The Thing with the Guys Job 2/3 for Valawenel
Title: The Thing with the Guys Job
Author: JB McDragon
Giftee: valawanel
Characters/pairings: Nate, Eliot. No pairings.
Word count: 12,600 total
Spoilers: Takes place after the end of the show
Warnings: Violence, much like you'd see in the show.
Disclaimer: Alas, I do not own them, and I'm definitely not making any money off this.
Summary: It's just one more job, one that needs more than three people. A quick job, an easy job. Right up until Eliot is recognized and his and Nate's covers are blown.
Notes: For the Leverage Gift Exchange. I hope you enjoy it, Valawenel! It had to be broken into 3 parts, and sadly I'm out of town when my day hits. I'll post the other two parts on Tuesday when I'm back!
The Thing with the Guys Job
JB McDragon
Chapter Two
It wasn't the pain. Eliot could deal with pain. He'd dealt with worse, many times before. It was the washes of heat and cold that rippled through him.
Noises seemed too loud, raw on his ears. He paused, putting one hand against the cold concrete of the sewer and looking over at Nate. In the wash of too-yellow light from the flashlight, no one looked good. The pain from the bullet wound had given up, degrading into a low, constant throb. "How're you holding up?"
Nate nodded. Even in the dark, Eliot could see Nate's eyes seeking, scanning Eliot.
Before Nate could speak, Eliot growled, "I'm fine." He had to be, if he was going to get them topside and somewhere safe. Somewhere they could hole up for a few days.
Nate just nodded again.
"We'll--" Eliot stopped. There. There was a noise. He gestured for Nate to stay put and, keeping his feet in the water so he didn't splash, glided around the corner.
Three people. They were ready for him; the glow from the flashlight had given him away. He staggered as the first blow landed, ducked as he caught his balance and spun back around, bringing the flashlight up to blind them. He kept his own eyes slitted, assuming they'd be trying to blind him in return.
His foot connected with the nearest assailant, and a splashing alerted him to his left. While the first assailant staggered back, Eliot twisted, slamming shoulder-first into the second. A kick straight back caught the third, but the second had only been winded and was on him already. He blocked a quick sideswipe, felt the edge of the knife pare across his ribs instead of his neck, spun into it and smashed his elbow into the man's face.
One down for the count. Both others were already closing. Another knife glimmered in the nearest man's hand.
Catch the arm that held the knife, twist the blade free, fling it toward the farthest man. That one had a gun; Eliot stayed close to his current assailant until he heard the gunman's cursing and knew his throw had carried through. Hang onto the knifeman's arm, punch in the face with the flashlight, again, shove back to the wall and let the concrete finish the job.
The gunman was swinging the weapon back around, taking aim with only one arm now. The other hung, useless, at his side.
Eliot vaulted forward, running at the man like a barreling freight train. Caught the gun as it fired, shoving it to one side, slammed into the man, a blow to the face as they dropped, another, and the concrete floor of the sewer did his job.
He hauled the body out of the water so the man wouldn't drown before he came to, and called to Nate. "Let's go." Warm liquid soaked his shirt, almost a relief after the freezing chill that had taken over his body. His heart pounded behind his ribs, speeding the blood flowing out of him. It wasn't a lethal wound. He put pressure on it with a cringe. They'd get out of the sewers soon enough. "There's a storm drain ahead. It'll put us on the northern edge of the city. We need to find a hotel and stay put."
"A nice hotel," Nate corrected, following.
Eliot frowned. "Why a nice one?"
"They'll be looking for us somewhere seedy."
Eliot nodded, getting it. "They still know us as our covers. Our covers wouldn't have the money for nice hotels."
"Right."
The fight had burned off the chill in Eliot's bones, but a shiver settled in anyway. Nate was walking closer. Eliot didn't protest.
**
Nate's relief at seeing sky again was short lived. The wind bit through their wet clothes, and though his hands and feet had long since lost the ability to feel cold, his stomach hadn't. It tied into ever tighter knots, making him feel nauseous on top of it all. He probed at the hole in his memories, trying to bring back the likely swim in the ocean that had soaked them in the first place. It was still gone. Nothing after the transaction and his irritation at the earbuds breaking up.
They were back on the ocean -- or they'd never left it, he wasn't sure -- on a sandy spit with rocks leading to a road above. The cityscape was lit with headlights, street lights, and window lights, all blinking cheerfully and completely unaware of what was going on below them.
There was a hotel, right there, brightly lit and not more than a twenty minute walk. "That way," Nate said, pushing Eliot to face it. "That's our base."
For a moment, he thought Eliot was going to fall over. Then the hitter shook his head, mouth firming into a hard line. "It's too close to our exit. He'll search places that close. No, we need--"
"Trust me," Nate said. He pushed Eliot, hand flat between shoulder blades. "I can keep us hidden in a hotel like that." As long as they didn't see Eliot. No amount of costuming would make people forget his bandages and blood.
The skin under Eliot's shirt, where Nate had laid his hand, was burning to the touch. It didn't stop Eliot from scaling the short, slanted rock face up to the road.
**
Nate loitered outside the hotel doors, Eliot safely stashed around the corner. At eleven pm, most guests had already checked in for the night. Most didn't mean all, though.
It was about thirty minutes before the right guest appeared, loaded their bags onto a cart, and left it with the bellboy.
Nate shadowed the bellboy in. When the man stopped at the elevators, stepping forward to push the elevator call button, Nate plucked the suit bag off the cart and kept walking. Most hotels had restrooms in the main lobby, and this one was no different. He hung the suit over his shoulder as he walked, masking his wet and filthy clothes, and strode confidently into the bathroom.
No one was inside.
He locked the door, stripped down, washed as best he could, ran his hands through his hair and put on the new clothes. Too big, but they'd have to do. His own clothes he put back in the suit bag and slung it over his shoulder: instant luggage.
The fake ID and credit card was still in the bottom of his shoe. Perfect.
Nothing he could do about the smell. He lifted his chin arrogantly, put a bored note in his voice, and knew that the more self-assured and irritating he was, the less they'd notice the stink.
After that, walking to the front desk and booking a room was a simple matter. Now to get Eliot.
**
"We're fine," Nate said, listening to the shower turn off. "Finish the con. It'll put Sean away, disband his paid guns, and we can come home."
"You can't be serious," Sophie snapped from the other line. "You're being hunted!"
Nate kept an eye on the bathroom door, but it didn't open. "We're safe, Sophie. Finish the con and we'll all be a lot safer."
"Sometimes--" she began, cut off, made a noise of frustration, and hung up.
Nate set the hotel phone back in the cradle gently.
The bathroom door still didn't open.
Nate leaned back on the bed, propping his feet up. He was warm for the first time in hours, after cranking the heat in the room up to eighty and bundling in one of the spare robes. Eliot had the other robe, and they'd sent their clothes out to be cleaned -- after washing off the worst of the muck in the shower.
Still, the bathroom door didn't open.
Nate couldn't remember what had happened just before he'd blacked out, but he had no trouble remembering the heat pouring off Eliot's skin. He stood and rapped lightly on the door. "Eliot?"
"S'open."
Nate pushed the door ajar cautiously, poking his head through. The bathrobe was tied around Eliot's waist, but he'd shrugged out of the top half. It hung on either side of the toilet lid where he sat. Blood was already seeping out of several inflamed wounds. Eliot focused, tweezers held in trembling fingers, pulling grit out of a palm that looked like ground beef.
"Ah," Nate breathed. He entered the rest of the way, closing the door to trap the steam and heat inside.
"It's fine," Eliot growled. "It'll be fine," he amended before Nate could point out the obvious.
Bruises provided the only color to otherwise pale skin, paler than not seeing then sun could make it. Bruises, and the two wounds that bled sluggishly. One across the swell of Eliot's bicep, a hole that went through and through and was so badly swollen that it had closed. Red lines snaked out from it, like a stain slowly spreading.
The other wound was a line across his ribs, already inflamed but without the striations. That one still bled, a slow drip that slipped down muscle and made its inevitable way toward the bathrobe.
Eliot's injured hand was swollen, too, fingers like sausages and the skin starting to crack under the mess of abrasions. The tweezers in Eliot's good hand hovered over his ruined skin, shaking harder the more Eliot tried to steady them.
Nate sat down on the edge of the tub and carefully took the tweezers away. "What happened?" There were little rocks and chips of something pale embedded in the wounded skin. He steeled his stomach and tried to figure out how to remove them.
"Got shot," Eliot muttered. "Climbed a barnacle-covered cliff. Got cut. Walked through a sewer for a few hours."
The last sounded just a little bit sarcastic. Nate was glad to hear it. Sarcastic people weren't about to keel over.
Nate still hadn't plucked any rocks or -- apparently -- barnacle pieces out of Eliot's palm. "I'm afraid I'm going to hurt you," he said, hoping there was a solution.
"You're not." Eliot reached across with his good hand to take the tweezers back. The bullet wound in that shoulder oozed something clear.
"Just hang on," Nate snapped. He focused again, trying to ignore the fact that this hand was attached to a living, breathing human. He tried to catch a bit of shell, but the tweezers closed on air. His stomach lurched. He did it again, and caught a bit of skin. His stomach lurched again.
Nate took a deep breath and focused just on the shell. It took a few more tries, but Eliot didn't move, didn't make a sound, and after a little bit Nate could almost believe Eliot didn't feel it. He got braver.
It took the better part of an hour as Nate judged, but in the end they wrapped Eliot's hand back up free of debris. Nate sat back and looked at Eliot again.
Eliot was shivering. He was also slicked with sweat. Nate lifted a hand to check the skin of his neck, and Eliot jerked away, glaring.
Nate put his hands on his knees. "You need a hospital."
"Can't," Eliot muttered. "They'll look there first."
"Then tell me what we need to do, because you aren't going to be okay if we wait for the con to finish in [two more days.] Infection travels fast." Nate waited, keeping his gaze steady on Eliot. He was starting to sweat, now that he'd warmed up. The damp and steam in the bathroom hadn't faded much, and the heat was high.
Eliot still shivered.
After a long moment, Eliot's defiant gaze twitched away. "An antibiotic. Something strong, like penicillin, in both injection and pill form. Bandages, hydrogen peroxide." He closed his eyes, then opened them again, wide, like he was trying to focus. "Aspirin."
Nate nodded. "All right."
"You can't get it at a hospital," Eliot growled.
"No hospitals."
Eliot slanted a look that said how much faith he had just now. It wasn't much. "You gonna somehow con antibiotics out of a Walgreens?"
Nate gave a little smile. "I was thinking a smash and grab."
**
He bought the items to make a bottle rocket at the nearby grocery store, then headed to CVS where they were due for a shipment of pharmacy meds. Under guard, sure, but the bottle rocket took care of that.
While the two guards raced to check out the minor explosion, Nate plucked a couple of medication boxes out of the truck and stashed them elsewhere. Then he checked out the bottle rocket too, joining the small 1 a.m. crowd made up mostly of employees and tutting at youth today.
Buying the rest of the supplies Eliot had listed -- and a few things extra -- was easy as pie.
**
It wasn't the waves of cold that kept Eliot up. It was the ache in his bicep, hand, and ribs every time he tried to move.
He sat in the chair because laying down made his bicep feel like it was going to explode, and watched television. An ice pack was draped across his arm in a futile attempt to keep the swelling down.
His mind was fuzzy.
He blinked, and the show skipped from credits to commercial. That wasn't a good sign.
Sweat pooled down the indent of his spin, soaking into the cloth of the chair. His heartbeat thump-thumped in his wounds. It was like being dipped in a cold fire with no way out.
He blinked, and the empty hotel room contained Nate.
Nate spoke. The words echoed. "Let's get you in the bathroom, and we'll clean out that bullet wound again. I got saline to flush it." Blink. "--bit by a dog once. Had me pack the wound--" Blink. "--there, easy, just stand up." Blink. "--Aspirin."
Eliot gripped Nate's shirt -- borrowed, the cloth still crisp and starched and Nate never starched his shirts -- and staggered into the bathroom. Sat down on the toilet with a thud that he felt all the way into his bicep, and breathed through the pain.
Blink.
Nate was holding out two Aspirin and a little cup of water. Eliot stared at them.
"Eliot?"
Right. He picked them up from Nate's palm carefully with his bandaged hand, put them on his tongue, took the glass and swallowed them down. Blink.
"--to hurt," Nate said. "I'm sorry. Let--" Blink. "--break."
The bullet wound was in his bicep. His bicep was too near his brain. He saw his reflection in the mirror, sweating and vibrantly red where he wasn't waxy and pale. There wasn't much they could do except wait it out and hope. Unless Nate really had succeeded in getting drugs. And of course Nate had. Nate said he would. Eliot's job was to get them to safety, and he had. Nate's job was to take care of the details.
The word wasn't easy to form. His lips didn't want to obey, and his tongue felt thick and dry. "Penicillin?"
"Yup." Nate was kneeling in front of him, a syringe in one hand. "It goes in your, ah, glute. Don't kill me for that, okay?"
Eliot found a bare smile. Easy enough to drop one side of the robe. Blink, and the sting of a long needle behind his hip, the burn of a slow injection. Blink, and Nate was wrapping the needle and throwing it out.
Blink, and Nate was behind him, words stretching like taffy, sliding out of Eliot's fingers as he tried to grasp and understand them.
Blink, and pain washed through him. He bit back a scream, leaned forward to slam his injured hand against the edge of the sink and hang on, using that pain to drown out the agony of an infected wound being treated. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
No blinking, now. Pain had him rooted to the spot.
Nate finished before the pain started to recede. It only did so grudgingly, burning through his nerves first and dragging his heartbeat into swollen flesh.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Blink. Nate was kneeling, pushing him back, untaping the light bandage over the knife wound across his ribs. That one wasn't so bad.
Blink, and they were at his hand. Peroxide burned like a sonofabitch.
"You still with me, Eliot?"
"Sure." It was a croak. He was floating, except he was floating on lava and it was burning off his arm, his hand, he couldn't focus.
"We're going to get you back to bed soon. Almost done."
"Sure."
Blink.
**
Nate turned the television on low and kept half an eye on Eliot, waiting for the antibiotics to do their thing.
Eliot's temples were damp with sweat. His eyes opened slightly and closed again, a constant drift of lashes like the tide lapping at the shore. Open, close, open, close. Not asleep and not awake.
After a while, Nate took a pen and marked the inflamed area around the gunshot wound, tracing a black line on Eliot's skin. If it got bigger, they were headed to the hospital, hitmen or no. Certain brain damage was as bad as possible death.
The television shows changed, flowing into each other, biding time. The Late Show. Re-runs. Infomercials. Finally, the emergency broadcast system.
His own head throbbed, and his lungs still burned. He'd poured hydrogen peroxide across his own legs, where small abrasions had minor infections threatening. Nate shut the television off and settled back against the pillows to doze.
**
Dawn gleamed around the edges of the blackout curtains when Nate woke. Eliot slept fitfully nearby, still sweaty. Quietly, Nate skirted the bed and checked the pen marks.
The inflammation hadn't crawled past the marks made earlier. It hadn't gotten worse. Considering how rapidly it had been growing, he figured this was a good sign.
Nate went down to the continental breakfast, loaded up on muffins and white toast with little pads of butter, and carried it back upstairs.
"Wake up, Eliot," he said in his best no-nonsense voice.
Gummy eyes opened, focusing with difficulty. "Whu--"
"Have some toast. We're going to pack you full of medication, and you need a buffer." Nate sat down on the edge of the bed, hauling Eliot upward. Eliot's skin was still over-warm, the flesh across the swollen knuckles on his injured hand split and weeping. Nate folded a piece of white bread in half and offered it up.
"I can," Eliot mumbled, bandaged hand lifting.
"With those fingers? I don't think so. Bite."
Confused blue eyes looked at him for a long moment. Brows drew down as Eliot's mind cleared. That was good. It meant he was thinking again.
"You use one hand you get puss all over the bread. You use the other you mess up your arm further. Just bite," Nate insisted.
Eliot, looking more full of consternation by the moment, bit. He chewed slowly and swallowed with difficulty.
"There you go," Nate said.
Eliot bit again, chewed, swallowed, and mumbled, "This is weird."
"You're telling me. Last time I did this, my son had--" The memory hit, nearly taking Nate's breath away. So many years, and just like that he was sitting with a five-year-old Sam who was itchy and splotchy, hand feeding him because otherwise he wouldn't eat. "--chicken pox," he finished quietly.
Eliot's gaze faltered and dropped. "Sorry."
"Take the rest," Nate said brusquely, squishing the bread small enough to fit into Eliot's mouth all at once, then standing and walking away. "Three pills, three times a day should do it." Even he could tell his voice was overly loud. He poured out the pills, got some water, returned to the bedside.
"I can--" Eliot began, and Nate interrupted.
"With which hand again?"
"Nate." Eliot's tone was sharper than it had been since -- well, since Nate had woken up with a chunk of his memory missing. "I didn't mean to remind you-- I mean, I can do it--"
Nate didn't flinch. "It's fine." He took a breath at Eliot's doubtful look. Even gave a little smile, sad though it was. "It's been years. It's okay. Take the pills." He dropped them in Eliot's mouth, held up the glass of water, and waited for Eliot to swallow.
Just the effort of eating bread and taking pills had clearly been too much. Eliot's eyes were unfocused again, sweat springing back out on his brow.
"Sleep," Nate suggested firmly.
"Yeah," Eliot mumbled. "Good idea."
**
Pain woke Eliot. It was good, he told himself as he tried not to curse. It meant his mind was clear enough of infection to notice the pain.
His heartbeat throbbed like chiles in his shoulder, each thump-thump worse than the last. He kept his eyes resolutely closed, hoping to re-capture the fitful oblivion that had sheltered him from the worst of it.
Infection had burned through all the moisture in his body. His mouth was dry, his lips chapped. He opened his eyes because the desire for water was stronger than the desire to avoid pain.
The opposite bed was empty. So were the table and chairs. The curtains were drawn and still. Late afternoon sunlight bled around the edges.
As carefully as he could, he rolled over.
The bathroom door was open, the light shut off. Clothes were hung in the open closet. No sign of Nate.
Eliot's mind clicked into gear. Priorities. First, water. Then, hide the weakness. Then, find Nate.
Gritting his teeth against the pain of moving his arm, he sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He sat there, the world wheeling around him, waiting for the pain to go away.
Thump-thump in his shoulder.
Thump-thump in his ribs.
Thump-thump in his hand.
He looked down at his hand. There was no disguising that.
When he could focus past the pain -- when his body stopped screaming at him -- he stood and shambled to the bathroom. He didn't look in the mirror, but just flipped on the tap and carefully bent until he could drink. When he was slightly less parched, he straightened, using his bandaged hand to gently pat his face dry. Gently, so as not to put pressure on the swelling of his palm.
He looked like shit, but it was nothing a shower couldn't cure. The question was: did he have time to shower? Had Nate run to get supplies, or been snatched? Despite Nate's claims that the mark wouldn't look for them there, Eliot didn't figure they'd be out of trouble until the con had finished. The timing wasn't right: [they had another day. ] [ it has been 24 hours since shot.]
He locked his jaw to ignore the pain, and splashed water across his face, running it through his hair. His injured hand throbbed, and the opposite bicep felt like he'd been shot all over again. Eliot took long, deep breaths, focusing on his heart rate.
When he looked like he'd showered instead of sweated until his hair was soaked, he used a damp cloth to clean up the streaks of blood Nate had missed. Nate hadn't bothered to put a shirt on him, for which Eliot was grateful. Easier to clean up, this way. He pulled off the bandages to check the bullet hole -- left unstitched, with little strips of antiseptic cloth inserted to keep it open so the infection would drain. Smart. It would scar ugly as hell, but it was less likely to go septic.
He re-bandaged it awkwardly, then started with his injured hand.
Every little motion with his good fingers sent ripples of pain down from his bicep. It was amazing how much the body was connected to other parts of itself. The sort of amazing that left you breathless and struggling to stay calm and focused.
The abrasions on his hand were still red and angry, his knuckles still swollen. The split skin had at least come back together, so it wasn't as swollen, though lines of crusty, clear fluid denoted where the splits had been. Eliot wrapped his hand up like a burn victim, then shuffled to the closet.
Four suits, two of which looked like they'd fit. Nate had been on a shopping spree, then. Even taking the hangers off the post was an effort. By the time he'd donned a pair of pants -- screw the underwear, it wasn't worth the effort -- he was sweating again. He pulled on a button-up shirt, barely got it buttoned and tucked in, and then sat to put on shoes. Pants were long enough no one would notice he wasn't wearing socks.
He breathed. The pain thump-thumped in his shoulder and his hand, increased in both tempo and strength now. His vision unfocused with each beat, as if the infection was trying to strike at his eyes, carried up by his blood.
Thump-thump.
He'd been through worse.
He stood again, took the keycard off the table, and left the room.
With great cost, Eliot pulled himself upright, put his injured hand in his pocket, and walked as if nothing was wrong. The elevator was empty, but cameras were always watching. He didn't lean against the wall because his arm couldn't handle the slight pressure, so instead he braced his feet military-style and refused to sway.
He'd check the bar first. And if Nate was there, he'd kill the bastard.
*****
Author: JB McDragon
Giftee: valawanel
Characters/pairings: Nate, Eliot. No pairings.
Word count: 12,600 total
Spoilers: Takes place after the end of the show
Warnings: Violence, much like you'd see in the show.
Disclaimer: Alas, I do not own them, and I'm definitely not making any money off this.
Summary: It's just one more job, one that needs more than three people. A quick job, an easy job. Right up until Eliot is recognized and his and Nate's covers are blown.
Notes: For the Leverage Gift Exchange. I hope you enjoy it, Valawenel! It had to be broken into 3 parts, and sadly I'm out of town when my day hits. I'll post the other two parts on Tuesday when I'm back!
The Thing with the Guys Job
JB McDragon
Chapter Two
It wasn't the pain. Eliot could deal with pain. He'd dealt with worse, many times before. It was the washes of heat and cold that rippled through him.
Noises seemed too loud, raw on his ears. He paused, putting one hand against the cold concrete of the sewer and looking over at Nate. In the wash of too-yellow light from the flashlight, no one looked good. The pain from the bullet wound had given up, degrading into a low, constant throb. "How're you holding up?"
Nate nodded. Even in the dark, Eliot could see Nate's eyes seeking, scanning Eliot.
Before Nate could speak, Eliot growled, "I'm fine." He had to be, if he was going to get them topside and somewhere safe. Somewhere they could hole up for a few days.
Nate just nodded again.
"We'll--" Eliot stopped. There. There was a noise. He gestured for Nate to stay put and, keeping his feet in the water so he didn't splash, glided around the corner.
Three people. They were ready for him; the glow from the flashlight had given him away. He staggered as the first blow landed, ducked as he caught his balance and spun back around, bringing the flashlight up to blind them. He kept his own eyes slitted, assuming they'd be trying to blind him in return.
His foot connected with the nearest assailant, and a splashing alerted him to his left. While the first assailant staggered back, Eliot twisted, slamming shoulder-first into the second. A kick straight back caught the third, but the second had only been winded and was on him already. He blocked a quick sideswipe, felt the edge of the knife pare across his ribs instead of his neck, spun into it and smashed his elbow into the man's face.
One down for the count. Both others were already closing. Another knife glimmered in the nearest man's hand.
Catch the arm that held the knife, twist the blade free, fling it toward the farthest man. That one had a gun; Eliot stayed close to his current assailant until he heard the gunman's cursing and knew his throw had carried through. Hang onto the knifeman's arm, punch in the face with the flashlight, again, shove back to the wall and let the concrete finish the job.
The gunman was swinging the weapon back around, taking aim with only one arm now. The other hung, useless, at his side.
Eliot vaulted forward, running at the man like a barreling freight train. Caught the gun as it fired, shoving it to one side, slammed into the man, a blow to the face as they dropped, another, and the concrete floor of the sewer did his job.
He hauled the body out of the water so the man wouldn't drown before he came to, and called to Nate. "Let's go." Warm liquid soaked his shirt, almost a relief after the freezing chill that had taken over his body. His heart pounded behind his ribs, speeding the blood flowing out of him. It wasn't a lethal wound. He put pressure on it with a cringe. They'd get out of the sewers soon enough. "There's a storm drain ahead. It'll put us on the northern edge of the city. We need to find a hotel and stay put."
"A nice hotel," Nate corrected, following.
Eliot frowned. "Why a nice one?"
"They'll be looking for us somewhere seedy."
Eliot nodded, getting it. "They still know us as our covers. Our covers wouldn't have the money for nice hotels."
"Right."
The fight had burned off the chill in Eliot's bones, but a shiver settled in anyway. Nate was walking closer. Eliot didn't protest.
**
Nate's relief at seeing sky again was short lived. The wind bit through their wet clothes, and though his hands and feet had long since lost the ability to feel cold, his stomach hadn't. It tied into ever tighter knots, making him feel nauseous on top of it all. He probed at the hole in his memories, trying to bring back the likely swim in the ocean that had soaked them in the first place. It was still gone. Nothing after the transaction and his irritation at the earbuds breaking up.
They were back on the ocean -- or they'd never left it, he wasn't sure -- on a sandy spit with rocks leading to a road above. The cityscape was lit with headlights, street lights, and window lights, all blinking cheerfully and completely unaware of what was going on below them.
There was a hotel, right there, brightly lit and not more than a twenty minute walk. "That way," Nate said, pushing Eliot to face it. "That's our base."
For a moment, he thought Eliot was going to fall over. Then the hitter shook his head, mouth firming into a hard line. "It's too close to our exit. He'll search places that close. No, we need--"
"Trust me," Nate said. He pushed Eliot, hand flat between shoulder blades. "I can keep us hidden in a hotel like that." As long as they didn't see Eliot. No amount of costuming would make people forget his bandages and blood.
The skin under Eliot's shirt, where Nate had laid his hand, was burning to the touch. It didn't stop Eliot from scaling the short, slanted rock face up to the road.
**
Nate loitered outside the hotel doors, Eliot safely stashed around the corner. At eleven pm, most guests had already checked in for the night. Most didn't mean all, though.
It was about thirty minutes before the right guest appeared, loaded their bags onto a cart, and left it with the bellboy.
Nate shadowed the bellboy in. When the man stopped at the elevators, stepping forward to push the elevator call button, Nate plucked the suit bag off the cart and kept walking. Most hotels had restrooms in the main lobby, and this one was no different. He hung the suit over his shoulder as he walked, masking his wet and filthy clothes, and strode confidently into the bathroom.
No one was inside.
He locked the door, stripped down, washed as best he could, ran his hands through his hair and put on the new clothes. Too big, but they'd have to do. His own clothes he put back in the suit bag and slung it over his shoulder: instant luggage.
The fake ID and credit card was still in the bottom of his shoe. Perfect.
Nothing he could do about the smell. He lifted his chin arrogantly, put a bored note in his voice, and knew that the more self-assured and irritating he was, the less they'd notice the stink.
After that, walking to the front desk and booking a room was a simple matter. Now to get Eliot.
**
"We're fine," Nate said, listening to the shower turn off. "Finish the con. It'll put Sean away, disband his paid guns, and we can come home."
"You can't be serious," Sophie snapped from the other line. "You're being hunted!"
Nate kept an eye on the bathroom door, but it didn't open. "We're safe, Sophie. Finish the con and we'll all be a lot safer."
"Sometimes--" she began, cut off, made a noise of frustration, and hung up.
Nate set the hotel phone back in the cradle gently.
The bathroom door still didn't open.
Nate leaned back on the bed, propping his feet up. He was warm for the first time in hours, after cranking the heat in the room up to eighty and bundling in one of the spare robes. Eliot had the other robe, and they'd sent their clothes out to be cleaned -- after washing off the worst of the muck in the shower.
Still, the bathroom door didn't open.
Nate couldn't remember what had happened just before he'd blacked out, but he had no trouble remembering the heat pouring off Eliot's skin. He stood and rapped lightly on the door. "Eliot?"
"S'open."
Nate pushed the door ajar cautiously, poking his head through. The bathrobe was tied around Eliot's waist, but he'd shrugged out of the top half. It hung on either side of the toilet lid where he sat. Blood was already seeping out of several inflamed wounds. Eliot focused, tweezers held in trembling fingers, pulling grit out of a palm that looked like ground beef.
"Ah," Nate breathed. He entered the rest of the way, closing the door to trap the steam and heat inside.
"It's fine," Eliot growled. "It'll be fine," he amended before Nate could point out the obvious.
Bruises provided the only color to otherwise pale skin, paler than not seeing then sun could make it. Bruises, and the two wounds that bled sluggishly. One across the swell of Eliot's bicep, a hole that went through and through and was so badly swollen that it had closed. Red lines snaked out from it, like a stain slowly spreading.
The other wound was a line across his ribs, already inflamed but without the striations. That one still bled, a slow drip that slipped down muscle and made its inevitable way toward the bathrobe.
Eliot's injured hand was swollen, too, fingers like sausages and the skin starting to crack under the mess of abrasions. The tweezers in Eliot's good hand hovered over his ruined skin, shaking harder the more Eliot tried to steady them.
Nate sat down on the edge of the tub and carefully took the tweezers away. "What happened?" There were little rocks and chips of something pale embedded in the wounded skin. He steeled his stomach and tried to figure out how to remove them.
"Got shot," Eliot muttered. "Climbed a barnacle-covered cliff. Got cut. Walked through a sewer for a few hours."
The last sounded just a little bit sarcastic. Nate was glad to hear it. Sarcastic people weren't about to keel over.
Nate still hadn't plucked any rocks or -- apparently -- barnacle pieces out of Eliot's palm. "I'm afraid I'm going to hurt you," he said, hoping there was a solution.
"You're not." Eliot reached across with his good hand to take the tweezers back. The bullet wound in that shoulder oozed something clear.
"Just hang on," Nate snapped. He focused again, trying to ignore the fact that this hand was attached to a living, breathing human. He tried to catch a bit of shell, but the tweezers closed on air. His stomach lurched. He did it again, and caught a bit of skin. His stomach lurched again.
Nate took a deep breath and focused just on the shell. It took a few more tries, but Eliot didn't move, didn't make a sound, and after a little bit Nate could almost believe Eliot didn't feel it. He got braver.
It took the better part of an hour as Nate judged, but in the end they wrapped Eliot's hand back up free of debris. Nate sat back and looked at Eliot again.
Eliot was shivering. He was also slicked with sweat. Nate lifted a hand to check the skin of his neck, and Eliot jerked away, glaring.
Nate put his hands on his knees. "You need a hospital."
"Can't," Eliot muttered. "They'll look there first."
"Then tell me what we need to do, because you aren't going to be okay if we wait for the con to finish in [two more days.] Infection travels fast." Nate waited, keeping his gaze steady on Eliot. He was starting to sweat, now that he'd warmed up. The damp and steam in the bathroom hadn't faded much, and the heat was high.
Eliot still shivered.
After a long moment, Eliot's defiant gaze twitched away. "An antibiotic. Something strong, like penicillin, in both injection and pill form. Bandages, hydrogen peroxide." He closed his eyes, then opened them again, wide, like he was trying to focus. "Aspirin."
Nate nodded. "All right."
"You can't get it at a hospital," Eliot growled.
"No hospitals."
Eliot slanted a look that said how much faith he had just now. It wasn't much. "You gonna somehow con antibiotics out of a Walgreens?"
Nate gave a little smile. "I was thinking a smash and grab."
**
He bought the items to make a bottle rocket at the nearby grocery store, then headed to CVS where they were due for a shipment of pharmacy meds. Under guard, sure, but the bottle rocket took care of that.
While the two guards raced to check out the minor explosion, Nate plucked a couple of medication boxes out of the truck and stashed them elsewhere. Then he checked out the bottle rocket too, joining the small 1 a.m. crowd made up mostly of employees and tutting at youth today.
Buying the rest of the supplies Eliot had listed -- and a few things extra -- was easy as pie.
**
It wasn't the waves of cold that kept Eliot up. It was the ache in his bicep, hand, and ribs every time he tried to move.
He sat in the chair because laying down made his bicep feel like it was going to explode, and watched television. An ice pack was draped across his arm in a futile attempt to keep the swelling down.
His mind was fuzzy.
He blinked, and the show skipped from credits to commercial. That wasn't a good sign.
Sweat pooled down the indent of his spin, soaking into the cloth of the chair. His heartbeat thump-thumped in his wounds. It was like being dipped in a cold fire with no way out.
He blinked, and the empty hotel room contained Nate.
Nate spoke. The words echoed. "Let's get you in the bathroom, and we'll clean out that bullet wound again. I got saline to flush it." Blink. "--bit by a dog once. Had me pack the wound--" Blink. "--there, easy, just stand up." Blink. "--Aspirin."
Eliot gripped Nate's shirt -- borrowed, the cloth still crisp and starched and Nate never starched his shirts -- and staggered into the bathroom. Sat down on the toilet with a thud that he felt all the way into his bicep, and breathed through the pain.
Blink.
Nate was holding out two Aspirin and a little cup of water. Eliot stared at them.
"Eliot?"
Right. He picked them up from Nate's palm carefully with his bandaged hand, put them on his tongue, took the glass and swallowed them down. Blink.
"--to hurt," Nate said. "I'm sorry. Let--" Blink. "--break."
The bullet wound was in his bicep. His bicep was too near his brain. He saw his reflection in the mirror, sweating and vibrantly red where he wasn't waxy and pale. There wasn't much they could do except wait it out and hope. Unless Nate really had succeeded in getting drugs. And of course Nate had. Nate said he would. Eliot's job was to get them to safety, and he had. Nate's job was to take care of the details.
The word wasn't easy to form. His lips didn't want to obey, and his tongue felt thick and dry. "Penicillin?"
"Yup." Nate was kneeling in front of him, a syringe in one hand. "It goes in your, ah, glute. Don't kill me for that, okay?"
Eliot found a bare smile. Easy enough to drop one side of the robe. Blink, and the sting of a long needle behind his hip, the burn of a slow injection. Blink, and Nate was wrapping the needle and throwing it out.
Blink, and Nate was behind him, words stretching like taffy, sliding out of Eliot's fingers as he tried to grasp and understand them.
Blink, and pain washed through him. He bit back a scream, leaned forward to slam his injured hand against the edge of the sink and hang on, using that pain to drown out the agony of an infected wound being treated. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
No blinking, now. Pain had him rooted to the spot.
Nate finished before the pain started to recede. It only did so grudgingly, burning through his nerves first and dragging his heartbeat into swollen flesh.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Blink. Nate was kneeling, pushing him back, untaping the light bandage over the knife wound across his ribs. That one wasn't so bad.
Blink, and they were at his hand. Peroxide burned like a sonofabitch.
"You still with me, Eliot?"
"Sure." It was a croak. He was floating, except he was floating on lava and it was burning off his arm, his hand, he couldn't focus.
"We're going to get you back to bed soon. Almost done."
"Sure."
Blink.
**
Nate turned the television on low and kept half an eye on Eliot, waiting for the antibiotics to do their thing.
Eliot's temples were damp with sweat. His eyes opened slightly and closed again, a constant drift of lashes like the tide lapping at the shore. Open, close, open, close. Not asleep and not awake.
After a while, Nate took a pen and marked the inflamed area around the gunshot wound, tracing a black line on Eliot's skin. If it got bigger, they were headed to the hospital, hitmen or no. Certain brain damage was as bad as possible death.
The television shows changed, flowing into each other, biding time. The Late Show. Re-runs. Infomercials. Finally, the emergency broadcast system.
His own head throbbed, and his lungs still burned. He'd poured hydrogen peroxide across his own legs, where small abrasions had minor infections threatening. Nate shut the television off and settled back against the pillows to doze.
**
Dawn gleamed around the edges of the blackout curtains when Nate woke. Eliot slept fitfully nearby, still sweaty. Quietly, Nate skirted the bed and checked the pen marks.
The inflammation hadn't crawled past the marks made earlier. It hadn't gotten worse. Considering how rapidly it had been growing, he figured this was a good sign.
Nate went down to the continental breakfast, loaded up on muffins and white toast with little pads of butter, and carried it back upstairs.
"Wake up, Eliot," he said in his best no-nonsense voice.
Gummy eyes opened, focusing with difficulty. "Whu--"
"Have some toast. We're going to pack you full of medication, and you need a buffer." Nate sat down on the edge of the bed, hauling Eliot upward. Eliot's skin was still over-warm, the flesh across the swollen knuckles on his injured hand split and weeping. Nate folded a piece of white bread in half and offered it up.
"I can," Eliot mumbled, bandaged hand lifting.
"With those fingers? I don't think so. Bite."
Confused blue eyes looked at him for a long moment. Brows drew down as Eliot's mind cleared. That was good. It meant he was thinking again.
"You use one hand you get puss all over the bread. You use the other you mess up your arm further. Just bite," Nate insisted.
Eliot, looking more full of consternation by the moment, bit. He chewed slowly and swallowed with difficulty.
"There you go," Nate said.
Eliot bit again, chewed, swallowed, and mumbled, "This is weird."
"You're telling me. Last time I did this, my son had--" The memory hit, nearly taking Nate's breath away. So many years, and just like that he was sitting with a five-year-old Sam who was itchy and splotchy, hand feeding him because otherwise he wouldn't eat. "--chicken pox," he finished quietly.
Eliot's gaze faltered and dropped. "Sorry."
"Take the rest," Nate said brusquely, squishing the bread small enough to fit into Eliot's mouth all at once, then standing and walking away. "Three pills, three times a day should do it." Even he could tell his voice was overly loud. He poured out the pills, got some water, returned to the bedside.
"I can--" Eliot began, and Nate interrupted.
"With which hand again?"
"Nate." Eliot's tone was sharper than it had been since -- well, since Nate had woken up with a chunk of his memory missing. "I didn't mean to remind you-- I mean, I can do it--"
Nate didn't flinch. "It's fine." He took a breath at Eliot's doubtful look. Even gave a little smile, sad though it was. "It's been years. It's okay. Take the pills." He dropped them in Eliot's mouth, held up the glass of water, and waited for Eliot to swallow.
Just the effort of eating bread and taking pills had clearly been too much. Eliot's eyes were unfocused again, sweat springing back out on his brow.
"Sleep," Nate suggested firmly.
"Yeah," Eliot mumbled. "Good idea."
**
Pain woke Eliot. It was good, he told himself as he tried not to curse. It meant his mind was clear enough of infection to notice the pain.
His heartbeat throbbed like chiles in his shoulder, each thump-thump worse than the last. He kept his eyes resolutely closed, hoping to re-capture the fitful oblivion that had sheltered him from the worst of it.
Infection had burned through all the moisture in his body. His mouth was dry, his lips chapped. He opened his eyes because the desire for water was stronger than the desire to avoid pain.
The opposite bed was empty. So were the table and chairs. The curtains were drawn and still. Late afternoon sunlight bled around the edges.
As carefully as he could, he rolled over.
The bathroom door was open, the light shut off. Clothes were hung in the open closet. No sign of Nate.
Eliot's mind clicked into gear. Priorities. First, water. Then, hide the weakness. Then, find Nate.
Gritting his teeth against the pain of moving his arm, he sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He sat there, the world wheeling around him, waiting for the pain to go away.
Thump-thump in his shoulder.
Thump-thump in his ribs.
Thump-thump in his hand.
He looked down at his hand. There was no disguising that.
When he could focus past the pain -- when his body stopped screaming at him -- he stood and shambled to the bathroom. He didn't look in the mirror, but just flipped on the tap and carefully bent until he could drink. When he was slightly less parched, he straightened, using his bandaged hand to gently pat his face dry. Gently, so as not to put pressure on the swelling of his palm.
He looked like shit, but it was nothing a shower couldn't cure. The question was: did he have time to shower? Had Nate run to get supplies, or been snatched? Despite Nate's claims that the mark wouldn't look for them there, Eliot didn't figure they'd be out of trouble until the con had finished. The timing wasn't right: [they had another day. ] [ it has been 24 hours since shot.]
He locked his jaw to ignore the pain, and splashed water across his face, running it through his hair. His injured hand throbbed, and the opposite bicep felt like he'd been shot all over again. Eliot took long, deep breaths, focusing on his heart rate.
When he looked like he'd showered instead of sweated until his hair was soaked, he used a damp cloth to clean up the streaks of blood Nate had missed. Nate hadn't bothered to put a shirt on him, for which Eliot was grateful. Easier to clean up, this way. He pulled off the bandages to check the bullet hole -- left unstitched, with little strips of antiseptic cloth inserted to keep it open so the infection would drain. Smart. It would scar ugly as hell, but it was less likely to go septic.
He re-bandaged it awkwardly, then started with his injured hand.
Every little motion with his good fingers sent ripples of pain down from his bicep. It was amazing how much the body was connected to other parts of itself. The sort of amazing that left you breathless and struggling to stay calm and focused.
The abrasions on his hand were still red and angry, his knuckles still swollen. The split skin had at least come back together, so it wasn't as swollen, though lines of crusty, clear fluid denoted where the splits had been. Eliot wrapped his hand up like a burn victim, then shuffled to the closet.
Four suits, two of which looked like they'd fit. Nate had been on a shopping spree, then. Even taking the hangers off the post was an effort. By the time he'd donned a pair of pants -- screw the underwear, it wasn't worth the effort -- he was sweating again. He pulled on a button-up shirt, barely got it buttoned and tucked in, and then sat to put on shoes. Pants were long enough no one would notice he wasn't wearing socks.
He breathed. The pain thump-thumped in his shoulder and his hand, increased in both tempo and strength now. His vision unfocused with each beat, as if the infection was trying to strike at his eyes, carried up by his blood.
Thump-thump.
He'd been through worse.
He stood again, took the keycard off the table, and left the room.
With great cost, Eliot pulled himself upright, put his injured hand in his pocket, and walked as if nothing was wrong. The elevator was empty, but cameras were always watching. He didn't lean against the wall because his arm couldn't handle the slight pressure, so instead he braced his feet military-style and refused to sway.
He'd check the bar first. And if Nate was there, he'd kill the bastard.
*****