Dipping my toes in the water... :)
Title: Man I Used to Be
Rating: PG-13 for now
By: Jendavis
Spoilers: Up through 2x07
Pairing: Alec Hardison/ Eliot Spencer
Genre: Drama?
Warnings: WIP
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, don't take this too seriously.
Summary: The present's a mess, and the past isn't helping.
Chapter 1.
Eliot couldn't stop himself from checking the clock again. Nate and Sophie had gone down to meet a new client over an hour ago, and it was getting late.
He frowned again at the book he'd brought over, which so far had totally failed to provide any sort of distraction as it sat on the chair's armrest. He considered picking it up again anyway.
It was a moot point, though, because Parker had stolen his glasses. She'd stared all over the room in amazement for a while, cracking the obligatory jokes and getting Hardison to stop what he was doing and take a picture, before suddenly dropping to the couch and falling asleep. She was still wearing the glasses.
Eliot wasn't bored enough, yet, to find out if she was the type to react violently to being woken up. For lack of anything better to do, he forced himself out of his seat to water Nate's plants. Outside, the sky was dark, and the lights had come on up and down the block, but mostly he saw the interior of the apartment reflected back at him.
It was a little claustrophobic. A little quiet, except for the typing coming over from the kitchen table.
Hardison hadn't said anything for nearly an hour, now, which had to be some sort of record. For all Eliot knew, whatever he was doing might have actually been important. Or it could have been a video game. Not like he could tell the difference, most of the time. But he was standing, there, now, and could see the screens, and there wasn't any reason not to ask, anyway.
"What are you doing?"
"Monitoring and cleanup."
"What's that mean?"
Alec glanced up, briefly distracted, but didn't stop typing. "The usual."
Eliot rolled his eyes, but leaned in to look over his shoulder. "What's that mean?"
"Making sure the jobs we cleared stay clear. Checking the local news, scanning security updates. Just the usual police reports and the like." Hardison gestured at the screen. "Like here. I'm looking at emails and internal memos to make sure no one's following up on the strangeness they saw at the auction house last week."
"We got out of there fine."
"A car exploding in the middle of the street?" Hardison snorted, shaking his head. "How is that fine?"
"Does that-" Before Eliot could finish, the apartment door opened, and Sophie's heels were clicking sharply across the floor.
"I." Sophie broke off, startled by Parker's sudden movement on the couch. "The clients have only just arrived, and they're beginning to fill Nathan in." She stifled a yawn, shaking two aspirin out of the bottle from the pantry. "I'm going back down there, but he agrees that it's best that we take this up in the morning." Clearly too tired to care about their thoughts on the matter, she made her way back towards the door.
"But I'm wide awake now!" Parker complained, swatting the strange frames from her face and staring down at them once they'd fallen onto the couch. A moment later, she seemed to recognize them, picking them up gingerly. She returned them to Eliot as if sure that either they or Eliot would explode without further provocation.
Handoff made with no detonation, she said good night, before following Sophie out the door and down the stairs.
Eliot was about to do likewise when he realized that Hardison hadn't started typing again, regarding Eliot expectantly, clearly confused.
He realized, then, that he hadn't moved away, that he was still looming over Hardison's chair. Gesturing at the screen to cover a backwards step, he asked, "That happen a lot? People talking after we leave?"
Hardison cocked his head and resumed working, flipping from an open police report to something called a WHDH 7 Call Log. Eliot squinted at the screen, glasses forgotten in his hand, trying to make sense of it and failing. "Often enough to cut into my raids, man. How a brother's supposed to have any sort of social life when he's gotta go around cleaning up after ya'lls mess is seriously beyond me."
Eliot was torn between defending himself against what seemed like a vague accusation, and guessing that Hardison was probably right. He didn't have to admit it, though.
But there wasn't anything else to say, either. And, and since Sophie'd dismissed them, there was no reason to linger. He grabbed his coat from the back of his chair, listening to make sure his keys were still in the pocket. "You have fun with that. I'm out."
---
"I am looking for Nicola."
"Who shall I say is calling?"
"An old friend with new information."
---
Eliot regarded the bar from a safe distance across the street. It didn't look that much different from McRory's. The same brick face and neon signs hung in tinted windows. Inside, people were drinking and talking and shooting pool, like any other Tuesday night. There was no threat.
Well, there was, but it wasn't the kind he was used to.
He looked up the street again, waiting for the light to change. Wound up watching the walk signal cycle through from walk to don't, and told himself it didn't matter. That he could be anyone, walking in there. It was just a beer, didn't have to mean anything.
Pull the other one.
The signal looped around again, and he cast a look up the street, past the pedestrians towards the church on the corner. There was a middle-aged woman waiting at the bus stop, and across the street, two punks hauled guitar cases up the fire escape. The intersection didn't look much different from the way it had last night. Not a whole lot changed in a day.
But some things had to.
Do this or go home.
The signal was flashing as his feet began to move, but he didn't quicken his pace. And he didn't slow as he stepped up to the door, grabbed the handle, and went inside. Like ripping off a bandage in reverse.
He scanned the tables and high-backed booths as he passed, just enough for a rough head count, nothing more. The horseshoe shaped bar was an island in the middle of the room, separating the tables from the open space beyond the pool table that was probably a dance floor on weekends.
Eliot chose a stool that had line of sight on the door, and nodded at the bartender pouring drinks down the line. He ordered a lager when it was his turn, watching the bartender pull the tap, when someone sat down a few seats over.
"I'll have a Tom Collins, and I've got his beer." Eliot looked up, puzzled to see the older man grinning back at him through a neatly trimmed beard, more gray than brown. "You made it in," he said, sliding a twenty towards the bartender. "Congratulations."
"What? No. I mean, thanks, but-"
"Too late," the bartender smirked, turning away towards the register, apparently accustomed to the scenario, and Eliot wanted to tell him no, it's not like that.
The man was assessing Eliot with a wry grin. "Thought you were going to stand around outside all night. Again."
"Don't know what you're talking about," he fought the urge to growl. Pulled it off, more or less.
"Don't worry about it," the man said, accepting his change from the bartender and leaving a tip. "Consider it a welcome, and no, I'm not making a pass at you." He tilted his head back, nodding vaguely behind him. "My partner, Lee, is over playing pool."
"All right. Thanks." Feeling like he was missing the plot, he figured he should say more. Figured he should have put together a halfway decent cover before walking in. "Name's Eliot."
"Ron," the other offered, shaking his hand. "Nice to meet you."
---
Eliot surveyed the table, lining up his shot. He'd have to bank it, but it was doable. And if he missed, it didn't matter. They weren't even playing for money. But it was good, listening to Lee tell stories about an idiotic coworker, while Ron chalked his cue idly, listening to James, their fourth, rant about getting laid off.
It was a thousand times less awkward than the preceding conversation had been.
"So. Eliot," Ron ventured, watching the bartender pour their second round, "This your first time in a gay bar?"
Eliot scanned the room in the mirror behind the bottles, a little relieved that no one else seemed to be taking notice. "It's that obvious, huh?"
Ron caught Eliot looking, amused. "I don't know what you're expecting, but this is pretty much it. It's not like there's a hazing or anything. Though if you feel like torture, tomorrow night's karaoke, and Lee thinks he's Chris Isaac."
"No thanks."
That had been the end of it, and here on the quiet side of the bar, away from the tables, it was a little easier to pretend that this was any other night out, that this was any other bar.
He sank the shot, but he hadn't left himself enough space to ensure the next one going down smooth. No one said anything when he missed, though, and when he stepped back to see what was keeping Lee from taking his turn, he saw them breaking apart from a casual kiss.
He knew he'd been caught looking, and they were sharing a glance that could have meant anything, but probably translated roughly to don't scare off the greenhorn.
He smirked, careful not to look thrown, and stepped around the corner of the table to watch James line up his shot.
As Lee was stepping away from the table, Eliot felt a tap on his arm, and looked up into the face of a smug looking blond kid.
"Yeah?"
The kid nodded down to the tray he was holding, and the pint of lager balanced in the center. "The gentleman in green, over at the bar, sent this over for you."
Oh hell.
It was bad enough that he'd already let one stranger buy him a drink, but this one, he hadn't even seen get poured. Very aware of the knot forming in his stomach telling him that his evening was about to go south, he accepted the glass and faked a smile.
It's not like anyone in here can make you drink it.
"See," Ron leaned in towards Lee, his voice an amused stage whisper. "Told you it wouldn't take him long." Eliot rolled his eyes and sighed. In a moment, he'd probably have to go say hello to yet another benefactor, if only to say thanks, but no thanks.
Lee was looking towards the other side of the bar, asking James, "Did he say he's wearing green?"
"Yeah." Eliot nodded, and watched the surprised expressions spreading across their faces.
"Holy crap," Ron pulled his face together, trying not to laugh.
"He never-" Lee, on the other hand, seemed puzzled.
"Oh, hell." James said, apparently deciding that Eliot was allowed in on the conversation. He waved him closer, leaning in conspiratorially as he spoke. "It seems that the world's friendliest ice queen, pardon the term, is sweet on you."
Eliot rolled his eyes and turned towards the bar, not even knowing what it was that he didn't want to see.
When he found it, he blinked again, just to make sure his head wasn't playing tricks on him. But the confused frown, the hard line between the eyes staring back at him, were too definite to ignore. "No," he decided, swiveling his head back towards the others. "He ain't sweet on me."
"Right," he heard Ron calling after him, but he was already crossing the floor towards the bar. Drew himself up a little taller in an attempt to loom over his apparent benefactor.
"Hardison."
---
Hardison's voice was angry and quiet. Eliot had to lean in a little to hear him. "If you're running a game on them, stop. Ron and Lee are good people. James too."
Eliot hadn't been prepared for the accusation. "If you're so concerned, why didn't you come over and stop me?"
"Don't know what you're up to, and ain't lookin' to complicate things. But I am not gonna sit and watch you screw over my friends, man."
"Ain't runnin' no game." Eliot growled, just loudly enough that he wound up attracting the attention of a couple two tables behind them. "Just came in for a drink, is all."
Hardison raised an eyebrow and snorted. "You're telling me that this place just happened to be on your way home?"
"Depending on the route, yeah." Eliot replied, knowing it was a weak response at best, and still not knowing what exactly they were clashing about. "What are you doing here?"
Hardison looked at him like he was being dense, then rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "Aw hell. This is gonna be awkward, ain't it? Sit your ass down, you're making me nervous."
Eliot smirked. "Wouldn't be the first time."
"No, but you're looking twitchy too, and that bouncer over there?" Hardison nodded towards the door behind Eliot. "Mike? He's lookin' over here like he's waiting for you to cause a fuss."
Eliot waited for the inevitable grasp on his shoulder that presaged every bar fight he'd ever been in, but it never came. He decided to sit down. "Wouldn't want Mike to get the wrong idea, now, would we?"
Hardison said nothing for a moment. "So, if you're not in here on business, you're here…"
"Yeah." Eliot forced himself to take a drink, all too aware of what he was admitting to. It was the closest he'd come, so far, to saying it out loud. His hands were sore from gripping the glass so tightly, but the sigh he let out sounded more like irritation than calming breath. "You gonna be a pain in the ass about this or what?"
"Nah, man. Chill. I'm just." Hardison floundered. "Gotta ask. This a new thing?"
Eliot's scowl deepened, and he fought the urge to look around. "Why, I stick out that much? Everyone's-" At Hardison's look, he relented, placing his glass carefully on the bar, centering it on the damp cardboard coaster. "Yeah. Well."
"It's been a long time coming," a voice cut in, and Eliot turned to see Lee and Ron grinning at them from down the bar. "He chickened out last night."
"And last week," another voice piped up from the bar, practically singing the words, but Eliot couldn't locate the source, not with all the amused faces staring back at him.
He was about to stand- he was about to do a lot of things more violent than standing- when Hardison grabbed his arm, looking over his shoulder to call across the room. "Yo man! Ease up and mind your damn business."
"This was a bad idea." Eliot shook Hardison's arm off, ready to leave.
"Chill, man. Give me a minute to figure this out."
"You let me know how that works for you." Eliot snorted, taking the moment to think. Turning back to Hardison, he looked at him directly for what was probably the first time all night. "I didn't know about you, either, you know." As deflections went, it was weak, and he knew it.
Hardison shrugged, but met his eyes. "Never came up." Eliot wasn't sure what it was that Hardison saw on his face, because a little of the overbearing humor dropped away. "Short version. Figured out I'm more fluid than most a long way back. The end."
He raised his drink to his lips quickly, in a move so like Nate, that Eliot found himself worrying for a moment. But Hardison didn't drain it before setting it down. He fiddled with the straw, chasing an ice cube around the half full glass, and didn't look at Eliot when he asked, "What about you?"
Eliot slipped his answer in between picking up his beer, and taking a sip. "Still working on it."
For once, there was no retort or rebuttal. Hardison messed with his straw a little bit more, took a drink as the silence lengthened. Eliot wondered which one of them would be giving in and leaving first.
Hardison blinked first. "I ran into Nate before I came over. Looks like we're taking the Bradshaw case tomorrow."
Eliot didn't know whether to be relieved at the change of topic, or angry that he hadn't tried it himself. He grinned, deciding to appreciate it, and scratched at his eyebrow. "Which one's that?"
"Kansas."
"Right." Eliot nodded. "Right. The horse therapy ranch."
Another lull threatened as Eliot considered the bleak prospect of Kansas in the late summer, but once again, Hardison wouldn't allow silence to reign. "Got any ex-girlfriends in the area we should know about?" He was grinning into his drink like he thought he'd won something, and Eliot thought about how easily it would be to take him out with one hit.
"Fuck. Seriously?" He shook his head. "You have to keep bringing that up every time we're ten miles away from-" It struck Eliot that he had no idea where Hardison hung out. Here, apparently. Like you.
But Hardison was already too busy arguing to notice the fumble, his irritation clear. "Just trying to make conversation like this ain't the most awkward night of my life."
"Yeah. Well. I can shorten it." Eliot drained his beer and set the glass down. Standing up, probably a little too quickly, he grew suddenly suspicious that he was being the asshole, here. But he didn't know why.
It was throwing him.
"Uh. Thanks for the drink. I'll get you back next time."
Eliot was already on the street before he realized the implication.
Next time.
Fuck.
---
"It is a pleasure to hear your voice. It has been too many years."
"Time enough for the scars to heal, yes?"
"Indeed. To what do I owe the honor of your voice in my ear?"
"I have found the man you wish destroyed."
---
Chapter 2
Rating: PG-13 for now
By: Jendavis
Spoilers: Up through 2x07
Pairing: Alec Hardison/ Eliot Spencer
Genre: Drama?
Warnings: WIP
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, don't take this too seriously.
Summary: The present's a mess, and the past isn't helping.
Chapter 1.
Eliot couldn't stop himself from checking the clock again. Nate and Sophie had gone down to meet a new client over an hour ago, and it was getting late.
He frowned again at the book he'd brought over, which so far had totally failed to provide any sort of distraction as it sat on the chair's armrest. He considered picking it up again anyway.
It was a moot point, though, because Parker had stolen his glasses. She'd stared all over the room in amazement for a while, cracking the obligatory jokes and getting Hardison to stop what he was doing and take a picture, before suddenly dropping to the couch and falling asleep. She was still wearing the glasses.
Eliot wasn't bored enough, yet, to find out if she was the type to react violently to being woken up. For lack of anything better to do, he forced himself out of his seat to water Nate's plants. Outside, the sky was dark, and the lights had come on up and down the block, but mostly he saw the interior of the apartment reflected back at him.
It was a little claustrophobic. A little quiet, except for the typing coming over from the kitchen table.
Hardison hadn't said anything for nearly an hour, now, which had to be some sort of record. For all Eliot knew, whatever he was doing might have actually been important. Or it could have been a video game. Not like he could tell the difference, most of the time. But he was standing, there, now, and could see the screens, and there wasn't any reason not to ask, anyway.
"What are you doing?"
"Monitoring and cleanup."
"What's that mean?"
Alec glanced up, briefly distracted, but didn't stop typing. "The usual."
Eliot rolled his eyes, but leaned in to look over his shoulder. "What's that mean?"
"Making sure the jobs we cleared stay clear. Checking the local news, scanning security updates. Just the usual police reports and the like." Hardison gestured at the screen. "Like here. I'm looking at emails and internal memos to make sure no one's following up on the strangeness they saw at the auction house last week."
"We got out of there fine."
"A car exploding in the middle of the street?" Hardison snorted, shaking his head. "How is that fine?"
"Does that-" Before Eliot could finish, the apartment door opened, and Sophie's heels were clicking sharply across the floor.
"I." Sophie broke off, startled by Parker's sudden movement on the couch. "The clients have only just arrived, and they're beginning to fill Nathan in." She stifled a yawn, shaking two aspirin out of the bottle from the pantry. "I'm going back down there, but he agrees that it's best that we take this up in the morning." Clearly too tired to care about their thoughts on the matter, she made her way back towards the door.
"But I'm wide awake now!" Parker complained, swatting the strange frames from her face and staring down at them once they'd fallen onto the couch. A moment later, she seemed to recognize them, picking them up gingerly. She returned them to Eliot as if sure that either they or Eliot would explode without further provocation.
Handoff made with no detonation, she said good night, before following Sophie out the door and down the stairs.
Eliot was about to do likewise when he realized that Hardison hadn't started typing again, regarding Eliot expectantly, clearly confused.
He realized, then, that he hadn't moved away, that he was still looming over Hardison's chair. Gesturing at the screen to cover a backwards step, he asked, "That happen a lot? People talking after we leave?"
Hardison cocked his head and resumed working, flipping from an open police report to something called a WHDH 7 Call Log. Eliot squinted at the screen, glasses forgotten in his hand, trying to make sense of it and failing. "Often enough to cut into my raids, man. How a brother's supposed to have any sort of social life when he's gotta go around cleaning up after ya'lls mess is seriously beyond me."
Eliot was torn between defending himself against what seemed like a vague accusation, and guessing that Hardison was probably right. He didn't have to admit it, though.
But there wasn't anything else to say, either. And, and since Sophie'd dismissed them, there was no reason to linger. He grabbed his coat from the back of his chair, listening to make sure his keys were still in the pocket. "You have fun with that. I'm out."
---
"I am looking for Nicola."
"Who shall I say is calling?"
"An old friend with new information."
---
Eliot regarded the bar from a safe distance across the street. It didn't look that much different from McRory's. The same brick face and neon signs hung in tinted windows. Inside, people were drinking and talking and shooting pool, like any other Tuesday night. There was no threat.
Well, there was, but it wasn't the kind he was used to.
He looked up the street again, waiting for the light to change. Wound up watching the walk signal cycle through from walk to don't, and told himself it didn't matter. That he could be anyone, walking in there. It was just a beer, didn't have to mean anything.
Pull the other one.
The signal looped around again, and he cast a look up the street, past the pedestrians towards the church on the corner. There was a middle-aged woman waiting at the bus stop, and across the street, two punks hauled guitar cases up the fire escape. The intersection didn't look much different from the way it had last night. Not a whole lot changed in a day.
But some things had to.
Do this or go home.
The signal was flashing as his feet began to move, but he didn't quicken his pace. And he didn't slow as he stepped up to the door, grabbed the handle, and went inside. Like ripping off a bandage in reverse.
He scanned the tables and high-backed booths as he passed, just enough for a rough head count, nothing more. The horseshoe shaped bar was an island in the middle of the room, separating the tables from the open space beyond the pool table that was probably a dance floor on weekends.
Eliot chose a stool that had line of sight on the door, and nodded at the bartender pouring drinks down the line. He ordered a lager when it was his turn, watching the bartender pull the tap, when someone sat down a few seats over.
"I'll have a Tom Collins, and I've got his beer." Eliot looked up, puzzled to see the older man grinning back at him through a neatly trimmed beard, more gray than brown. "You made it in," he said, sliding a twenty towards the bartender. "Congratulations."
"What? No. I mean, thanks, but-"
"Too late," the bartender smirked, turning away towards the register, apparently accustomed to the scenario, and Eliot wanted to tell him no, it's not like that.
The man was assessing Eliot with a wry grin. "Thought you were going to stand around outside all night. Again."
"Don't know what you're talking about," he fought the urge to growl. Pulled it off, more or less.
"Don't worry about it," the man said, accepting his change from the bartender and leaving a tip. "Consider it a welcome, and no, I'm not making a pass at you." He tilted his head back, nodding vaguely behind him. "My partner, Lee, is over playing pool."
"All right. Thanks." Feeling like he was missing the plot, he figured he should say more. Figured he should have put together a halfway decent cover before walking in. "Name's Eliot."
"Ron," the other offered, shaking his hand. "Nice to meet you."
---
Eliot surveyed the table, lining up his shot. He'd have to bank it, but it was doable. And if he missed, it didn't matter. They weren't even playing for money. But it was good, listening to Lee tell stories about an idiotic coworker, while Ron chalked his cue idly, listening to James, their fourth, rant about getting laid off.
It was a thousand times less awkward than the preceding conversation had been.
"So. Eliot," Ron ventured, watching the bartender pour their second round, "This your first time in a gay bar?"
Eliot scanned the room in the mirror behind the bottles, a little relieved that no one else seemed to be taking notice. "It's that obvious, huh?"
Ron caught Eliot looking, amused. "I don't know what you're expecting, but this is pretty much it. It's not like there's a hazing or anything. Though if you feel like torture, tomorrow night's karaoke, and Lee thinks he's Chris Isaac."
"No thanks."
That had been the end of it, and here on the quiet side of the bar, away from the tables, it was a little easier to pretend that this was any other night out, that this was any other bar.
He sank the shot, but he hadn't left himself enough space to ensure the next one going down smooth. No one said anything when he missed, though, and when he stepped back to see what was keeping Lee from taking his turn, he saw them breaking apart from a casual kiss.
He knew he'd been caught looking, and they were sharing a glance that could have meant anything, but probably translated roughly to don't scare off the greenhorn.
He smirked, careful not to look thrown, and stepped around the corner of the table to watch James line up his shot.
As Lee was stepping away from the table, Eliot felt a tap on his arm, and looked up into the face of a smug looking blond kid.
"Yeah?"
The kid nodded down to the tray he was holding, and the pint of lager balanced in the center. "The gentleman in green, over at the bar, sent this over for you."
Oh hell.
It was bad enough that he'd already let one stranger buy him a drink, but this one, he hadn't even seen get poured. Very aware of the knot forming in his stomach telling him that his evening was about to go south, he accepted the glass and faked a smile.
It's not like anyone in here can make you drink it.
"See," Ron leaned in towards Lee, his voice an amused stage whisper. "Told you it wouldn't take him long." Eliot rolled his eyes and sighed. In a moment, he'd probably have to go say hello to yet another benefactor, if only to say thanks, but no thanks.
Lee was looking towards the other side of the bar, asking James, "Did he say he's wearing green?"
"Yeah." Eliot nodded, and watched the surprised expressions spreading across their faces.
"Holy crap," Ron pulled his face together, trying not to laugh.
"He never-" Lee, on the other hand, seemed puzzled.
"Oh, hell." James said, apparently deciding that Eliot was allowed in on the conversation. He waved him closer, leaning in conspiratorially as he spoke. "It seems that the world's friendliest ice queen, pardon the term, is sweet on you."
Eliot rolled his eyes and turned towards the bar, not even knowing what it was that he didn't want to see.
When he found it, he blinked again, just to make sure his head wasn't playing tricks on him. But the confused frown, the hard line between the eyes staring back at him, were too definite to ignore. "No," he decided, swiveling his head back towards the others. "He ain't sweet on me."
"Right," he heard Ron calling after him, but he was already crossing the floor towards the bar. Drew himself up a little taller in an attempt to loom over his apparent benefactor.
"Hardison."
---
Hardison's voice was angry and quiet. Eliot had to lean in a little to hear him. "If you're running a game on them, stop. Ron and Lee are good people. James too."
Eliot hadn't been prepared for the accusation. "If you're so concerned, why didn't you come over and stop me?"
"Don't know what you're up to, and ain't lookin' to complicate things. But I am not gonna sit and watch you screw over my friends, man."
"Ain't runnin' no game." Eliot growled, just loudly enough that he wound up attracting the attention of a couple two tables behind them. "Just came in for a drink, is all."
Hardison raised an eyebrow and snorted. "You're telling me that this place just happened to be on your way home?"
"Depending on the route, yeah." Eliot replied, knowing it was a weak response at best, and still not knowing what exactly they were clashing about. "What are you doing here?"
Hardison looked at him like he was being dense, then rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "Aw hell. This is gonna be awkward, ain't it? Sit your ass down, you're making me nervous."
Eliot smirked. "Wouldn't be the first time."
"No, but you're looking twitchy too, and that bouncer over there?" Hardison nodded towards the door behind Eliot. "Mike? He's lookin' over here like he's waiting for you to cause a fuss."
Eliot waited for the inevitable grasp on his shoulder that presaged every bar fight he'd ever been in, but it never came. He decided to sit down. "Wouldn't want Mike to get the wrong idea, now, would we?"
Hardison said nothing for a moment. "So, if you're not in here on business, you're here…"
"Yeah." Eliot forced himself to take a drink, all too aware of what he was admitting to. It was the closest he'd come, so far, to saying it out loud. His hands were sore from gripping the glass so tightly, but the sigh he let out sounded more like irritation than calming breath. "You gonna be a pain in the ass about this or what?"
"Nah, man. Chill. I'm just." Hardison floundered. "Gotta ask. This a new thing?"
Eliot's scowl deepened, and he fought the urge to look around. "Why, I stick out that much? Everyone's-" At Hardison's look, he relented, placing his glass carefully on the bar, centering it on the damp cardboard coaster. "Yeah. Well."
"It's been a long time coming," a voice cut in, and Eliot turned to see Lee and Ron grinning at them from down the bar. "He chickened out last night."
"And last week," another voice piped up from the bar, practically singing the words, but Eliot couldn't locate the source, not with all the amused faces staring back at him.
He was about to stand- he was about to do a lot of things more violent than standing- when Hardison grabbed his arm, looking over his shoulder to call across the room. "Yo man! Ease up and mind your damn business."
"This was a bad idea." Eliot shook Hardison's arm off, ready to leave.
"Chill, man. Give me a minute to figure this out."
"You let me know how that works for you." Eliot snorted, taking the moment to think. Turning back to Hardison, he looked at him directly for what was probably the first time all night. "I didn't know about you, either, you know." As deflections went, it was weak, and he knew it.
Hardison shrugged, but met his eyes. "Never came up." Eliot wasn't sure what it was that Hardison saw on his face, because a little of the overbearing humor dropped away. "Short version. Figured out I'm more fluid than most a long way back. The end."
He raised his drink to his lips quickly, in a move so like Nate, that Eliot found himself worrying for a moment. But Hardison didn't drain it before setting it down. He fiddled with the straw, chasing an ice cube around the half full glass, and didn't look at Eliot when he asked, "What about you?"
Eliot slipped his answer in between picking up his beer, and taking a sip. "Still working on it."
For once, there was no retort or rebuttal. Hardison messed with his straw a little bit more, took a drink as the silence lengthened. Eliot wondered which one of them would be giving in and leaving first.
Hardison blinked first. "I ran into Nate before I came over. Looks like we're taking the Bradshaw case tomorrow."
Eliot didn't know whether to be relieved at the change of topic, or angry that he hadn't tried it himself. He grinned, deciding to appreciate it, and scratched at his eyebrow. "Which one's that?"
"Kansas."
"Right." Eliot nodded. "Right. The horse therapy ranch."
Another lull threatened as Eliot considered the bleak prospect of Kansas in the late summer, but once again, Hardison wouldn't allow silence to reign. "Got any ex-girlfriends in the area we should know about?" He was grinning into his drink like he thought he'd won something, and Eliot thought about how easily it would be to take him out with one hit.
"Fuck. Seriously?" He shook his head. "You have to keep bringing that up every time we're ten miles away from-" It struck Eliot that he had no idea where Hardison hung out. Here, apparently. Like you.
But Hardison was already too busy arguing to notice the fumble, his irritation clear. "Just trying to make conversation like this ain't the most awkward night of my life."
"Yeah. Well. I can shorten it." Eliot drained his beer and set the glass down. Standing up, probably a little too quickly, he grew suddenly suspicious that he was being the asshole, here. But he didn't know why.
It was throwing him.
"Uh. Thanks for the drink. I'll get you back next time."
Eliot was already on the street before he realized the implication.
Next time.
Fuck.
---
"It is a pleasure to hear your voice. It has been too many years."
"Time enough for the scars to heal, yes?"
"Indeed. To what do I owe the honor of your voice in my ear?"
"I have found the man you wish destroyed."
---
Chapter 2