Fic: Five Times Eliot Surprised Quinn
Title: Five Times Eliot Surprised Quinn
Author: scout_lover
Rating: Um, PG-15 or R? F-bombs galore and boys kissing
Characters/Pairing: Eliot/Quinn
Word Count: 3,533
Spoilers: ***MAJOR SPOILERS FOR SEASON 4, ESPECIALLY “RADIO JOB” AND “LAST DAM JOB.” SERIOUSLY, BIG-TIME SPOILERS!***
Disclaimer: Not mine, making no money, they all belong to John Rogers, Chris Downey and Dean Devlin
Summary: Eliot’s not at all what Quinn expected
Notes: This is my leveragexchange fic written for ishilde, who seems to have a thing for Eliot/Quinn (well, who wouldn’t, really?). It was a lot of fun to write (and gave me an excuse to watch “Last Dam Job” again … and again … and … never mind). Also, I have given Mr. Quinn a first name.
A Hitter Walks into a Room …
Very little surprised Quinn any more; he’d learned long ago to expect the unexpected. No mark ever reacted exactly as anticipated. Clients changed their minds and their terms at the drop of a hat. Any job could go south in the blink of an eye. No plan was ever foolproof.
It was just the way things worked - or didn’t work - in his line of work.
So he hadn’t been all that surprised when Kostomarov had changed the deal after the package had been delivered, or that, instead of leaving with a hefty sum of money, he was now handcuffed in a chair with guns pointed at him. Some days just went like this. Kostomarov had started out working for The Butcher and had clearly learned much from him, and Quinn was familiar enough with that bastard to see where this was heading.
Likely right to the bottom of the Dnieper River.
Not surprising. In fact, he’d actually kind of expected this. Kostomarov didn’t exactly have a great reputation - even for someone in his brutal line of work - so Quinn had come armed; not only with the guns that were now in Kostomarov’s possession, but also with backup plans B, C and D. Though, really, D was still very much a work in progress, and required his getting his hands on a grenade launcher, a boat … and a good cut of beef.
Yeah, D definitely needed some fine-tuning. And he probably shouldn’t have skipped breakfast.
But B and C would still work, and he went through them again in his mind while Kostomarov yammered on about all the terrible things he was going to do before dumping Quinn’s body in the river. All things Quinn had heard - and survived - before, so, again, not a surprise. Typical bad guy speech of doom. Or, worse guy, since technically Quinn was a bad guy, too, despite plainly being the victim here.
So while all of this was inconvenient as hell, none of it really qualified as a surprise.
Until Eliot Spencer walked in and offered him a job.
Even by Jonah Quinn’s rather jaded standards, that qualified as one hell of a shock.
*~*~*
One Week, Six Figures … and Dinner
The job offer was real. And it sounded far more interesting than anything else he’d done lately, as well as far more lucrative. Quinn was intrigued.
Which surprised him.
Or maybe it was Eliot that surprised him.
The man seemed to have a knack for that.
Even before their … encounter … in that airplane hangar three years ago, he’d heard of Eliot Spencer. Hell, everybody in their line of work had heard of him. The man was something of a legend, fast working his way up to myth. Retrieval specialist, hitter, assassin, former chief enforcer for Damien Moreau who’d walked away from that organization and lived to tell about it, a man as good with his fists (or knives or, hell, probably toothpicks) as he was with a gun-
His name was spoken in terms of awe and fear, and he cast a shadow ten feet tall.
Which made the real Eliot Spencer somewhat … surprising.
First of all, he didn’t seem to hold a grudge about that hangar … encounter. When Quinn mentioned it, trying to get a read on him, he shrugged it off and said he understood. It was a job; nothing personal.
“Besides,” he added with a grin, “I won, didn’t I?”
Quinn didn’t argue. He was too distracted by the way that grin lit Eliot’s blue eyes and eased the hardness and lines from his face. And by the way the man’s silver necklaces pointed down to the black ’beater that peeked through the open buttons of the shirt whose vivid red seemed to suit him so well.
He had to shake himself several times to shift his attention back to Eliot’s words as the man described the job. Help his team take down the man who’d come back from the past to get revenge. He’d killed Nate Ford’s father and now was targeting them, and knew too much about them for them to take him on alone. They needed help, a “decoy” team to draw his attention while they worked in the shadows. Nothing too difficult or dangerous (as their line of work went), and with a nice payout.
One week, six figures … and dinner.
Which Eliot cooked.
Quinn wasn’t entirely surprised to find himself surprised again.
When they landed in Boston (after a roundabout series of flights under a variety of names that assured him Eliot’s paranoia matched his own), he expected to be taken immediately to meet the team. Teams. But Eliot told him Nate was still working on “acquiring” a base of operations and took him instead to a small but comfortably furnished house overlooking the water on what Eliot called Hough’s Neck.
Eliot Spencer had a house. With what even Quinn, with his limited knowledge of such things, could tell was a damn near professional kitchen. Which the man knew how to use.
He sipped from his beer and munched on baked sesame chips as he watched Eliot moving around his kitchen, chopping and mixing and searing and stirring as he put together a meal of shrimp pad thai. Agile fingers twirled knives and supple wrists gave simmering pans a quick toss, and all the while the man sang along softly with or moved fluidly to the country music playing from stereo speakers.
Quinn suddenly realized it wasn’t just the pad thai he was hungry for.
He pushed the thought away, not entirely certain it would be welcomed. There had been rumors about Eliot and Moreau, and one or two others along the way, but nothing more than that. And Eliot’s skill with women was another part of his legend.
Still, he wouldn’t be the first man in their line of work to play for both teams. Quinn could name several. Like, say, Jonah Quinn. And a game of pitch and catch with Eliot Spencer would definitely be … interesting.
Eliot plated the food with a precision and skill that would have made any top chef green with envy, and Quinn couldn’t help watching the man’s hands and wondering just how well they’d do … other things. As he finally managed to tear his eyes away from those fingers and lift them to his host’s face, he could swear he saw a knowing, and not entirely disapproving, glint in Eliot’s blue eyes.
Definitely a pleasant surprise.
*~*~*
Meet the Family
They were one seriously fucked-up bunch.
Parker was crazy, Hardison was annoying, Sophie was smooth as silk and elusive as smoke, and Nate was so twisted up by hatred and vengeance he reeked of it. With more than a faint whiff of whiskey in the mix.
And these people were Eliot’s team.
Or … more than that.
Quinn could see it in the way Eliot interacted with them, took care of them. He’d overseen the supplying and furnishing of the “Batcave” (seriously?), rigged up a camp stove and cooked when they grew tired of takeout, once or twice growled ugly threats to Chaos (Jesus, really?) when the irritating little shit leered too openly at Parker. He bickered with Hardison, bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose after almost every conversation with Parker, spoke in low, soothing tones to Sophie and watched Nate worriedly.
These people were his family.
Quinn couldn’t really understand it, but he couldn’t deny it, either. It was there in the way Eliot treated them, tolerated them, talked to them, touched them. The man’s whole bearing changed around them; he visibly softened. Even when he growled at Hardison or Parker, it had no real heat or force, which they obviously knew. With Sophie he was warm and slyly teasing, the two seeming to flirt without even realizing it (and, no, Quinn was not jealous, thank you very much; frankly, he could see the attraction from both sides), while with Nate-
Quinn could almost see something breaking in Eliot as he watched Ford teetering on the edge of a very long fall. Could see the pain in Eliot’s eyes as he watched Ford battle the same demons he had faced … and lost to.
Eliot wanted to save Ford, wanted to protect these people … because he cared about them. Loved them.
This bizarre collection of fucked-up people was his team, his family … his life. Quinn could see it-
And it stunned him to his core.
*~*~*
I Don’t Know How Eliot Does This
He was gonna fucking kill Chaos. And Hardison, too. He’d never spent any time around geeks before, and now he knew why. They might be the smartest guys on the planet, but they were so. goddamned. irritating. Even if he didn’t understand half of what they said, they still made him want to put a bullet in his brain. Or in theirs.
And to make it worse, they seemed to have some kind of rivalry going. So not only were they constantly trying to out-geek each other, they were also constantly raising the annoyance factor. Which at first he wouldn’t have believed was possible, but they quickly proved him wrong.
It also didn’t help that they were fighting over a crazy girl. Though, granted, she was pretty hot. For a crazy girl.
And Eliot dealt with this every. fucking. day. Maybe not with Chaos, but certainly with Hardison. Who not only was an über geek, but was also just ridiculously cheerful. Then there was Parker (crazy; and hot; but, dude, CRAY-ZEE), and Sophie (who, if she couldn’t actually read minds came terrifyingly close to it), and Nate (an alcoholic mastermind; yeah, that couldn’t end badly)-
“How the hell do you do this?” he asked in exasperation as Hardison and Chaos launched into yet another argument, this time about some computer game. Witch World Crafts … or something.
Jesus.
Eliot chuckled quietly (and Quinn tried not to think how much he liked that sound). “Them? Hell, I just ignore ’em. And when they get too annoying, I threaten ’em. Or threaten their computers. That usually works better. And if I’m lucky,” he winked, “I can take out my frustration by beatin’ the shit out of a bad guy. Or three.”
Quinn absently licked his lips at that wink, wishing he could see it again, then shook his head to clear it. So not the time. “I don’t suppose we can trade geeks?” he suggested. “Yours is annoying, but mine is unbearable. If I get through this job without killin’ him, y’all should probably give me a bonus.”
Eliot smiled and shook his head. “Sorry, I can’t. The plan’s set. Besides, Hardison’s every bit as annoying as Chaos, believe me. And if you kill Hardison, that means we might actually have to put Chaos on the team. Then I’d have to kill him, and we’d still be out one geek. So you’re stuck with him.”
“Shit,” Quinn sighed, bowing his head and shaking it slowly. “Fucker’s drivin’ me crazy.”
“Yeah, well,” Eliot reached out and clapped him on the arm, “you’ve only got a couple of days left. Once the job’s finished, you can do whatever you want.”
Quinn lifted his head. “Can I kill him then?” he asked hopefully.
Eliot laughed, and Quinn decided he liked that sound, too. “It’s a free country. Just hang in there for a couple more days.” A slow grin crept across his full mouth. “You keep Chaos alive,” he winked again, “and we’ll see about that bonus.”
Sophie called him over then and he went to join her, leaving Quinn standing rooted to his spot.
And surprised as hell.
*~*~*
Next Time Give Me the Gun
Eliot didn’t kill Dubenich. Had the gun aimed right at the fucker’s head - and at that distance not even Hardison could have missed - but didn’t pull the trigger.
Quinn couldn’t believe it. Or understand it.
He was never one to personalize or rationalize a job, but if anyone deserved to die it was Victor Dubenich. He would gladly have killed any of them, had killed Nate’s father, was as cold and ruthless a bastard as Quinn had ever encountered.
And Eliot let him live. Eliot Spencer, who’d made his name as Damien Moreau’s enforcer and executioner and whose fearsome reputation was written in his victims’ blood, refused to pull the trigger.
Was unable to pull the trigger.
Quinn knew. He saw the flicker in the man’s eyes, the slight tremor in his hand, and recognized them for what they were.
Eliot dearly wanted to, saw it as a way of saving Nate, but couldn’t do it. Couldn’t shoot an unarmed man lying helpless at his feet while people he cared about looked on. It might have been different if Sophie hadn’t been there, watching him with dark, horrified eyes and trying to call him back from the edge, but Quinn truly doubted it.
Sophie didn’t stop Eliot from killing Dubenich; Eliot stopped himself.
And now, back at the Batcave (oh, God, now he was doing it), waiting for Hardison and Chaos to work their magic and empty Dubenich’s account into theirs, he couldn’t help thinking about it. The Eliot Spencer of legend wouldn’t have hesitated to pull that trigger.
But the Eliot Spencer he’d gotten to know over the past week wasn’t that man.
Not any more.
“Shouldn’t be long now. A few more minutes, and you’ll have your money.”
He looked up as Eliot dropped into the chair next to his and frowned slightly, studying the other man. Eliot was older than him by a few years, had risen far higher in their world than he likely ever would, had no doubt seen and done things that Quinn would be better off not knowing. By all rights, he should either be living in rich retirement or lying somewhere in a shallow grave.
Instead he was here, working with thieves and conmen to help people who meant nothing in the grand scheme of things … and he seemed happy. At peace.
And he hadn’t killed Victor Dubenich.
“Why didn’t you do it?” he asked quietly, needing to understand. “You had him at your feet. Why not finish him then?”
Eliot sighed and stared down at his hands, flexing his fingers. “I don’t really know,” he breathed. “Bastard had it comin’. Hell, I’ve killed people before for less than he’s done. Then again,” he shrugged, “maybe that’s it. “ He lifted his head and smiled weakly, but it never reached his eyes. “I’ve got too much blood on my hands as it is. I can’t see addin’ any more. Even if it is Dubenich’s.” His smile turned into a wince. “I ain’t got much of a soul left,” he sighed. “I won’t lose what little I’ve got over the likes of him.”
Quinn nodded, understanding. He had blood on his hands, too, and while he didn’t agonize over it every day, sometimes it did give him pause. So far everyone he’d killed had had it coming, in one way or another, but he could see the day coming when that wouldn’t be true.
For men like him, that day always came.
“I meant it, you know,” he said, looking into Eliot’s eyes. “I would have killed him for you.” He nodded over his shoulder toward the people milling about the cave. “For them.”
Eliot’s lips quirked in a smile that did reach, and warm, his eyes. “They kinda get under your skin, don’t they? Crazy as shit, all of ’em, but-” He laughed again and shook his head. “Hell, who’s to say I’m sane? I don’t know,” his gaze tracked past Quinn to seek out his team, “maybe we all deserve each other.”
“Yeah,” Quinn murmured, suddenly envying whatever it was Eliot had with these people, “maybe you do.”
Hardison suddenly gave a loud and jubilant whoop, and everyone began streaming to the large screen where Dubenich’s account was displayed. Eliot and Quinn stood, too, and Eliot started forward. But Quinn reached out and grabbed his arm, holding him in place for a moment.
“Hey,” he said, smiling as Eliot raised a startled gaze to him, “it’s been fun. If y’all ever get in another bind and need some help, give me a call. I’ll be glad to pinch hit.” Now he winked. “Or, you know, just hit.”
Eliot grinned broadly - a very good look on him, Quinn decided - and nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He glanced around, then leaned in closer and rasped, “Huckleberry.”
He slapped Quinn on the back and went to join the others in watching Hardison rob Dubenich blind.
While Quinn merely stood there and grinned until he thought his face would break.
*~*~*
Welcome to the Party, Pal (or, And the One Time It Was Really No Surprise at All)
Quinn felt a grin spreading across his face as he peered through the peephole in the door at the man on the other side. He’d been hoping he’d read the signs right, and was rarely wrong about such things, but there was always that embarrassing first time.
Thank God this wasn’t it.
He quickly unlocked the door and opened it, grinning more broadly still. Eliot Spencer stood before him, a bag of groceries in one arm, a case of beer under the other. He wore a deep blue shirt over a black ’beater, worn and faded jeans that clung to him in all the right ways, and an equally faded blue bandana in the wild wealth of his hair.
Quinn had to remind himself to breathe.
Eliot seemed just as struck by him, and it was only belatedly that he remembered he was just out of the shower and hadn’t yet put on a shirt. He couldn’t help preening a bit, and felt an almost predatory delight as he saw Eliot’s eyes widen and darken and a sudden flush rise in his face.
“So,” he leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms against his chest, watching as Eliot’s blue eyes followed his every movement, “you just in the neighborhood?”
“Hm?” Eliot grunted dazedly, then shook his head. “Oh.” He smiled then, and Quinn swallowed hard. “I seem to recall promisin’ you a bonus for not killin’ Chaos.” He hefted the beer a bit higher. “You interested?”
He was, indeed, and not necessarily in the beer. “You could say that,” he breathed.
Eliot’s eyes went darker still. “I was hopin’ you would be,” he said in a low and throaty rasp.
That voice sent a spear of heat straight to Quinn’s dick, and he briefly considered just knocking the beer and groceries out of Eliot’s hands, dragging him inside and getting on with the matter at hand. But they had time - his flight didn’t leave until tomorrow - and he had a feeling they’d need food to keep up their strength.
Besides, he did like to watch Eliot cook.
He stepped aside and waved Eliot in, then closed the door behind him and locked it. Breathing deeply to get himself under control, he turned and reached out, taking the beer from Eliot. His hand tingled as it brushed against Eliot’s, and he couldn’t help the shiver that ran through him.
He was damn glad he’d taken this job.
Eliot grinned and winked at him and carried the groceries into the suite’s small kitchen. Quinn followed a few steps behind him, admiring the view. Eliot wasn’t big, especially for a hitter, but, damn, he was well put together.
Once in the kitchen, Quinn pulled a couple of beers from the case and opened them, passing one to Eliot and watching as he drew out an impressive assortment of … stuff - chicken breasts, butter, flour, eggs, bread crumbs and a selection of spices, as well as asparagus spears.
“So what’s on the menu tonight?”
Eliot gave him a grin. “Chicken Kiev,” he said, then winked. “Seems appropriate.”
Quinn’s blood warmed at that wink. Kiev. Kostomarov, handcuffs … and Eliot Spencer.
Definitely appropriate.
Eliot nodded toward the bag. “Look inside,” he said. “Should be a couple more things.”
Quinn frowned slightly, but did as told … and pulled out two DVDs. “Tombstone!” he said, grinning broadly. “Fuck, yeah! And,” he glanced at the other, “Die Hard?”
“Yeah, why not? Can’t beat the classics.”
Quinn grinned. “Dinner and a movie.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Got anything in mind for dessert?”
Eliot shrugged and gave a slow, wolfish smile. “Dessert’s later,” he rasped. “First, hors d’oeuvres.”
And before Quinn could think, Eliot stepped closer to him and reached for him, pulling him down until their mouths met.
His mind blanked out briefly as Eliot’s lips claimed his, but then instinct, and hunger, took over and he was winding his arms about the smaller man and pulling him close. Lightning flashed in his brain and seared through his blood, and it was all he could do to keep from bending Eliot over the counter here and now.
“Yippee ki yay, motherfucker,” he whispered roughly.
And he wasn’t surprised at all when Eliot laughed.
The End
Author: scout_lover
Rating: Um, PG-15 or R? F-bombs galore and boys kissing
Characters/Pairing: Eliot/Quinn
Word Count: 3,533
Spoilers: ***MAJOR SPOILERS FOR SEASON 4, ESPECIALLY “RADIO JOB” AND “LAST DAM JOB.” SERIOUSLY, BIG-TIME SPOILERS!***
Disclaimer: Not mine, making no money, they all belong to John Rogers, Chris Downey and Dean Devlin
Summary: Eliot’s not at all what Quinn expected
Notes: This is my leveragexchange fic written for ishilde, who seems to have a thing for Eliot/Quinn (well, who wouldn’t, really?). It was a lot of fun to write (and gave me an excuse to watch “Last Dam Job” again … and again … and … never mind). Also, I have given Mr. Quinn a first name.
A Hitter Walks into a Room …
Very little surprised Quinn any more; he’d learned long ago to expect the unexpected. No mark ever reacted exactly as anticipated. Clients changed their minds and their terms at the drop of a hat. Any job could go south in the blink of an eye. No plan was ever foolproof.
It was just the way things worked - or didn’t work - in his line of work.
So he hadn’t been all that surprised when Kostomarov had changed the deal after the package had been delivered, or that, instead of leaving with a hefty sum of money, he was now handcuffed in a chair with guns pointed at him. Some days just went like this. Kostomarov had started out working for The Butcher and had clearly learned much from him, and Quinn was familiar enough with that bastard to see where this was heading.
Likely right to the bottom of the Dnieper River.
Not surprising. In fact, he’d actually kind of expected this. Kostomarov didn’t exactly have a great reputation - even for someone in his brutal line of work - so Quinn had come armed; not only with the guns that were now in Kostomarov’s possession, but also with backup plans B, C and D. Though, really, D was still very much a work in progress, and required his getting his hands on a grenade launcher, a boat … and a good cut of beef.
Yeah, D definitely needed some fine-tuning. And he probably shouldn’t have skipped breakfast.
But B and C would still work, and he went through them again in his mind while Kostomarov yammered on about all the terrible things he was going to do before dumping Quinn’s body in the river. All things Quinn had heard - and survived - before, so, again, not a surprise. Typical bad guy speech of doom. Or, worse guy, since technically Quinn was a bad guy, too, despite plainly being the victim here.
So while all of this was inconvenient as hell, none of it really qualified as a surprise.
Until Eliot Spencer walked in and offered him a job.
Even by Jonah Quinn’s rather jaded standards, that qualified as one hell of a shock.
*~*~*
One Week, Six Figures … and Dinner
The job offer was real. And it sounded far more interesting than anything else he’d done lately, as well as far more lucrative. Quinn was intrigued.
Which surprised him.
Or maybe it was Eliot that surprised him.
The man seemed to have a knack for that.
Even before their … encounter … in that airplane hangar three years ago, he’d heard of Eliot Spencer. Hell, everybody in their line of work had heard of him. The man was something of a legend, fast working his way up to myth. Retrieval specialist, hitter, assassin, former chief enforcer for Damien Moreau who’d walked away from that organization and lived to tell about it, a man as good with his fists (or knives or, hell, probably toothpicks) as he was with a gun-
His name was spoken in terms of awe and fear, and he cast a shadow ten feet tall.
Which made the real Eliot Spencer somewhat … surprising.
First of all, he didn’t seem to hold a grudge about that hangar … encounter. When Quinn mentioned it, trying to get a read on him, he shrugged it off and said he understood. It was a job; nothing personal.
“Besides,” he added with a grin, “I won, didn’t I?”
Quinn didn’t argue. He was too distracted by the way that grin lit Eliot’s blue eyes and eased the hardness and lines from his face. And by the way the man’s silver necklaces pointed down to the black ’beater that peeked through the open buttons of the shirt whose vivid red seemed to suit him so well.
He had to shake himself several times to shift his attention back to Eliot’s words as the man described the job. Help his team take down the man who’d come back from the past to get revenge. He’d killed Nate Ford’s father and now was targeting them, and knew too much about them for them to take him on alone. They needed help, a “decoy” team to draw his attention while they worked in the shadows. Nothing too difficult or dangerous (as their line of work went), and with a nice payout.
One week, six figures … and dinner.
Which Eliot cooked.
Quinn wasn’t entirely surprised to find himself surprised again.
When they landed in Boston (after a roundabout series of flights under a variety of names that assured him Eliot’s paranoia matched his own), he expected to be taken immediately to meet the team. Teams. But Eliot told him Nate was still working on “acquiring” a base of operations and took him instead to a small but comfortably furnished house overlooking the water on what Eliot called Hough’s Neck.
Eliot Spencer had a house. With what even Quinn, with his limited knowledge of such things, could tell was a damn near professional kitchen. Which the man knew how to use.
He sipped from his beer and munched on baked sesame chips as he watched Eliot moving around his kitchen, chopping and mixing and searing and stirring as he put together a meal of shrimp pad thai. Agile fingers twirled knives and supple wrists gave simmering pans a quick toss, and all the while the man sang along softly with or moved fluidly to the country music playing from stereo speakers.
Quinn suddenly realized it wasn’t just the pad thai he was hungry for.
He pushed the thought away, not entirely certain it would be welcomed. There had been rumors about Eliot and Moreau, and one or two others along the way, but nothing more than that. And Eliot’s skill with women was another part of his legend.
Still, he wouldn’t be the first man in their line of work to play for both teams. Quinn could name several. Like, say, Jonah Quinn. And a game of pitch and catch with Eliot Spencer would definitely be … interesting.
Eliot plated the food with a precision and skill that would have made any top chef green with envy, and Quinn couldn’t help watching the man’s hands and wondering just how well they’d do … other things. As he finally managed to tear his eyes away from those fingers and lift them to his host’s face, he could swear he saw a knowing, and not entirely disapproving, glint in Eliot’s blue eyes.
Definitely a pleasant surprise.
*~*~*
Meet the Family
They were one seriously fucked-up bunch.
Parker was crazy, Hardison was annoying, Sophie was smooth as silk and elusive as smoke, and Nate was so twisted up by hatred and vengeance he reeked of it. With more than a faint whiff of whiskey in the mix.
And these people were Eliot’s team.
Or … more than that.
Quinn could see it in the way Eliot interacted with them, took care of them. He’d overseen the supplying and furnishing of the “Batcave” (seriously?), rigged up a camp stove and cooked when they grew tired of takeout, once or twice growled ugly threats to Chaos (Jesus, really?) when the irritating little shit leered too openly at Parker. He bickered with Hardison, bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose after almost every conversation with Parker, spoke in low, soothing tones to Sophie and watched Nate worriedly.
These people were his family.
Quinn couldn’t really understand it, but he couldn’t deny it, either. It was there in the way Eliot treated them, tolerated them, talked to them, touched them. The man’s whole bearing changed around them; he visibly softened. Even when he growled at Hardison or Parker, it had no real heat or force, which they obviously knew. With Sophie he was warm and slyly teasing, the two seeming to flirt without even realizing it (and, no, Quinn was not jealous, thank you very much; frankly, he could see the attraction from both sides), while with Nate-
Quinn could almost see something breaking in Eliot as he watched Ford teetering on the edge of a very long fall. Could see the pain in Eliot’s eyes as he watched Ford battle the same demons he had faced … and lost to.
Eliot wanted to save Ford, wanted to protect these people … because he cared about them. Loved them.
This bizarre collection of fucked-up people was his team, his family … his life. Quinn could see it-
And it stunned him to his core.
*~*~*
I Don’t Know How Eliot Does This
He was gonna fucking kill Chaos. And Hardison, too. He’d never spent any time around geeks before, and now he knew why. They might be the smartest guys on the planet, but they were so. goddamned. irritating. Even if he didn’t understand half of what they said, they still made him want to put a bullet in his brain. Or in theirs.
And to make it worse, they seemed to have some kind of rivalry going. So not only were they constantly trying to out-geek each other, they were also constantly raising the annoyance factor. Which at first he wouldn’t have believed was possible, but they quickly proved him wrong.
It also didn’t help that they were fighting over a crazy girl. Though, granted, she was pretty hot. For a crazy girl.
And Eliot dealt with this every. fucking. day. Maybe not with Chaos, but certainly with Hardison. Who not only was an über geek, but was also just ridiculously cheerful. Then there was Parker (crazy; and hot; but, dude, CRAY-ZEE), and Sophie (who, if she couldn’t actually read minds came terrifyingly close to it), and Nate (an alcoholic mastermind; yeah, that couldn’t end badly)-
“How the hell do you do this?” he asked in exasperation as Hardison and Chaos launched into yet another argument, this time about some computer game. Witch World Crafts … or something.
Jesus.
Eliot chuckled quietly (and Quinn tried not to think how much he liked that sound). “Them? Hell, I just ignore ’em. And when they get too annoying, I threaten ’em. Or threaten their computers. That usually works better. And if I’m lucky,” he winked, “I can take out my frustration by beatin’ the shit out of a bad guy. Or three.”
Quinn absently licked his lips at that wink, wishing he could see it again, then shook his head to clear it. So not the time. “I don’t suppose we can trade geeks?” he suggested. “Yours is annoying, but mine is unbearable. If I get through this job without killin’ him, y’all should probably give me a bonus.”
Eliot smiled and shook his head. “Sorry, I can’t. The plan’s set. Besides, Hardison’s every bit as annoying as Chaos, believe me. And if you kill Hardison, that means we might actually have to put Chaos on the team. Then I’d have to kill him, and we’d still be out one geek. So you’re stuck with him.”
“Shit,” Quinn sighed, bowing his head and shaking it slowly. “Fucker’s drivin’ me crazy.”
“Yeah, well,” Eliot reached out and clapped him on the arm, “you’ve only got a couple of days left. Once the job’s finished, you can do whatever you want.”
Quinn lifted his head. “Can I kill him then?” he asked hopefully.
Eliot laughed, and Quinn decided he liked that sound, too. “It’s a free country. Just hang in there for a couple more days.” A slow grin crept across his full mouth. “You keep Chaos alive,” he winked again, “and we’ll see about that bonus.”
Sophie called him over then and he went to join her, leaving Quinn standing rooted to his spot.
And surprised as hell.
*~*~*
Next Time Give Me the Gun
Eliot didn’t kill Dubenich. Had the gun aimed right at the fucker’s head - and at that distance not even Hardison could have missed - but didn’t pull the trigger.
Quinn couldn’t believe it. Or understand it.
He was never one to personalize or rationalize a job, but if anyone deserved to die it was Victor Dubenich. He would gladly have killed any of them, had killed Nate’s father, was as cold and ruthless a bastard as Quinn had ever encountered.
And Eliot let him live. Eliot Spencer, who’d made his name as Damien Moreau’s enforcer and executioner and whose fearsome reputation was written in his victims’ blood, refused to pull the trigger.
Was unable to pull the trigger.
Quinn knew. He saw the flicker in the man’s eyes, the slight tremor in his hand, and recognized them for what they were.
Eliot dearly wanted to, saw it as a way of saving Nate, but couldn’t do it. Couldn’t shoot an unarmed man lying helpless at his feet while people he cared about looked on. It might have been different if Sophie hadn’t been there, watching him with dark, horrified eyes and trying to call him back from the edge, but Quinn truly doubted it.
Sophie didn’t stop Eliot from killing Dubenich; Eliot stopped himself.
And now, back at the Batcave (oh, God, now he was doing it), waiting for Hardison and Chaos to work their magic and empty Dubenich’s account into theirs, he couldn’t help thinking about it. The Eliot Spencer of legend wouldn’t have hesitated to pull that trigger.
But the Eliot Spencer he’d gotten to know over the past week wasn’t that man.
Not any more.
“Shouldn’t be long now. A few more minutes, and you’ll have your money.”
He looked up as Eliot dropped into the chair next to his and frowned slightly, studying the other man. Eliot was older than him by a few years, had risen far higher in their world than he likely ever would, had no doubt seen and done things that Quinn would be better off not knowing. By all rights, he should either be living in rich retirement or lying somewhere in a shallow grave.
Instead he was here, working with thieves and conmen to help people who meant nothing in the grand scheme of things … and he seemed happy. At peace.
And he hadn’t killed Victor Dubenich.
“Why didn’t you do it?” he asked quietly, needing to understand. “You had him at your feet. Why not finish him then?”
Eliot sighed and stared down at his hands, flexing his fingers. “I don’t really know,” he breathed. “Bastard had it comin’. Hell, I’ve killed people before for less than he’s done. Then again,” he shrugged, “maybe that’s it. “ He lifted his head and smiled weakly, but it never reached his eyes. “I’ve got too much blood on my hands as it is. I can’t see addin’ any more. Even if it is Dubenich’s.” His smile turned into a wince. “I ain’t got much of a soul left,” he sighed. “I won’t lose what little I’ve got over the likes of him.”
Quinn nodded, understanding. He had blood on his hands, too, and while he didn’t agonize over it every day, sometimes it did give him pause. So far everyone he’d killed had had it coming, in one way or another, but he could see the day coming when that wouldn’t be true.
For men like him, that day always came.
“I meant it, you know,” he said, looking into Eliot’s eyes. “I would have killed him for you.” He nodded over his shoulder toward the people milling about the cave. “For them.”
Eliot’s lips quirked in a smile that did reach, and warm, his eyes. “They kinda get under your skin, don’t they? Crazy as shit, all of ’em, but-” He laughed again and shook his head. “Hell, who’s to say I’m sane? I don’t know,” his gaze tracked past Quinn to seek out his team, “maybe we all deserve each other.”
“Yeah,” Quinn murmured, suddenly envying whatever it was Eliot had with these people, “maybe you do.”
Hardison suddenly gave a loud and jubilant whoop, and everyone began streaming to the large screen where Dubenich’s account was displayed. Eliot and Quinn stood, too, and Eliot started forward. But Quinn reached out and grabbed his arm, holding him in place for a moment.
“Hey,” he said, smiling as Eliot raised a startled gaze to him, “it’s been fun. If y’all ever get in another bind and need some help, give me a call. I’ll be glad to pinch hit.” Now he winked. “Or, you know, just hit.”
Eliot grinned broadly - a very good look on him, Quinn decided - and nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He glanced around, then leaned in closer and rasped, “Huckleberry.”
He slapped Quinn on the back and went to join the others in watching Hardison rob Dubenich blind.
While Quinn merely stood there and grinned until he thought his face would break.
*~*~*
Welcome to the Party, Pal (or, And the One Time It Was Really No Surprise at All)
Quinn felt a grin spreading across his face as he peered through the peephole in the door at the man on the other side. He’d been hoping he’d read the signs right, and was rarely wrong about such things, but there was always that embarrassing first time.
Thank God this wasn’t it.
He quickly unlocked the door and opened it, grinning more broadly still. Eliot Spencer stood before him, a bag of groceries in one arm, a case of beer under the other. He wore a deep blue shirt over a black ’beater, worn and faded jeans that clung to him in all the right ways, and an equally faded blue bandana in the wild wealth of his hair.
Quinn had to remind himself to breathe.
Eliot seemed just as struck by him, and it was only belatedly that he remembered he was just out of the shower and hadn’t yet put on a shirt. He couldn’t help preening a bit, and felt an almost predatory delight as he saw Eliot’s eyes widen and darken and a sudden flush rise in his face.
“So,” he leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms against his chest, watching as Eliot’s blue eyes followed his every movement, “you just in the neighborhood?”
“Hm?” Eliot grunted dazedly, then shook his head. “Oh.” He smiled then, and Quinn swallowed hard. “I seem to recall promisin’ you a bonus for not killin’ Chaos.” He hefted the beer a bit higher. “You interested?”
He was, indeed, and not necessarily in the beer. “You could say that,” he breathed.
Eliot’s eyes went darker still. “I was hopin’ you would be,” he said in a low and throaty rasp.
That voice sent a spear of heat straight to Quinn’s dick, and he briefly considered just knocking the beer and groceries out of Eliot’s hands, dragging him inside and getting on with the matter at hand. But they had time - his flight didn’t leave until tomorrow - and he had a feeling they’d need food to keep up their strength.
Besides, he did like to watch Eliot cook.
He stepped aside and waved Eliot in, then closed the door behind him and locked it. Breathing deeply to get himself under control, he turned and reached out, taking the beer from Eliot. His hand tingled as it brushed against Eliot’s, and he couldn’t help the shiver that ran through him.
He was damn glad he’d taken this job.
Eliot grinned and winked at him and carried the groceries into the suite’s small kitchen. Quinn followed a few steps behind him, admiring the view. Eliot wasn’t big, especially for a hitter, but, damn, he was well put together.
Once in the kitchen, Quinn pulled a couple of beers from the case and opened them, passing one to Eliot and watching as he drew out an impressive assortment of … stuff - chicken breasts, butter, flour, eggs, bread crumbs and a selection of spices, as well as asparagus spears.
“So what’s on the menu tonight?”
Eliot gave him a grin. “Chicken Kiev,” he said, then winked. “Seems appropriate.”
Quinn’s blood warmed at that wink. Kiev. Kostomarov, handcuffs … and Eliot Spencer.
Definitely appropriate.
Eliot nodded toward the bag. “Look inside,” he said. “Should be a couple more things.”
Quinn frowned slightly, but did as told … and pulled out two DVDs. “Tombstone!” he said, grinning broadly. “Fuck, yeah! And,” he glanced at the other, “Die Hard?”
“Yeah, why not? Can’t beat the classics.”
Quinn grinned. “Dinner and a movie.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Got anything in mind for dessert?”
Eliot shrugged and gave a slow, wolfish smile. “Dessert’s later,” he rasped. “First, hors d’oeuvres.”
And before Quinn could think, Eliot stepped closer to him and reached for him, pulling him down until their mouths met.
His mind blanked out briefly as Eliot’s lips claimed his, but then instinct, and hunger, took over and he was winding his arms about the smaller man and pulling him close. Lightning flashed in his brain and seared through his blood, and it was all he could do to keep from bending Eliot over the counter here and now.
“Yippee ki yay, motherfucker,” he whispered roughly.
And he wasn’t surprised at all when Eliot laughed.
The End