. Anything else you want to tell me about now that I have you sitting where I can get a good look at you?"
Eliot shrugged, "Hit my head against the mat a few times. Nate told me to have you take another look at that before I left."
The doctor growled in disapproval and began running a hand along the back of Eliot's head. He immediately narrowed in on the problem area, pressing on it a bit more firmly than he probably had to. Eliot didn't complain though, he was probably causing the doc enough grief by showing up in here as beat up as he was.
John rocked back on his heels and reached for a flashlight from his pocket.
"Oh, come on doc! Again?"
The doctor chuckled and flipped the light on; steadying Eliot's head with one hand on his patient's chin as he pointed the flashlight into one eye then the other. "Yes again. You get knocked in the head again; we get to do the full diagnostic set for a concussion. Again."
Eliot squinted against the light as it burned his retinas.
"Alright, open those eyes of yours. Let me get a quick look at them."
Eliot groaned but complied. The light clicked off a moment later as promised. He blinked a few times to clear the spots from his vision. "Well? I take it I'll live?"
The doc rolled his eyes, "Fighters. As long as you survive all you want to know is when you can get back in the ring. But yes, beyond the two broken ribs and that concussion you've reopened the book on, you'll be ok."
"That's just what I like to hear, doc," Eliot added as he went to stand up.
A hand settled on his shoulder and pushed him back down. "Hold your horses there, Eliot."
Eliot sighed, "This where you tell me to go to the hospital to get checked out and then take the next week off?"
"Something like that. I'll give you a pass on the hospital; I don't think you'd follow my advice on that anyways. But it's two weeks off and you don't get left alone for the first three days at all."
Eliot groaned.
"I know, son. You fighters are all alike. You're heartily convinced you can take care of yourself all the time."
"I'd be fine," Eliot muttered quietly. "I know how to look after myself."
There was a soft laugh from behind him. Nate pushed off from where he'd been leaning up against a row of lockers by the entrance and sauntered back toward them. "That may be the case in the past, but you're part of a team now. And that means that this whole solo business doesn't exist anymore. We just need to get that message into that head of yours."
The doctor snorted, "That might take awhile. Thick skull might be an understatement. It's a miracle that his concussion isn't any worse than it is."
Nate frowned at this. "He got another one?"
John shrugged, "The last one probably wasn't completely healed going in. But suffice to say, he's aggravated it to say the least."
"So what are we looking at for treatment?"
"The norm, lots of sleep, Tylenol."
"No painkillers?" Eliot asked in a disappointed tone. God it was going to be a long few days.
The doctor shook his head, "No alcohol or aspirin either. Tylenol only." He turned his gaze back to Nate, "Keep him on bed rest for a few days and someone should stay with him around the clock for the next two or three days at least to keep an eye on him."
"Don't need a babysitter," Eliot muttered.
"Maybe not, but you do need someone to take notice if you start displaying symptoms of a brain bleed. Which means that yes, you get a buddy for the next few days."
Nate nodded, "Anything else we need to be worrying about?"
"He's doing alright now, but he'll probably be pretty dizzy in a few hours. If he pukes, you need to take him to the emergency room. Sleep is good for him, contrary to popular belief, but you should wake him up every few hours, ask some questions to make sure he knows what's going on."
"Ok, we can do that."
"Lots of hydrating. Even if he feels a little nauseous, he needs the hydration after a match like that. He might not feel like eating or drinking, just make sure he gets something in his system every so often."
"Got it," Nate responded. "That it?"
The doc nodded, "That's pretty much everything I'd suggest. You can take a pass on the hospital for now, I think you and your team can handle it. But you should schedule a follow-up appointment with a licensed physician of some sort just to get him checked out one final time. I can give you the name of one of my colleagues who lives up near you."
"We'd appreciate that a lot," Nate responded.
He looked down at Eliot. The man's appearance had grown noticeably worse since he'd seen him leaving the ring a bit ago. Eliot was hunched over; hands on his knees and eyes stared pointedly at the ground. "You feeling ok, Eliot?"
"Doin' fine."
Nate met the doc's gaze. The man shook his head. Nate sighed. "I'm gonna have Hardison come back and help you out to the car. I'll get the name of the physician Jon's recommending for a check-up in a few days and meet you out there."
"Ok," Eliot responded with a weak nod.
Nate didn't like that his hitter had stopped protesting treatment, and he didn't like the one and two word responses at all.
Hardison entered from where he'd been waiting in the hallway in case he was needed. He helped Eliot to his feet. When the man started to teeter to the side a bit Hardison draped one of Eliot's arms around his neck and guided the man out the door and toward the car Sophie had pulled up to the curb in preparation.
Nate shook his head and turned back to Jon, "You sure he doesn't need to go to the hospital?"
The doctor shrugged, "I think the fuss he'd put up if you made him go would just make him worse. Yeah, he's a bit dizzy, a bit out of it. But that's normal for a fighter coming out of a fight that rough with injuries like his. If he gets worse, though, follow your gut. Take him to the emergency room if you think he needs it."
"Ok, will do. Now how 'bout the name of that doc you want to recommend?"
Jon scribbled a name and a number on a scrap of paper and deposited it in Nate's hand. "There you go."
Nate looked down at the messy scrawl. After deciding that he could decipher it, he nodded once more. "Thanks, doc. Just tell Mark what we owe you and he'll send us the bill."
Jon's expression cracked into a grin at that, "No need. It's the least I can do for what you did for Mark. This gym, it's really brought his spirits up."
"Guess this is goodbye then," Nate added.
"Guess so. Keep me updated though? Call if you need any advice on Eliot or if his condition changes."
With a slight tip of his head Nate left the locker room in search of his team and their injured hitter.
-----------------------------------
Twelve hours later found the members of Leverage, Inc. back at Hardison's place. Eliot had taken up residence on the larger of the two couches in Hardison's living room. Home theatre was more like it, Eliot had always figured. This place had a larger plasma screen and better surround sound system than some movie theatres he had been to.
At the moment, it was Parker who was none-too-inconspicuously watching him. She flipped a page in the magazine she was pretending to read before glancing at him quickly. He raised an eyebrow at her and smirked. She'd made the same gesture every three to five minutes for the past half hour or so since she'd woke him up to play twenty questions. Although he couldn't complain that she'd asked the same boring questions as Sophie and Nate. They'd asked him what city they were in, how he'd gotten a concussion, what his name was, what their names were.
Parker, on the other hand, had been more creative to say the least. She'd asked him questions he didn't even know the answer to. Like how long her best time was for picking a lock. He smiled. She had panicked at first when he hadn't responded correctly and had Nate's phone number dialed before Eliot had calmed her down and explained that she was supposed to ask him questions he would know the answer to. It still hadn't been boring, though. She'd asked about all the heists they'd pulled then. From bank robberies to all of the crazy roles they'd each played along the journey to becoming a real team.
Across the room Parker put her magazine down on the table, "You hungry? Cause I'm hungry. And Nate said that the doctor said that you should eat and drink a lot. So maybe I should make you a snack."
"Slow down, Parker. I'm fine. But if it'll ease your worry, go ahead, make us somethin' to eat."
She nodded and got up quickly, crossing the living room and disappearing down the hallway toward the kitchen. He didn't hear much from her for the next ten minutes or so beyond some humming as she went about making whatever passed for a snack in her opinion. Then there came the sound of metal hitting the ground.
"Parker? You ok out there?"
He waited a moment for a response. When none came he sighed. He eased himself into a sitting position and pushed himself into a standing position. The floor seemed to buck sideways as a dizzy spell hit him. He kept a white-knuckled grip on the arm of a nearby chair until the uncomfortable sensation passed and he was confident enough to let go.
As he moved he kept one hand on anything he could use to steady himself. A lamp, another chair. The cabinet along the wall and then the wall itself as he moved into the hallway.
There was muttered whispering coming from the kitchen and he called out to her again, "Parker, you in there? I heard a crash."
The muttering stopped and Parker appeared in the hallway with her back turned to him. She turned around at the sound and almost dropped the tray she was carrying.
"Eliot! You're not supposed to be up. Nate and the doctor said that you were supposed to stay glued to the couch. Although why anyone would want to glue you to the couch is strange to me." She set her tray down on the ground and hustled up to him.
"You should go back to the couch. I'll bring the food."
He put his hands up in mock defense, "Ok, ok. I'm goin' back to being a couch potato."
She didn't insist on physically helping him back like he knew Hardison or Nate or Sophie would. Parker didn't like being touched much herself, or touching any of them, he remembered. She respected his space but stayed just close enough to be there for him to grab if he was hit by another dizzy spell.
He shuffled back to the couch and sunk back down into the plush leather.
Parker nodded in approval. "Now stay there. I'm going to get our snack."
He waved her off on her way and she withdrew from the room, this time throwing one more nervous glance at him before disappearing from view again.
He heard the sound of Parker picking the tray off the floor and a few seconds later she was dropping the tray on the table. It was balanced a bit haphazardly on the edge and Eliot reached out to push it further onto the table so it didn't topple off. He looked it over. It was a rather lopsided cake with white frosting on the top that read 'Feel better soon!' in Parker's distinct hand. She always skewed her letters a bit to the right; he'd always thought it was cute.
"Thanks, Parker," he said sincerely. He knew that Parker wasn't the type of woman who liked working in the kitchen. She'd asked him about it one time while watching him cook some Thai food for a team dinner to celebrate a successful con. She asked him why he liked working over a stove when he could be out breaking into vaults or diving off buildings. You know, she said, the fun stuff.
"When'd you put this all together?" he asked.
"While you were sleeping. I woke you up after I stuck it in the oven."
"What flavor is it?"
"Peanut butter and jelly," she responded proudly.
He raised an eyebrow. "Never had a cake that flavor before."
She shrugged. "I found a bunch of recipes online but they were all boring flavors: chocolate and vanilla or strawberry. I figured I might as well make it a bit more exciting. And you did tell me that half of being a good cook was being willing to experiment."
He chuckled. "I did say that, didn't I? Alright then, let's try this concoction of yours. Got some cutlery and a pair of plates?"
"Yep," she responded gleefully as she grabbed them off the tray and laid them out on the coffee table. "I'm cutting the cake though. I'm not sure you should be handling knives with a concussion. I somehow don't think Nate would approve."
He shrugged and leaned back as she cut the cake into eight slices and dished them out a plate.
As she did so, Eliot thought back through the past few days. He'd gone from a fight in Nebraska, to this very couch, back to Nebraska, and then back to the couch. In that time he'd been prey and predator. He'd beaten up a few people, been beaten up a bit, and everything had come full circle back to his team's headquarters. His home, he thought. And not just a team, his family.
He thought of the efforts his family had made to fix what had been bothering him. When he'd been off, they hadn't treated him like prey. He'd always seen things in black and white. There were the people upon whom the criminals preyed, and the people who could stand their ground and beat those individuals back into the dark corners they had emerged from.
Parker handed him a plate of her cake. He smirked as he saw the inside. The white cake was marbled with streaks of purple from the jelly and strips of golden brown from the peanut butter.
With a family, he didn't have to be on edge all the time, worrying about a shady individual crawling out of the shadows and taking advantage or attacking them. He thought back to Hardison's guiding hand on his back as they went to the car after the fight. He thought of the way Sophie had stayed with him through the night despite the weariness that showed on her face. He thought of Nate having stopped by his place to pick up some more comfortable clothes for him. And as he put a bite of Parker's cake in his mouth, he realized something. There were seals and sharks in the world. But there were also close-knit families that fought together against all of the evil in the world. His family and him, they did that every day. And maybe that made the world a little less scary of a place.
"How's the cake?" Parker asked with a tinge of nervousness creeping into her face. It was the first time she'd cooked anything for another person. And they were always telling her that she had odd tastes.
Eliot threw Parker his widest smile, "Delicious."
--THE END--
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Genre: Angst, hurt/comfort
Total Story Word Count: ~16,500 words
This Chapter's Word Count: ~3,000 words
Rating: PG-13 (language, violence)
Pairings: None (Gen)
Warnings: None
Summary: Tag to the Leverage episode "The Tap Out Job." Eliot's used to being in control, to being able to fight back against individuals who mean him or his teammate's harm. So what happened in the first few minutes of that fight where he let himself get beat up, for the sake of his team and the success of their con? Add that to the physical trauma from the fight and maybe it's affecting him a lot more than he's leading on.
Author's Note: A thanks, as always, to my wonderful beta phoenix_laugh. This fic was written to fill the prompt "build-up of job related trauma" on my hurt/comfort bingo card. This fic is completely written and will be posted in 4 installments over the next week or so.
Predator and Prey - Part 4
[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4]
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“Bullfight critics, ranked in rows,
Crowd the enormous plaza full,
But only one is there who knows,
And he's the one that fights the bull.“
-Anonymous poem
-----------------------------------
Eliot stood in his corner of the ring. Eyes closed for the moment, he took deep breaths. Other fighters, they each had their own pre-fight routines. Some liked to play up the drama, rile the fans. Some liked to stretch one more time to ensure that each muscle was ready for the fight. But Eliot, he had his own curious routine. It wasn't theatrical, it wasn't noisy or flashy. It was the exact opposite, in fact. He leaned back against the ropes, felt the heat of the lights above him, the thrum of the fans around him. He wrapped all of that commotion into a tight little ball and banished it to the furthest corner of his mind. The moments before the fight were dedicated to mediation. To relaxing every fiber of his being and playing out the fight in his mind so that when his eyes finally snapped open, when he took his position across from the other fighter and nothing stood between them but a ref's arm, he was ready for that serenity to fall away. He was ready to fight.
Granted, it was a bit different this time. Gone were the fans that normally threatened to drown out his thoughts. Gone was the pressure of delivering for his promoter or the people betting on him. This fight was for him. It was for him to prove to himself that he wasn't prey for another fighter to kick and choke and trod upon. He was a predator in his own right.
It was a tap to his shoulder that drew him back out of his own thoughts and into the world again.
He turned to look at the person who'd stirred him.
Parker gazed back at him. "The other guy's lining up. Thought you might want to know," she said, shrugging.
Eliot directed his gaze to where Parker was looking to see the man he'd fight tonight. The man had a name to match his appearance. Tank, the man was certainly built like one. Each limb was thick as a tree trunk; his bald head reflected the light from the lamps. Eliot flashed back to a time when he'd worn military fatigues and a helmet on a daily basis. He'd jogged after a tank or two in his time and the feeling was hauntingly familiar. Jogging through the desert, sweat gluing his shirt to his back, the steel exterior of the tank catching the sun at just the right angle as it began to dip behind the mountains off on the horizon.
"You ready?" Parker whispered softly, "You know we're not putting you up to this, right? We can still go home."
Eliot turned his gaze back to her, the black bruising around her eye contrasting with her pale complexion. He'd become sloppy since the first fight. He'd made mistakes he shouldn't have made. And Nate was right, every time they went into a con and he was off-kilter, the whole team was off. He'd already proved that once. He'd hit Parker as if she were a common thug. He shook his head, Parker was wrong. There was no walking away from this; there was no option to retreat. To crawl back into that plane and limp home was to permanently cripple his team and endanger them. "No, I'm good. I'm ready. Let's do this."
She nodded and pulled back from the edge of the ring a pace, giving him the room he needed to stand and make his way over to where Mark was standing in the center of the ring.
"Eliot, you ready?"
"Sure as hell I am."
"Tank, you ready?"
"Let's get this started."
"Alright then," Mark added as he backed up two paces to the edge of the ring, "Fight!"
Eliot slunk to one side of the ring, balanced on the balls of his feet as he advanced forward a few feet. Tank remained rooted in place. Eliot held one arm up defensively in front of his turned torso. With the other gloved hand he threw a few experimental jabs. Testing the waters. Tank responded in turn, blocking each blow and throwing one of his own.
Eliot parried the blow and skated backward a few steps, backing up just enough to miss the kick his opponent had aimed for just below his knee.
The match continued on in much the same manner for the next minute or so. Each was trying to get a feel for the other. Looking for an opening, a weakness. Something to provide an opening past the defense where a fist might meet chest or face, might do some damage and move one of them that much closer to a victory.
As the fight progressed, though, something began to feel off to Eliot. He couldn't quite put his finger on it. He jabbed, fully expecting a return parry and strike. But luck was on his side, his fist connected with Tank's upper chest on the right side. The man stumbled and grunted but quickly regained his composure. The only evidence that showed that Eliot had done any damage was that the man was breathing a bit heavily, a piece of drool hung off the edge of Tank's lip.
Tank threw a sloppy blow which Eliot didn't even attempt to block. He simply danced around it and circled around Tank to the side. The man made a clumsy pivot and raised both arms in a defensive posture.
Eliot bounced his weight from foot to foot. Needed to keep limber. And then he moved in for another attack, this time throwing a kick-punch combo. Tank blocked the kick but then his movements slowed. Something was....strange. For a moment he thought he'd seen doubt or uncertainty in Tank's eyes. But that thought faded as Eliot's fist connected with the same spot on his opponent's torso as before.
Tank grimaced and folded forward. Eliot took the opportunity to trip him and take him to the ground. They tussled for a moment, rolling over one another as they struggled to be on top. Eliot eventually got his arm wrapped around Tank's throat and he began to tighten his grip. Tank's breaths became shorter, his struggling became more intense. But Eliot didn't relent. Keeping half of his attention on Tank's thrashing, he replayed the previous sequence in his brain, trying to put a name to what seemed to be funny about this fight.
Tank was fighting differently than last time. Last time the man had been all out offensive, leveling punch after punch in a relentless cycle. But this time, it was slower. Tank was putting up a front, he'd thrown a few jabs, blocked a few. But it was jerky. Like the man was calculating as he fought. Eliot replayed the previous sequence in his brain. And then, there! It was the blow that had allowed Eliot the opening to bring him down. Tank had turned his torso forward, baring it open for Eliot. A fighter, even a novice one, knew to stay twisted at an angle to minimize the target area available to an opponent. And yet Tank had twisted to expose that part of him. Eliot had seen it in his eyes too, Tank had done that fully knowing it went against everything he'd been taught.
Eliot growled and released his grip on Tank's throat. The man panted and rolled away.
"Time out!"
Mark stepped in between the two of them. "What's up, Eliot? Something wrong?"
"Sure as hell it is," he snarled. But the statement wasn't directed at Mark. No, Eliot's glare was aimed at Nate.
"This fight is just as dirty as the last one I fought here. You rigged the fight, didn't you Nate?"
Nate kept a neutral expression as he responded. "This match is clean. I don't know what paranoia's plaguing you now."
"Tank here isn't fighting like I know he can. If I had to put a name to it, I'd say he was taking it easy on me. And the only reason any fighter does that in the ring is if someone's paid them off."
He looked down at Tank this time. The man had recovered a bit. He was still gasping for air but he was slowly rising to his feet, aided by a firm grip on the ropes at the side of the ring.
Eliot addressed his opponent this time. "What's he paying you?"
"Don't know what you're talking about," the man responded automatically.
Eliot walked to the edge of the ring and started slipping between the ropes to exit.
"Where're ya going?" Nate asked.
"Well, seems to me I came here for a clean fight. But seein' as I ain't gonna get that, we may as well be going home," Eliot said.
Nate sighed, "Fine. Fine. Hold up. Yeah, ok. I rigged the fight. But I didn't think it would hurt. You just needed your confidence back. Who cares if I was just making sure that you found what you needed to accomplish that?"
Eliot glared, "I care. If I'm going to win anything in that ring, if I'm going to find closure or whatever, it's gonna be done on level ground. In a fair fight. You don't think I've done enough dirty fighting under this roof?"
"Fine," Nate relented, "We'll give you a clean fight."
This caught Tank's attention. "That mean I'm not getting paid here tonight? If that's the case, I'm out."
Eliot responded, "Oh, Nate'll still pay you whatever he promised. Plus he'll be doubling that fee since we're switching the conditions on the fly-"
"Eliot! You don't have a right to promise anyone any of my money!" Nate said as he cut Eliot off.
"Just the same way you got no right meddling with the outcome of my fights?" Eliot shot back.
Nate shook his head, "Fine."
"Sounds like we're all squared away then," Eliot finished, "Now can we get back to the fight?"
There was a murmur of agreements from the people in the warehouse as Eliot and Tank went to square up again. And just like that, they were off again in a flurry of strikes and blocks that blurred their movements together.
And Eliot couldn't help but feel his spirits lift as the match went on. It was fighting in its purest form. Two evenly matched men in a ring. Predators dancing around one another looking for a fatal mistake to seal their opponent's fate. Everything else slid away like water off a well-sealed roof. The baggage he'd been carrying, the filth that had come to stain his favorite sport was carried away and replaced with the sting of a cinderblock-strength strike hitting his bruised ribs. He responded with a hiss and a kick of his own. The smack of sweaty fist against unyielding muscle. This was fighting.
Fighting wasn't money being exchanged between hands. It wasn't trainers fixing a fight one way or another or drugging an opponent to ensure a victory.
A foot swiped low against his ankle, throwing him off balance. Next thing he felt was his head smacking against the floor, a figure climbing upon his own and pressing down with all its weight. Eliot went to roll over and use the momentum to trade position with his opponent. He was met in turn with an elbow to the face.
He vision spotted red, then black. Then back to white as he stared up at the blinding lights. Tank was going for the choke hold. Eliot barely recovered enough to get his hands between Tank's arm and his own throat. It was all that prevented his opponent from closing off his air source and choking him out.
With a grunt he applied all of his strength against countering the onslaught. He got a foot under him and managed to roll to the side, throwing Tank off him as the man rolled across the floor like dead weight.
Eliot was on him, punching him again and again and again. Blood flew from Tank's nose, spotting the otherwise white mat.
"Ok..."
Eliot paused, his fist just an inch from Tank's face.
"Ok, I'm out. That's match," Tank said as he tapped out with a shaky hand. "I'm done."
Eliot sat there for a moment. The adrenalin pumping through his body was screaming for action, for a release. It took every ounce of his self-restraint to silent the urge and move from pure action to complete standstill. He rolled off his opponent and retreated to his corner. Mark knelt down next to Tank to make sure he was ok.
Eliot sank down on his stool, leaning back against the ropes. Someone shoved the nozzle of a water bottle into his mouth and he gulped greedily.
"You ok, Eliot?" Nate asked.
"Yeah. I'm good."
A hand pressed against the lump that was forming on the back of his head from where he'd hit the mat earlier. Eliot hissed at the pain that announced itself.
Parker settled a hand on his shoulder, "Easy, Eliot. Looks like you got a nice goose egg there."
"You don't say," Eliot muttered.
Nate chuckled, "Go on then, back to the locker room. Doc's waiting for you there to check you over."
Eliot groaned, "You were serious about that?"
"You bet I was. Someone's gotta be the responsible parent in this bunch. Now go on, shoo! The gang and I'll clean up out here."
-----------------------------------
"Glad to see you walking back here on your own two feet. I had my doubts going into the match," the doctor spoke skeptically.
Eliot threw him a cocky smirk. This man, Jon, was such a far cry from his cousin. Mark was a fighter like Eliot. He understood the need to prove himself, the need to test himself against other men in the ring. Mark also understood the sacrifice fighters would make to get to that point at the end. The point where they stood over their opponent and knew once again that they had reaffirmed their rank and respect amongst those of the fighting creed.
Jon, on the other hand, was a healer. He cleaned up after they crawled out of the ring with split lips and swollen eyes and bruises dotting their flesh. And for the life of the man, it was clear he didn't quite understand the madness that drove them to willingly climb back between the ropes the moment they were able to test themselves against an opponent anew.
"I won, if you're wondering," Eliot said nonchalantly as he dropped down onto the locker room bench with a wince.
"I assumed that was the case. Figured I'd be dragging your unconscious form out of the ring myself if it had gone any other way. You don't strike me as the type to tap out."
Eliot shook his head, "I've never tapped out. Never will."
"Which was exactly my concern when I didn't want to let you fight tonight. You went in with what? Two cracked ribs, a barely-healed knock on the head, and enough bruising to boot," he complained as he expertly ran a hand along Eliot's ribs.
He paused in one region that had struck him as a bit off. He pressed a bit, eliciting a groan from Eliot as the man tried to wriggle away from the doctor's administrations.
"Like I said, your stubborn refusal to admit it's time to call it quits doesn't do your body any favors. Those two previously cracked ribs? Let's call them cleanly broken now. I'll bind them before I send you off. Anything else you want to tell me about now that I have you sitting where I can get a good look at you?"
Eliot shrugged, "Hit my head against the mat a few times. Nate told me to have you take another look at that before I left."
The doctor growled in disapproval and began running a hand along the back of Eliot's head. He immediately narrowed in on the problem area, pressing on it a bit more firmly than he probably had to. Eliot didn't complain though, he was probably causing the doc enough grief by showing up in here as beat up as he was.
John rocked back on his heels and reached for a flashlight from his pocket.
"Oh, come on doc! Again?"
The doctor chuckled and flipped the light on; steadying Eliot's head with one hand on his patient's chin as he pointed the flashlight into one eye then the other. "Yes again. You get knocked in the head again; we get to do the full diagnostic set for a concussion. Again."
Eliot squinted against the light as it burned his retinas.
"Alright, open those eyes of yours. Let me get a quick look at them."
Eliot groaned but complied. The light clicked off a moment later as promised. He blinked a few times to clear the spots from his vision. "Well? I take it I'll live?"
The doc rolled his eyes, "Fighters. As long as you survive all you want to know is when you can get back in the ring. But yes, beyond the two broken ribs and that concussion you've reopened the book on, you'll be ok."
"That's just what I like to hear, doc," Eliot added as he went to stand up.
A hand settled on his shoulder and pushed him back down. "Hold your horses there, Eliot."
Eliot sighed, "This where you tell me to go to the hospital to get checked out and then take the next week off?"
"Something like that. I'll give you a pass on the hospital; I don't think you'd follow my advice on that anyways. But it's two weeks off and you don't get left alone for the first three days at all."
Eliot groaned.
"I know, son. You fighters are all alike. You're heartily convinced you can take care of yourself all the time."
"I'd be fine," Eliot muttered quietly. "I know how to look after myself."
There was a soft laugh from behind him. Nate pushed off from where he'd been leaning up against a row of lockers by the entrance and sauntered back toward them. "That may be the case in the past, but you're part of a team now. And that means that this whole solo business doesn't exist anymore. We just need to get that message into that head of yours."
The doctor snorted, "That might take awhile. Thick skull might be an understatement. It's a miracle that his concussion isn't any worse than it is."
Nate frowned at this. "He got another one?"
John shrugged, "The last one probably wasn't completely healed going in. But suffice to say, he's aggravated it to say the least."
"So what are we looking at for treatment?"
"The norm, lots of sleep, Tylenol."
"No painkillers?" Eliot asked in a disappointed tone. God it was going to be a long few days.
The doctor shook his head, "No alcohol or aspirin either. Tylenol only." He turned his gaze back to Nate, "Keep him on bed rest for a few days and someone should stay with him around the clock for the next two or three days at least to keep an eye on him."
"Don't need a babysitter," Eliot muttered.
"Maybe not, but you do need someone to take notice if you start displaying symptoms of a brain bleed. Which means that yes, you get a buddy for the next few days."
Nate nodded, "Anything else we need to be worrying about?"
"He's doing alright now, but he'll probably be pretty dizzy in a few hours. If he pukes, you need to take him to the emergency room. Sleep is good for him, contrary to popular belief, but you should wake him up every few hours, ask some questions to make sure he knows what's going on."
"Ok, we can do that."
"Lots of hydrating. Even if he feels a little nauseous, he needs the hydration after a match like that. He might not feel like eating or drinking, just make sure he gets something in his system every so often."
"Got it," Nate responded. "That it?"
The doc nodded, "That's pretty much everything I'd suggest. You can take a pass on the hospital for now, I think you and your team can handle it. But you should schedule a follow-up appointment with a licensed physician of some sort just to get him checked out one final time. I can give you the name of one of my colleagues who lives up near you."
"We'd appreciate that a lot," Nate responded.
He looked down at Eliot. The man's appearance had grown noticeably worse since he'd seen him leaving the ring a bit ago. Eliot was hunched over; hands on his knees and eyes stared pointedly at the ground. "You feeling ok, Eliot?"
"Doin' fine."
Nate met the doc's gaze. The man shook his head. Nate sighed. "I'm gonna have Hardison come back and help you out to the car. I'll get the name of the physician Jon's recommending for a check-up in a few days and meet you out there."
"Ok," Eliot responded with a weak nod.
Nate didn't like that his hitter had stopped protesting treatment, and he didn't like the one and two word responses at all.
Hardison entered from where he'd been waiting in the hallway in case he was needed. He helped Eliot to his feet. When the man started to teeter to the side a bit Hardison draped one of Eliot's arms around his neck and guided the man out the door and toward the car Sophie had pulled up to the curb in preparation.
Nate shook his head and turned back to Jon, "You sure he doesn't need to go to the hospital?"
The doctor shrugged, "I think the fuss he'd put up if you made him go would just make him worse. Yeah, he's a bit dizzy, a bit out of it. But that's normal for a fighter coming out of a fight that rough with injuries like his. If he gets worse, though, follow your gut. Take him to the emergency room if you think he needs it."
"Ok, will do. Now how 'bout the name of that doc you want to recommend?"
Jon scribbled a name and a number on a scrap of paper and deposited it in Nate's hand. "There you go."
Nate looked down at the messy scrawl. After deciding that he could decipher it, he nodded once more. "Thanks, doc. Just tell Mark what we owe you and he'll send us the bill."
Jon's expression cracked into a grin at that, "No need. It's the least I can do for what you did for Mark. This gym, it's really brought his spirits up."
"Guess this is goodbye then," Nate added.
"Guess so. Keep me updated though? Call if you need any advice on Eliot or if his condition changes."
With a slight tip of his head Nate left the locker room in search of his team and their injured hitter.
-----------------------------------
Twelve hours later found the members of Leverage, Inc. back at Hardison's place. Eliot had taken up residence on the larger of the two couches in Hardison's living room. Home theatre was more like it, Eliot had always figured. This place had a larger plasma screen and better surround sound system than some movie theatres he had been to.
At the moment, it was Parker who was none-too-inconspicuously watching him. She flipped a page in the magazine she was pretending to read before glancing at him quickly. He raised an eyebrow at her and smirked. She'd made the same gesture every three to five minutes for the past half hour or so since she'd woke him up to play twenty questions. Although he couldn't complain that she'd asked the same boring questions as Sophie and Nate. They'd asked him what city they were in, how he'd gotten a concussion, what his name was, what their names were.
Parker, on the other hand, had been more creative to say the least. She'd asked him questions he didn't even know the answer to. Like how long her best time was for picking a lock. He smiled. She had panicked at first when he hadn't responded correctly and had Nate's phone number dialed before Eliot had calmed her down and explained that she was supposed to ask him questions he would know the answer to. It still hadn't been boring, though. She'd asked about all the heists they'd pulled then. From bank robberies to all of the crazy roles they'd each played along the journey to becoming a real team.
Across the room Parker put her magazine down on the table, "You hungry? Cause I'm hungry. And Nate said that the doctor said that you should eat and drink a lot. So maybe I should make you a snack."
"Slow down, Parker. I'm fine. But if it'll ease your worry, go ahead, make us somethin' to eat."
She nodded and got up quickly, crossing the living room and disappearing down the hallway toward the kitchen. He didn't hear much from her for the next ten minutes or so beyond some humming as she went about making whatever passed for a snack in her opinion. Then there came the sound of metal hitting the ground.
"Parker? You ok out there?"
He waited a moment for a response. When none came he sighed. He eased himself into a sitting position and pushed himself into a standing position. The floor seemed to buck sideways as a dizzy spell hit him. He kept a white-knuckled grip on the arm of a nearby chair until the uncomfortable sensation passed and he was confident enough to let go.
As he moved he kept one hand on anything he could use to steady himself. A lamp, another chair. The cabinet along the wall and then the wall itself as he moved into the hallway.
There was muttered whispering coming from the kitchen and he called out to her again, "Parker, you in there? I heard a crash."
The muttering stopped and Parker appeared in the hallway with her back turned to him. She turned around at the sound and almost dropped the tray she was carrying.
"Eliot! You're not supposed to be up. Nate and the doctor said that you were supposed to stay glued to the couch. Although why anyone would want to glue you to the couch is strange to me." She set her tray down on the ground and hustled up to him.
"You should go back to the couch. I'll bring the food."
He put his hands up in mock defense, "Ok, ok. I'm goin' back to being a couch potato."
She didn't insist on physically helping him back like he knew Hardison or Nate or Sophie would. Parker didn't like being touched much herself, or touching any of them, he remembered. She respected his space but stayed just close enough to be there for him to grab if he was hit by another dizzy spell.
He shuffled back to the couch and sunk back down into the plush leather.
Parker nodded in approval. "Now stay there. I'm going to get our snack."
He waved her off on her way and she withdrew from the room, this time throwing one more nervous glance at him before disappearing from view again.
He heard the sound of Parker picking the tray off the floor and a few seconds later she was dropping the tray on the table. It was balanced a bit haphazardly on the edge and Eliot reached out to push it further onto the table so it didn't topple off. He looked it over. It was a rather lopsided cake with white frosting on the top that read 'Feel better soon!' in Parker's distinct hand. She always skewed her letters a bit to the right; he'd always thought it was cute.
"Thanks, Parker," he said sincerely. He knew that Parker wasn't the type of woman who liked working in the kitchen. She'd asked him about it one time while watching him cook some Thai food for a team dinner to celebrate a successful con. She asked him why he liked working over a stove when he could be out breaking into vaults or diving off buildings. You know, she said, the fun stuff.
"When'd you put this all together?" he asked.
"While you were sleeping. I woke you up after I stuck it in the oven."
"What flavor is it?"
"Peanut butter and jelly," she responded proudly.
He raised an eyebrow. "Never had a cake that flavor before."
She shrugged. "I found a bunch of recipes online but they were all boring flavors: chocolate and vanilla or strawberry. I figured I might as well make it a bit more exciting. And you did tell me that half of being a good cook was being willing to experiment."
He chuckled. "I did say that, didn't I? Alright then, let's try this concoction of yours. Got some cutlery and a pair of plates?"
"Yep," she responded gleefully as she grabbed them off the tray and laid them out on the coffee table. "I'm cutting the cake though. I'm not sure you should be handling knives with a concussion. I somehow don't think Nate would approve."
He shrugged and leaned back as she cut the cake into eight slices and dished them out a plate.
As she did so, Eliot thought back through the past few days. He'd gone from a fight in Nebraska, to this very couch, back to Nebraska, and then back to the couch. In that time he'd been prey and predator. He'd beaten up a few people, been beaten up a bit, and everything had come full circle back to his team's headquarters. His home, he thought. And not just a team, his family.
He thought of the efforts his family had made to fix what had been bothering him. When he'd been off, they hadn't treated him like prey. He'd always seen things in black and white. There were the people upon whom the criminals preyed, and the people who could stand their ground and beat those individuals back into the dark corners they had emerged from.
Parker handed him a plate of her cake. He smirked as he saw the inside. The white cake was marbled with streaks of purple from the jelly and strips of golden brown from the peanut butter.
With a family, he didn't have to be on edge all the time, worrying about a shady individual crawling out of the shadows and taking advantage or attacking them. He thought back to Hardison's guiding hand on his back as they went to the car after the fight. He thought of the way Sophie had stayed with him through the night despite the weariness that showed on her face. He thought of Nate having stopped by his place to pick up some more comfortable clothes for him. And as he put a bite of Parker's cake in his mouth, he realized something. There were seals and sharks in the world. But there were also close-knit families that fought together against all of the evil in the world. His family and him, they did that every day. And maybe that made the world a little less scary of a place.
"How's the cake?" Parker asked with a tinge of nervousness creeping into her face. It was the first time she'd cooked anything for another person. And they were always telling her that she had odd tastes.
Eliot threw Parker his widest smile, "Delicious."
--THE END--
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