Tin Man, 2/4, Leverage, Rated R
Nov. 8th, 2010 10:58 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gilascaveFrom Part One
Two days later nobody had been shot, arrested, or made Nate yell at them; most of all the client was happy and the accounting firm was minus one crooked CFO and half a million dollars. They'd all drifted back to Nate's place once the client had been sent on her way and, on impulse, Eliot had gone down to the corner market and come back with a bag of groceries.
He didn't say anything to the others as he set himself up in the kitchen. Parker was teaching Sophie to do handstands by the far wall and Nate was pretending to read a news website while he watched. Hardison was sitting in front of his laptop, planting a few extra files for the cops to find that they'd re-created from some of the paperwork Parker had stolen. Hardison had mentioned how much more efficient digital copy was, and how much easier it would be for the judge to throw an extra ten or fifteen years towards their now-arrested CFO with all the pertinent information at the ready.
Privately, Eliot suspected Hardison had fabricated most of the files, but he couldn't find it in himself to complain. Besides, who would he complain to? Nobody in the room would be sorry to see the man stay in jail until he was ninety.
He focused on making dinner instead of worrying about what Hardison was up to. It wasn't long before the smell drew Parker and Sophie over; he distracted Sophie with a couple of lemons and a request for her to zest them. Parker, for her part, just scowled at him when he asked if she wanted to set the table.
As he worked, Eliot resisted the urge to taste the rice and lamb mixture. He knew perfectly well he'd done it right, and he'd checked each ingredient before using it so he knew there would be no surprises. Normally he'd feel free to taste whatever and whenever he liked, but he'd had to forbid Parker from sticking her finger into the pans while he cooked and she'd argued that if she couldn't do it, then neither could he.
Explaining the difference between testing what you were cooking and stealing bites had made his head hurt, so Eliot simply agreed that he wouldn't take bites of the food before it was ready. Parker was now sitting cross-legged on the kitchen counter, watching him with a suspicious frown, but her fingers were well clear of the dishes Eliot was preparing.
"Honey, I'm home," Hardison said as he walked up to the kitchen counter, seating himself on a barstool. "What's for dinner?"
Eliot scowled at him. "Lamb stew and stuffed grape leaves."
Hardison blinked, glanced around at the pots and pans, then looked up at Eliot again. "Who did what now?"
Sophie, however, looked impressed. "Magirevis elleniko fagito?"
Glancing at her, Eliot just shrugged. "I dated a Greek chef, once."
Which was a total lie, and he knew from Sophie's small smile that she knew it as well. Eliot was fairly sure she was assuming he was embarrassed to tell them that he'd studied cooking. He wasn't embarrassed about it exactly, but he didn't know how to say it without opening himself up to questions he couldn't answer. It wasn't like he could tell them he'd learned to cook by reading through every cookbook he could lay his hands on during the long, free hours after they'd finished their training for the day and before they needed to shut down for the night. Designed for only ninety minutes of recharge, the Project had somehow assumed their constructs would fill twenty-two and a half hours with training and missions and failed to allow for recreation.
But when reflexes didn't lose their edge and your brain didn't forget techniques and muscles didn't have to recover from yesterday's workouts, there wasn't much need to spend every second of the day training. It might have been easier if they'd been allowed off the base -- but of course they only left for missions, and so they'd taken to breaking out of their barracks and into the public areas of the base, personnel offices and the tiny PX, to get their hands on anything they could to entertain themselves with.
They had quickly come to understand that the Project which had built them simply hadn't anticipated they could comprehend a thing like entertainment, much less desire it. Their requests for recreational equipment were ignored, so when they had gotten to leave the base on missions, each of them had taken to stealing whatever they could to bring back and stash away. Books, mostly, grabbing blindly whatever was within reach, language and topic irrelevant as long as it was something to read. When one of Eliot's brothers had discovered a love of metal sculpting, they'd started cramming their pockets and packs with bits of wire and metal scraps as well.
Not so lucky as his brothers whose interests were easily hidden in the barracks, Eliot had never been able to sneak into the base's kitchen to do any cooking simply because it was never left unattended. By the time the last shift had cleaned up the next shift was arriving to start all over. But he'd ended up reading through fifty-one cookbooks and every time they'd been overseas and away from their handlers, he'd asked as many questions as he could of anybody he found cooking, about the recipes they were making or ingredients and techniques they preferred. But he'd never actually cooked a single thing until after they'd left the Project.
He could still remember exactly how it had felt, going into a grocery store and buying food that he'd never handled before, much less tasted. The Project had always fed them a very scientifically exact mix of proteins and carbohydrates -- a yellow mush that Eliot hoped he would never see again in his lifetime. He'd picked up almost every piece of fruit and vegetable in the store that day, testing the smell and feel of each one. He'd bought things without knowing precisely what he was going to make, knowing only that he was finally going to make something for himself.
He'd followed the recipes exactly, painstakingly, tasting the ingredients at every step from raw to completely cooked, learning to match them up with the words and pictures he had in his head. It had been the first time he'd ever done anything the Project hadn't expressly taught him to do. The first time he'd been on his own, free to do and be whatever he wanted.
And the last time he'd seen any of his surviving brothers.
Shoving the memories away, Eliot scowled at the bowl of rice and lamb, scooping up a bit in his fingers to wrap in the grape leaf. He could hear Hardison still going on about the food he was expected to eat.
"I mean, it's leaves," Hardison was saying, clearly believing Eliot had been listening the entire time. "You want us to eat leaves."
Eliot shot a look at him. "Have you ever eaten a salad?"
Hardison blinked in surprise. "Well, yeah, but that's--"
"Leaves." Eliot held up one of the grape leaves, waving it at him.
"But that's...normal. This is -- are we even supposed to eat grape leaves? Isn't that for rabbits or something?"
"Dolmades are a traditional Greek food," Sophie chided, reaching over to take one of the leaves and spreading it out on the counter. She raised an eyebrow at Eliot to seek permission before picking up a spoon and scooping a bit of the filling into the center of the leaf. She rolled it up with practiced ease, Eliot noted, and he left the filling of the rest of the leaves to her.
"So thousands of Greek people can't be wrong?" Hardison asked, doubtfully.
"You eat gummi worms," Eliot pointed out. "How is that not weirder than dolmades?"
"Gummi frogs," Hardison corrected. "And at least I know what goes into them. This...this is a leaf."
Eliot stared at him in amazement. He waited, but Hardison just looked back at him, eyebrows up in challenge. "You're serious?" Eliot finally asked. "Gummi frogs are made of corn syrup, sugar, gelatin, and wax. Carnauba wax, Hardison. Do you know what they do with carnauba wax? They polish cars and floors with it. And you'd rather eat that than a leaf?" He opted not to share the information that carnauba wax came from the surface of leaves -- Hardison could google it himself if he wanted to throw it into the argument.
But Hardison just retorted, "And you know what people do with leaves? They rake them up and burn them. Or blow them into the gutters. Leaves are yard waste, man."
Eliot scowled, hard -- because otherwise he knew he was in danger of breaking into a grin. "They use carnauba wax to make stuff waterproof," he said, instead. "And it has artificial coloring, which aggravates symptoms of ADD and ADHD." Eliot paused, then reluctantly added, "Although green frogs have BBG which they think can protect against further damage to spine injuries."
Hardison looked stunned, and a bit confused, then visibly forced himself to look triumphant. "Spinal injuries, huh?"
Eliot pointed a finger at him. "Which means I should be able to break your back and you won't feel a thing. Wanna try it?" He gave Hardison one of his better menacing looks.
Hardison quickly took a step backwards. "How about if I just eat more salad?"
"And dolmades," Eliot said.
Hardison looked doubtful, glancing over at the leaves Sophie was rolling. Sophie gave him an accusatory look and Hardison hunched his shoulders, guiltily.
"And then we get ice cream?" Parker asked.
"It's in the freezer," Eliot said, then snagged Parker around the waist as she leapt from the counter, heading for the fridge. "After dinner," he told her.
"Why can't we have ice cream now?" Parker asked.
Going for the easiest explanation, Eliot just said, "It hasn't set." He wasn't sure she'd care if he tried saying it was because dessert came after dinner and not before.
"Oh." Parker hesitated, then nodded and hoisted herself back up onto the counter. "I want chocolate sprinkles in my stew."
Eliot resisted the urge to bang his forehead on something solid. Unfortunately, there was nothing in the kitchen solid enough. So he sighed, and nodded, and Parker snatched the jar of sprinkles out of the cabinet, and took it to the table where she, at least, began setting out the bowls and silverware.
~~~
Five men, two doorways. In the room ten feet down the hall behind him, he'd left Sophie crouching behind a storage rack. Over the earbuds Hardison and Nate were shouting instructions to each other and somewhere far above them Parker was still moving, focused on getting in and getting out. All Eliot had to do was clear the way for Sophie, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time by the building's paranoid security.
Eliot noted each man's position and stance, identifying three of his targets as students of karate and another as a boxer. The fifth had no style at all, which meant he was either untrained -- or well-trained enough to know not to give himself away so soon. Eliot kept his own stance relaxed and open, one hand held up to acknowledge the fight about to begin.
From the bulges in their jackets, Eliot could see that three of the men had pistols; the man closest to his right had a knife sheath strapped to his ankle. The one on that man's left had a radio, silent at the moment and still clipped to his jacket.
Eliot met each man's eyes, waiting to see who would make the first move. The man directly in front of him grinned cruelly and gave a nod. Eliot noted him as the one in charge, then he caught the bold, ugly punch thrown at him and twisted, breaking the man's arm and dropping him to the ground.
Taking a quick step to the side, Eliot blocked a punch. Karate goon #1 drew his fist back and Eliot kicked him, hands flashing out to catch karate goon #2 as the man launched himself forward. Pivoting, Eliot threw him into one of his comrades and drove his palm into the karate goon #1's neck. He dropped; Eliot turned to the guy in charge, dodging a punch and getting his knee into the attacker's midsection.
Another punch, another spin, and Eliot blocked a kick, threw a punch; he grabbed another man's arm and turned, throwing him into the wall. A fist landed a blow on his back, and Eliot let the momentum carry him two steps forward then turned, catching a high, over-handed punch well before he came close. He drove his fist into the man's nose, kept hold of the man's arm even as he screamed, trying to grab his face with both hands. Eliot hit again, a solid blow to the man's solar plexus and let him fall.
Karate goon #3 entered the fray, stepping around one of his fallen comrades. Eliot stood with his back to a wall and waited. The man was grinning, eyes wide and bright with the challenge facing him -- clearly thinking he would win where his comrades had lost. Eliot simply waited, then blocked a kick to his knee, stepped away from a punch to the face and stepped backwards again to avoid a fist aiming for his mid-section.
He continued to retreat, watching the man's expression grow more eager as he began taunting Eliot with bigger, more exaggerated attacks. Eliot watched, quickly saw the pattern in his moves. Kick, punch, punch, advance; Eliot waited one more beat then moved forward in a flash, catching the man with one hand around his neck and trapping the man's arm in the crook of his elbow.
Eliot stood still, holding him, and watched as the man's awareness hit. He pulled against Eliot's grip and Eliot simply held him, then he squeezed his fingers around the man's throat, ever so slightly. The man shouted and thrashed, flailing now with his feet and free hand. Fifty seconds into the fight and his training had left him completely; Eliot shook his head in disappointment then spun him, wrapping his arm around the man's neck and flinging him across the room.
He scanned the room quickly, seeing, as expected, all five of the guards lying on the ground, two motionless, one groaning softly to himself. One was trying to crawl towards the door, so Eliot walked over and tapped the man's temple softly with the toe of his boot. The man froze, then nodded quickly, remaining where he was as Eliot stepped away.
"Sophie, you all right?" he asked.
"I'm fine," came the answer, and she sounded calm, if slightly out of breath. "Safe to come out now?"
Eliot opened his mouth, then turned. "Give me one more minute," he said as the elevator doors pinged down at the end of the hallway. It was their only route out -- unless Parker came down and blew a hole in the outer wall, which probably wouldn't be necessary. Eliot counted footsteps as more personnel ran towards them; seven men rounded the corner and Eliot took up his stance once more, reminding himself not to break an ankle tripping over the men on the ground.
He waited until they saw him, saw the men at his feet, then Eliot ran forward, out of the room and into the hallway. It left the five men between he and Sophie, but he was confident none of them could seriously threaten her any longer. Even if they reached her, she could defend herself well enough now, the state they were in.
Eliot grinned as the first man came up, dodging the punch and diving under his arm, knocking him back into the man behind him. There were shouts, and the crackle of a radio from the rear of the column of men, then it was a flurry of punches and kicks, twisting one man around and driving him into another, knocking one man back against the wall to have the next come up behind him. Eliot felt the blows that landed, their impact registering but the pain not at all. The rush of adrenaline had shut down his pain receptors -- a design meant to enable them to continue fighting no matter their injuries.
Two of his brothers had died fighting, unable to realize the extent of their injuries until it was too late. The Project had considered it acceptable loss as the target for those missions had been reached.
Eliot simply kept careful track of the impacts to his body, not slowing down but taking note and favoring his left side when the impact there was sharp and swift.
Five more men down and the sixth pulled a gun; Eliot moved in and grabbed the man's wrist before he could take aim, bracing him with a hand to his chest, Eliot jerked the man's arm out of its socket and dropped him on the floor. He stepped forward to find the last man aiming another pistol at his head; Eliot paused and looked at him.
The man glared at him, eyes flickered to the mass of bodies lying on the floor, strewn down the entire length of the hallway. He snapped his gaze back to Eliot, who took one careful step forward. Eliot brought up his hands, slowly, palms forward like he was going to surrender. The man's aim wavered, hands trembling before he tightened his grip on the pistol and visibly forced himself to glare at Eliot.
"Down on your knees," he stammered, and Eliot took one more step forward, let himself begin to sink downwards -- then ducked underneath the aim of the pistol and dove in, catching the man's hands with his shoulder and driving them both down towards the floor. Eliot leapt to his feet and landed a kick solidly to the man's temple, dropping him unconscious.
He looked back, taking a deep breath. None of the men were moving. Two might have been dead, he wasn't certain, but neither did he bother to check. Instead he began walking down the hallway, back to where Sophie was hiding.
When he heard her shout, followed by harsh metallic clang, he burst into a run.
He found her standing at the edge of the storage shelves he'd left her behind, holding a long metal pipe in her hands. Karate goon #1 was standing in front of her, back to Eliot. Eliot didn't pause; he moved in, dropping the man with a blow to the back of his head. The guard collapsed instantly, and Sophie calmly watched him go down. Then she looked up at him and smiled.
"Shall we go?" she asked, and Eliot heard the timbre in her voice she was striving to control.
"Unless you wanted to pound on him a bit," he offered. "I hear it's good for stress."
Sophie looked down, then shook her head, wrinkling her nose slightly. "It's no fun if they're unconscious already," she said, and she sounded almost like herself as she finished saying it.
Eliot gave her an innocent look. "You want me to round up a conscious one?"
She blinked at him, then smiled -- a genuine one, finally. "Maybe next time," she said, and she set the pipe aside with a glance, as if surprised to find she was holding it.
"Then how about we get out of here," Eliot said, and he stepped aside when she nodded, letting her take the lead. He saw her pause as she came into the room, saw her glance towards the bodies lying about. But she stepped past them without comment; Eliot saw the man he'd threatened before still lying in place, looking up as they went by. He made no attempt to move, however, and Eliot left him alone as he hurried along after Sophie.
He catalogued the impacts to his body as he ran. Most were of no consequence, but the one at his back would have to be checked. He could feel something shifting slightly, and knew from his schematics that had he been stabbed, as it felt like, it would have hit metal and wires instead of flesh and bone. He reached back when Sophie's attention was firmly ahead of them; he felt the sticky fluid leaking from the wound. Bringing his fingers around he confirmed it was the clear fluid of lubricant and not the dark red blood of his organic systems.
Which made it more problematic to repair, if the wound turned out to be serious. For now he'd just keep it hidden form the others until he could get away and check the extent of the injury. Luckily his skin would repair itself quickly enough that he wouldn't have to hide it for long. He made sure to keep his back away from Sophie's line of sight as they got into the elevator and rode up to the ground floor. He let her go ahead of him and slipped a small piece of clear tape out of his pocket and worked it onto his fingers so he could get it into place over the wound's entrance on his back. That would keep the fluid contained until he could give himself a more through check.
Then he simply followed Sophie, keeping his eyes out for any new threats, but finding none as they exited the building and walked calmly across the street to Hardison's van.
~~~
They were halfway back to Nate's condo when his pain receptors switched back on. Eliot was expecting it and was able to keep his breath even so as not to alert the others, but he gritted his teeth as waves of pain erupted from his back. He could feel now that the wound was deep as tendrils of pain leaked out from the injury. When he twisted just right he could feel that something was definitely damaged. He hadn't noticed any loss of function, so nothing vital and urgent had been severed, but from the slight tink and catch in his side as he moved, he wondered if something hadn't been broken.
He kept his eyes on the street ahead, watching through the front windshield as Hardison drove. Nate and Sophie's voices drifted in and out of his awareness as he focused on his diagnosis and tried to control the pain. He heard his name mentioned once, but they weren't talking to him, just about him, so Eliot ignored the conversation.
Slowly, he began a check of the rest of his body. He flexed his fingers and moved his hands, tightening the muscles in his arms, shoulders, and jaw before moving on down to his legs and feet. There were no new bursts of pain, and other than his back it was all the dull throbbing of bruises. Nothing felt broken and there was nothing else that seemed out of order. He looked up, hiding his surprise as the van stopped; they'd arrived back at Nate's condo. He followed the others upstairs, hoping the mid-job briefing and planning session would be short.
He wasn't sure how quickly he could get away from the others, since now that step two of Nate's plan was complete, he would be anxious to get on with step three. Even as he thought it, Nate clapped his hands together and announced, "OK! We've planted the bug and Sophie has set the hook -- now we just need to wait for Harper to give us enough information to hang him with. And with Eliot's fortuitous little dust-up, we can further convince Mr. Harper that he is being targeted by his competitors."
"So we've got the rest of the night off," Eliot said quickly, forcing himself not to sound too eager.
"No, no," Nate said, looking surprised. "We should--"
"We should take the evening off," Sophie interjected. "Nate, I don't want to spend the night following Harper around and waiting for him to say something incriminating. Isn't that why we planted the bugs? So we could record it?"
Nate frowned. "But we can give him a little push. Sophie, you could accidently meet him when he goes to dinner, and Eliot, you and Parker can--"
"Or we could let the bugs do their job, and wait until morning," Eliot interrupted. Nate blinked at him in surprise. Eliot thought fast. "I've got tickets to the Bruins game tonight."
Nate rolled his eyes, looking not at all impressed, but Sophie took Nate's arm and said, "There's a film at the Darkside Cinema that's only playing tonight. I don't want to miss it when we don't have to be working." She gave Nate a pleading look, one which Eliot conceded was a lot more enticing than his own.
Reluctantly, Nate nodded. "Fine. We can wait until morning. Though if he hasn't given us the information we need then we're not going to just sit back all week and wait for him."
"Of course!" Sophie said, quickly. Then she smiled. "Why don't you go change and pick me up at my flat in an hour?"
Nate stared at her. "What?"
"Well, you're taking me to the cinema," Sophie said. "I need time to shower and change into something more...me and, really, Nate, you need a clean shirt." She wrinkled her nose, giving the shirt in question a light tug.
"But I--" Nate began, but Sophie turned him and gave him a push towards the stairs. Eliot watched him go with a smirk. He was grateful to Sophie's intervention, no matter how unintentional, to convince Nate not to make them work all evening.
He was just turning to leave when Hardison walked over. "So, Eliot, you're going to the game?"
Eliot just nodded. He needed to get home and see to his injury. Most likely a knife wound, which hopefully meant anything broken or severed had been done cleanly. Usually that meant the repair work would be simpler.
"You, uh, you mind some company?" Hardison asked, looking both casual and awkward at the same time.
Surprised, Eliot opened his mouth to say no, then stopped. The thought of catching a Bruins game with Hardison actually...wasn't bad. He hadn't known Hardison liked hockey, but spending three hours or so with him at a game -- made Eliot's stomach sort of contract, a little. He saw Hardison's hopeful expression start to shut down and realized he'd stood silent too long. "No, I don't mind," he said, quickly, not wanting to see that look of disappointment on Hardison's face. He wanted to kick himself for the thought, but he couldn't bring himself to really regret it.
Of course, he suddenly remembered, he wasn't going to the game, and Eliot had to scramble again, hating to have to wipe that happy smile off Hardison's face.
"I only have the one ticket," he lied, feeling a little like he was going to start babbling if he wasn't careful. "It's the playoffs so they might be sold out."
Hardison scoffed. "Please. Like I can't steal myself a ticket? I could steal the whole rink for the final game of the Stanley Cup if I wanted to."
Eliot raised an eyebrow at him.
After a moment, Hardison deflated, just a little. "Maybe not if they played in Canada. But I can definitely steal myself one ticket to see the game."
Eliot nodded, and figured what the hell. He could get home, patch himself up, and meet Hardison at the rink. Except -- he wasn't going to the game, so he didn't have a ticket. He cursed, silently, in the first twelve languages he knew while he tried to think. How the hell did his brain stop working just because Hardison wanted to hang out? Finally, he just sighed and asked, "You think you can steal two tickets?"
Narrowing his eyes, Hardison's expression instantly shut down. "You bringing a date?"
Glancing upwards, Eliot shook his head and stage-whispered, "I don't have a ticket to the game. I just didn't want to spend the whole night following Harper's goons around."
There was a pause, then Hardison made a fake-shocked expression. "You lied to Nate? Eliot! That was not a nice thing to do." Then he was grinning from ear to ear and for some reason it made Eliot glad he'd said it.
"I need to swing by my place and change. No point in going to a hockey game with blood on my clothes." He stopped, then smiled sheepishly. "I mean, someone else's. I mean--" He shut himself up with a firm command to stop being a complete and utter moron.
Hardison just gave him a teasing look, but said, "Yeah, yeah. You go make yourself pretty and I'll meet you back here and we can head over to the rink."
Eliot scowled, tempted to slug him, but just thinking about lifting his arm was making his back screech in pain. He settled for scowling harder, then glanced over as Parker asked, "But why not?"
Sophie was standing beside her, she leaned over and whispered something in Parker's ear.
Parker looked surprised, then looked at him and Hardison. "You're going on a date?"
"We are not going on a date," Eliot protested, though he caught the look on Hardison's face as he spoke.
"So I can come?" Parker asked.
"I could...I guess, steal three tickets," Hardison was saying, but he was looking at Eliot and Eliot saw something there he really hadn't expected to see.
He'd seen it before, on casual one-night affairs when he'd made the mistake of staying the night and waking first to make breakfast. He saw it on Sophie's face whenever Nate stopped what he was doing and actually looked at her, however briefly.
Eliot realized his jaw had dropped open and that Hardison was starting to look genuinely angry. For a second he imagined himself saying it, telling Parker no, she couldn't come. Telling Hardison yes, and making that happy, excited look reappear on Hardison's face. He opened his mouth to say something, still not certain what it would be, when Hardison just took a step back and turned away from him.
"Why don't I just steal you two some tickets? I got stuff I should be doing anyway." He was headed back towards his laptop, and Eliot could see the confused look Parker was giving all of them, and the sad, disappointed look Sophie was giving him.
What he needed to do was go home and see to his injury. He didn't need to be going to a hockey game, no matter who it was with. His back fucking hurt and even if it wasn't serious, he wanted to lie down and get himself repaired.
"I'm sorry," he found himself saying, quietly. Hardison didn't turn around, but Eliot saw his shoulders flinch, just slightly.
Without glancing back at Parker and Sophie, Eliot just turned and headed for the door. He tried not to think about hockey games and Hardison, and what might have even come after if things had been very, very different.
If maybe he'd been human, and could have said yes to a friend wanting to be more.
Continue to Part Three
Two days later nobody had been shot, arrested, or made Nate yell at them; most of all the client was happy and the accounting firm was minus one crooked CFO and half a million dollars. They'd all drifted back to Nate's place once the client had been sent on her way and, on impulse, Eliot had gone down to the corner market and come back with a bag of groceries.
He didn't say anything to the others as he set himself up in the kitchen. Parker was teaching Sophie to do handstands by the far wall and Nate was pretending to read a news website while he watched. Hardison was sitting in front of his laptop, planting a few extra files for the cops to find that they'd re-created from some of the paperwork Parker had stolen. Hardison had mentioned how much more efficient digital copy was, and how much easier it would be for the judge to throw an extra ten or fifteen years towards their now-arrested CFO with all the pertinent information at the ready.
Privately, Eliot suspected Hardison had fabricated most of the files, but he couldn't find it in himself to complain. Besides, who would he complain to? Nobody in the room would be sorry to see the man stay in jail until he was ninety.
He focused on making dinner instead of worrying about what Hardison was up to. It wasn't long before the smell drew Parker and Sophie over; he distracted Sophie with a couple of lemons and a request for her to zest them. Parker, for her part, just scowled at him when he asked if she wanted to set the table.
As he worked, Eliot resisted the urge to taste the rice and lamb mixture. He knew perfectly well he'd done it right, and he'd checked each ingredient before using it so he knew there would be no surprises. Normally he'd feel free to taste whatever and whenever he liked, but he'd had to forbid Parker from sticking her finger into the pans while he cooked and she'd argued that if she couldn't do it, then neither could he.
Explaining the difference between testing what you were cooking and stealing bites had made his head hurt, so Eliot simply agreed that he wouldn't take bites of the food before it was ready. Parker was now sitting cross-legged on the kitchen counter, watching him with a suspicious frown, but her fingers were well clear of the dishes Eliot was preparing.
"Honey, I'm home," Hardison said as he walked up to the kitchen counter, seating himself on a barstool. "What's for dinner?"
Eliot scowled at him. "Lamb stew and stuffed grape leaves."
Hardison blinked, glanced around at the pots and pans, then looked up at Eliot again. "Who did what now?"
Sophie, however, looked impressed. "Magirevis elleniko fagito?"
Glancing at her, Eliot just shrugged. "I dated a Greek chef, once."
Which was a total lie, and he knew from Sophie's small smile that she knew it as well. Eliot was fairly sure she was assuming he was embarrassed to tell them that he'd studied cooking. He wasn't embarrassed about it exactly, but he didn't know how to say it without opening himself up to questions he couldn't answer. It wasn't like he could tell them he'd learned to cook by reading through every cookbook he could lay his hands on during the long, free hours after they'd finished their training for the day and before they needed to shut down for the night. Designed for only ninety minutes of recharge, the Project had somehow assumed their constructs would fill twenty-two and a half hours with training and missions and failed to allow for recreation.
But when reflexes didn't lose their edge and your brain didn't forget techniques and muscles didn't have to recover from yesterday's workouts, there wasn't much need to spend every second of the day training. It might have been easier if they'd been allowed off the base -- but of course they only left for missions, and so they'd taken to breaking out of their barracks and into the public areas of the base, personnel offices and the tiny PX, to get their hands on anything they could to entertain themselves with.
They had quickly come to understand that the Project which had built them simply hadn't anticipated they could comprehend a thing like entertainment, much less desire it. Their requests for recreational equipment were ignored, so when they had gotten to leave the base on missions, each of them had taken to stealing whatever they could to bring back and stash away. Books, mostly, grabbing blindly whatever was within reach, language and topic irrelevant as long as it was something to read. When one of Eliot's brothers had discovered a love of metal sculpting, they'd started cramming their pockets and packs with bits of wire and metal scraps as well.
Not so lucky as his brothers whose interests were easily hidden in the barracks, Eliot had never been able to sneak into the base's kitchen to do any cooking simply because it was never left unattended. By the time the last shift had cleaned up the next shift was arriving to start all over. But he'd ended up reading through fifty-one cookbooks and every time they'd been overseas and away from their handlers, he'd asked as many questions as he could of anybody he found cooking, about the recipes they were making or ingredients and techniques they preferred. But he'd never actually cooked a single thing until after they'd left the Project.
He could still remember exactly how it had felt, going into a grocery store and buying food that he'd never handled before, much less tasted. The Project had always fed them a very scientifically exact mix of proteins and carbohydrates -- a yellow mush that Eliot hoped he would never see again in his lifetime. He'd picked up almost every piece of fruit and vegetable in the store that day, testing the smell and feel of each one. He'd bought things without knowing precisely what he was going to make, knowing only that he was finally going to make something for himself.
He'd followed the recipes exactly, painstakingly, tasting the ingredients at every step from raw to completely cooked, learning to match them up with the words and pictures he had in his head. It had been the first time he'd ever done anything the Project hadn't expressly taught him to do. The first time he'd been on his own, free to do and be whatever he wanted.
And the last time he'd seen any of his surviving brothers.
Shoving the memories away, Eliot scowled at the bowl of rice and lamb, scooping up a bit in his fingers to wrap in the grape leaf. He could hear Hardison still going on about the food he was expected to eat.
"I mean, it's leaves," Hardison was saying, clearly believing Eliot had been listening the entire time. "You want us to eat leaves."
Eliot shot a look at him. "Have you ever eaten a salad?"
Hardison blinked in surprise. "Well, yeah, but that's--"
"Leaves." Eliot held up one of the grape leaves, waving it at him.
"But that's...normal. This is -- are we even supposed to eat grape leaves? Isn't that for rabbits or something?"
"Dolmades are a traditional Greek food," Sophie chided, reaching over to take one of the leaves and spreading it out on the counter. She raised an eyebrow at Eliot to seek permission before picking up a spoon and scooping a bit of the filling into the center of the leaf. She rolled it up with practiced ease, Eliot noted, and he left the filling of the rest of the leaves to her.
"So thousands of Greek people can't be wrong?" Hardison asked, doubtfully.
"You eat gummi worms," Eliot pointed out. "How is that not weirder than dolmades?"
"Gummi frogs," Hardison corrected. "And at least I know what goes into them. This...this is a leaf."
Eliot stared at him in amazement. He waited, but Hardison just looked back at him, eyebrows up in challenge. "You're serious?" Eliot finally asked. "Gummi frogs are made of corn syrup, sugar, gelatin, and wax. Carnauba wax, Hardison. Do you know what they do with carnauba wax? They polish cars and floors with it. And you'd rather eat that than a leaf?" He opted not to share the information that carnauba wax came from the surface of leaves -- Hardison could google it himself if he wanted to throw it into the argument.
But Hardison just retorted, "And you know what people do with leaves? They rake them up and burn them. Or blow them into the gutters. Leaves are yard waste, man."
Eliot scowled, hard -- because otherwise he knew he was in danger of breaking into a grin. "They use carnauba wax to make stuff waterproof," he said, instead. "And it has artificial coloring, which aggravates symptoms of ADD and ADHD." Eliot paused, then reluctantly added, "Although green frogs have BBG which they think can protect against further damage to spine injuries."
Hardison looked stunned, and a bit confused, then visibly forced himself to look triumphant. "Spinal injuries, huh?"
Eliot pointed a finger at him. "Which means I should be able to break your back and you won't feel a thing. Wanna try it?" He gave Hardison one of his better menacing looks.
Hardison quickly took a step backwards. "How about if I just eat more salad?"
"And dolmades," Eliot said.
Hardison looked doubtful, glancing over at the leaves Sophie was rolling. Sophie gave him an accusatory look and Hardison hunched his shoulders, guiltily.
"And then we get ice cream?" Parker asked.
"It's in the freezer," Eliot said, then snagged Parker around the waist as she leapt from the counter, heading for the fridge. "After dinner," he told her.
"Why can't we have ice cream now?" Parker asked.
Going for the easiest explanation, Eliot just said, "It hasn't set." He wasn't sure she'd care if he tried saying it was because dessert came after dinner and not before.
"Oh." Parker hesitated, then nodded and hoisted herself back up onto the counter. "I want chocolate sprinkles in my stew."
Eliot resisted the urge to bang his forehead on something solid. Unfortunately, there was nothing in the kitchen solid enough. So he sighed, and nodded, and Parker snatched the jar of sprinkles out of the cabinet, and took it to the table where she, at least, began setting out the bowls and silverware.
~~~
Five men, two doorways. In the room ten feet down the hall behind him, he'd left Sophie crouching behind a storage rack. Over the earbuds Hardison and Nate were shouting instructions to each other and somewhere far above them Parker was still moving, focused on getting in and getting out. All Eliot had to do was clear the way for Sophie, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time by the building's paranoid security.
Eliot noted each man's position and stance, identifying three of his targets as students of karate and another as a boxer. The fifth had no style at all, which meant he was either untrained -- or well-trained enough to know not to give himself away so soon. Eliot kept his own stance relaxed and open, one hand held up to acknowledge the fight about to begin.
From the bulges in their jackets, Eliot could see that three of the men had pistols; the man closest to his right had a knife sheath strapped to his ankle. The one on that man's left had a radio, silent at the moment and still clipped to his jacket.
Eliot met each man's eyes, waiting to see who would make the first move. The man directly in front of him grinned cruelly and gave a nod. Eliot noted him as the one in charge, then he caught the bold, ugly punch thrown at him and twisted, breaking the man's arm and dropping him to the ground.
Taking a quick step to the side, Eliot blocked a punch. Karate goon #1 drew his fist back and Eliot kicked him, hands flashing out to catch karate goon #2 as the man launched himself forward. Pivoting, Eliot threw him into one of his comrades and drove his palm into the karate goon #1's neck. He dropped; Eliot turned to the guy in charge, dodging a punch and getting his knee into the attacker's midsection.
Another punch, another spin, and Eliot blocked a kick, threw a punch; he grabbed another man's arm and turned, throwing him into the wall. A fist landed a blow on his back, and Eliot let the momentum carry him two steps forward then turned, catching a high, over-handed punch well before he came close. He drove his fist into the man's nose, kept hold of the man's arm even as he screamed, trying to grab his face with both hands. Eliot hit again, a solid blow to the man's solar plexus and let him fall.
Karate goon #3 entered the fray, stepping around one of his fallen comrades. Eliot stood with his back to a wall and waited. The man was grinning, eyes wide and bright with the challenge facing him -- clearly thinking he would win where his comrades had lost. Eliot simply waited, then blocked a kick to his knee, stepped away from a punch to the face and stepped backwards again to avoid a fist aiming for his mid-section.
He continued to retreat, watching the man's expression grow more eager as he began taunting Eliot with bigger, more exaggerated attacks. Eliot watched, quickly saw the pattern in his moves. Kick, punch, punch, advance; Eliot waited one more beat then moved forward in a flash, catching the man with one hand around his neck and trapping the man's arm in the crook of his elbow.
Eliot stood still, holding him, and watched as the man's awareness hit. He pulled against Eliot's grip and Eliot simply held him, then he squeezed his fingers around the man's throat, ever so slightly. The man shouted and thrashed, flailing now with his feet and free hand. Fifty seconds into the fight and his training had left him completely; Eliot shook his head in disappointment then spun him, wrapping his arm around the man's neck and flinging him across the room.
He scanned the room quickly, seeing, as expected, all five of the guards lying on the ground, two motionless, one groaning softly to himself. One was trying to crawl towards the door, so Eliot walked over and tapped the man's temple softly with the toe of his boot. The man froze, then nodded quickly, remaining where he was as Eliot stepped away.
"Sophie, you all right?" he asked.
"I'm fine," came the answer, and she sounded calm, if slightly out of breath. "Safe to come out now?"
Eliot opened his mouth, then turned. "Give me one more minute," he said as the elevator doors pinged down at the end of the hallway. It was their only route out -- unless Parker came down and blew a hole in the outer wall, which probably wouldn't be necessary. Eliot counted footsteps as more personnel ran towards them; seven men rounded the corner and Eliot took up his stance once more, reminding himself not to break an ankle tripping over the men on the ground.
He waited until they saw him, saw the men at his feet, then Eliot ran forward, out of the room and into the hallway. It left the five men between he and Sophie, but he was confident none of them could seriously threaten her any longer. Even if they reached her, she could defend herself well enough now, the state they were in.
Eliot grinned as the first man came up, dodging the punch and diving under his arm, knocking him back into the man behind him. There were shouts, and the crackle of a radio from the rear of the column of men, then it was a flurry of punches and kicks, twisting one man around and driving him into another, knocking one man back against the wall to have the next come up behind him. Eliot felt the blows that landed, their impact registering but the pain not at all. The rush of adrenaline had shut down his pain receptors -- a design meant to enable them to continue fighting no matter their injuries.
Two of his brothers had died fighting, unable to realize the extent of their injuries until it was too late. The Project had considered it acceptable loss as the target for those missions had been reached.
Eliot simply kept careful track of the impacts to his body, not slowing down but taking note and favoring his left side when the impact there was sharp and swift.
Five more men down and the sixth pulled a gun; Eliot moved in and grabbed the man's wrist before he could take aim, bracing him with a hand to his chest, Eliot jerked the man's arm out of its socket and dropped him on the floor. He stepped forward to find the last man aiming another pistol at his head; Eliot paused and looked at him.
The man glared at him, eyes flickered to the mass of bodies lying on the floor, strewn down the entire length of the hallway. He snapped his gaze back to Eliot, who took one careful step forward. Eliot brought up his hands, slowly, palms forward like he was going to surrender. The man's aim wavered, hands trembling before he tightened his grip on the pistol and visibly forced himself to glare at Eliot.
"Down on your knees," he stammered, and Eliot took one more step forward, let himself begin to sink downwards -- then ducked underneath the aim of the pistol and dove in, catching the man's hands with his shoulder and driving them both down towards the floor. Eliot leapt to his feet and landed a kick solidly to the man's temple, dropping him unconscious.
He looked back, taking a deep breath. None of the men were moving. Two might have been dead, he wasn't certain, but neither did he bother to check. Instead he began walking down the hallway, back to where Sophie was hiding.
When he heard her shout, followed by harsh metallic clang, he burst into a run.
He found her standing at the edge of the storage shelves he'd left her behind, holding a long metal pipe in her hands. Karate goon #1 was standing in front of her, back to Eliot. Eliot didn't pause; he moved in, dropping the man with a blow to the back of his head. The guard collapsed instantly, and Sophie calmly watched him go down. Then she looked up at him and smiled.
"Shall we go?" she asked, and Eliot heard the timbre in her voice she was striving to control.
"Unless you wanted to pound on him a bit," he offered. "I hear it's good for stress."
Sophie looked down, then shook her head, wrinkling her nose slightly. "It's no fun if they're unconscious already," she said, and she sounded almost like herself as she finished saying it.
Eliot gave her an innocent look. "You want me to round up a conscious one?"
She blinked at him, then smiled -- a genuine one, finally. "Maybe next time," she said, and she set the pipe aside with a glance, as if surprised to find she was holding it.
"Then how about we get out of here," Eliot said, and he stepped aside when she nodded, letting her take the lead. He saw her pause as she came into the room, saw her glance towards the bodies lying about. But she stepped past them without comment; Eliot saw the man he'd threatened before still lying in place, looking up as they went by. He made no attempt to move, however, and Eliot left him alone as he hurried along after Sophie.
He catalogued the impacts to his body as he ran. Most were of no consequence, but the one at his back would have to be checked. He could feel something shifting slightly, and knew from his schematics that had he been stabbed, as it felt like, it would have hit metal and wires instead of flesh and bone. He reached back when Sophie's attention was firmly ahead of them; he felt the sticky fluid leaking from the wound. Bringing his fingers around he confirmed it was the clear fluid of lubricant and not the dark red blood of his organic systems.
Which made it more problematic to repair, if the wound turned out to be serious. For now he'd just keep it hidden form the others until he could get away and check the extent of the injury. Luckily his skin would repair itself quickly enough that he wouldn't have to hide it for long. He made sure to keep his back away from Sophie's line of sight as they got into the elevator and rode up to the ground floor. He let her go ahead of him and slipped a small piece of clear tape out of his pocket and worked it onto his fingers so he could get it into place over the wound's entrance on his back. That would keep the fluid contained until he could give himself a more through check.
Then he simply followed Sophie, keeping his eyes out for any new threats, but finding none as they exited the building and walked calmly across the street to Hardison's van.
~~~
They were halfway back to Nate's condo when his pain receptors switched back on. Eliot was expecting it and was able to keep his breath even so as not to alert the others, but he gritted his teeth as waves of pain erupted from his back. He could feel now that the wound was deep as tendrils of pain leaked out from the injury. When he twisted just right he could feel that something was definitely damaged. He hadn't noticed any loss of function, so nothing vital and urgent had been severed, but from the slight tink and catch in his side as he moved, he wondered if something hadn't been broken.
He kept his eyes on the street ahead, watching through the front windshield as Hardison drove. Nate and Sophie's voices drifted in and out of his awareness as he focused on his diagnosis and tried to control the pain. He heard his name mentioned once, but they weren't talking to him, just about him, so Eliot ignored the conversation.
Slowly, he began a check of the rest of his body. He flexed his fingers and moved his hands, tightening the muscles in his arms, shoulders, and jaw before moving on down to his legs and feet. There were no new bursts of pain, and other than his back it was all the dull throbbing of bruises. Nothing felt broken and there was nothing else that seemed out of order. He looked up, hiding his surprise as the van stopped; they'd arrived back at Nate's condo. He followed the others upstairs, hoping the mid-job briefing and planning session would be short.
He wasn't sure how quickly he could get away from the others, since now that step two of Nate's plan was complete, he would be anxious to get on with step three. Even as he thought it, Nate clapped his hands together and announced, "OK! We've planted the bug and Sophie has set the hook -- now we just need to wait for Harper to give us enough information to hang him with. And with Eliot's fortuitous little dust-up, we can further convince Mr. Harper that he is being targeted by his competitors."
"So we've got the rest of the night off," Eliot said quickly, forcing himself not to sound too eager.
"No, no," Nate said, looking surprised. "We should--"
"We should take the evening off," Sophie interjected. "Nate, I don't want to spend the night following Harper around and waiting for him to say something incriminating. Isn't that why we planted the bugs? So we could record it?"
Nate frowned. "But we can give him a little push. Sophie, you could accidently meet him when he goes to dinner, and Eliot, you and Parker can--"
"Or we could let the bugs do their job, and wait until morning," Eliot interrupted. Nate blinked at him in surprise. Eliot thought fast. "I've got tickets to the Bruins game tonight."
Nate rolled his eyes, looking not at all impressed, but Sophie took Nate's arm and said, "There's a film at the Darkside Cinema that's only playing tonight. I don't want to miss it when we don't have to be working." She gave Nate a pleading look, one which Eliot conceded was a lot more enticing than his own.
Reluctantly, Nate nodded. "Fine. We can wait until morning. Though if he hasn't given us the information we need then we're not going to just sit back all week and wait for him."
"Of course!" Sophie said, quickly. Then she smiled. "Why don't you go change and pick me up at my flat in an hour?"
Nate stared at her. "What?"
"Well, you're taking me to the cinema," Sophie said. "I need time to shower and change into something more...me and, really, Nate, you need a clean shirt." She wrinkled her nose, giving the shirt in question a light tug.
"But I--" Nate began, but Sophie turned him and gave him a push towards the stairs. Eliot watched him go with a smirk. He was grateful to Sophie's intervention, no matter how unintentional, to convince Nate not to make them work all evening.
He was just turning to leave when Hardison walked over. "So, Eliot, you're going to the game?"
Eliot just nodded. He needed to get home and see to his injury. Most likely a knife wound, which hopefully meant anything broken or severed had been done cleanly. Usually that meant the repair work would be simpler.
"You, uh, you mind some company?" Hardison asked, looking both casual and awkward at the same time.
Surprised, Eliot opened his mouth to say no, then stopped. The thought of catching a Bruins game with Hardison actually...wasn't bad. He hadn't known Hardison liked hockey, but spending three hours or so with him at a game -- made Eliot's stomach sort of contract, a little. He saw Hardison's hopeful expression start to shut down and realized he'd stood silent too long. "No, I don't mind," he said, quickly, not wanting to see that look of disappointment on Hardison's face. He wanted to kick himself for the thought, but he couldn't bring himself to really regret it.
Of course, he suddenly remembered, he wasn't going to the game, and Eliot had to scramble again, hating to have to wipe that happy smile off Hardison's face.
"I only have the one ticket," he lied, feeling a little like he was going to start babbling if he wasn't careful. "It's the playoffs so they might be sold out."
Hardison scoffed. "Please. Like I can't steal myself a ticket? I could steal the whole rink for the final game of the Stanley Cup if I wanted to."
Eliot raised an eyebrow at him.
After a moment, Hardison deflated, just a little. "Maybe not if they played in Canada. But I can definitely steal myself one ticket to see the game."
Eliot nodded, and figured what the hell. He could get home, patch himself up, and meet Hardison at the rink. Except -- he wasn't going to the game, so he didn't have a ticket. He cursed, silently, in the first twelve languages he knew while he tried to think. How the hell did his brain stop working just because Hardison wanted to hang out? Finally, he just sighed and asked, "You think you can steal two tickets?"
Narrowing his eyes, Hardison's expression instantly shut down. "You bringing a date?"
Glancing upwards, Eliot shook his head and stage-whispered, "I don't have a ticket to the game. I just didn't want to spend the whole night following Harper's goons around."
There was a pause, then Hardison made a fake-shocked expression. "You lied to Nate? Eliot! That was not a nice thing to do." Then he was grinning from ear to ear and for some reason it made Eliot glad he'd said it.
"I need to swing by my place and change. No point in going to a hockey game with blood on my clothes." He stopped, then smiled sheepishly. "I mean, someone else's. I mean--" He shut himself up with a firm command to stop being a complete and utter moron.
Hardison just gave him a teasing look, but said, "Yeah, yeah. You go make yourself pretty and I'll meet you back here and we can head over to the rink."
Eliot scowled, tempted to slug him, but just thinking about lifting his arm was making his back screech in pain. He settled for scowling harder, then glanced over as Parker asked, "But why not?"
Sophie was standing beside her, she leaned over and whispered something in Parker's ear.
Parker looked surprised, then looked at him and Hardison. "You're going on a date?"
"We are not going on a date," Eliot protested, though he caught the look on Hardison's face as he spoke.
"So I can come?" Parker asked.
"I could...I guess, steal three tickets," Hardison was saying, but he was looking at Eliot and Eliot saw something there he really hadn't expected to see.
He'd seen it before, on casual one-night affairs when he'd made the mistake of staying the night and waking first to make breakfast. He saw it on Sophie's face whenever Nate stopped what he was doing and actually looked at her, however briefly.
Eliot realized his jaw had dropped open and that Hardison was starting to look genuinely angry. For a second he imagined himself saying it, telling Parker no, she couldn't come. Telling Hardison yes, and making that happy, excited look reappear on Hardison's face. He opened his mouth to say something, still not certain what it would be, when Hardison just took a step back and turned away from him.
"Why don't I just steal you two some tickets? I got stuff I should be doing anyway." He was headed back towards his laptop, and Eliot could see the confused look Parker was giving all of them, and the sad, disappointed look Sophie was giving him.
What he needed to do was go home and see to his injury. He didn't need to be going to a hockey game, no matter who it was with. His back fucking hurt and even if it wasn't serious, he wanted to lie down and get himself repaired.
"I'm sorry," he found himself saying, quietly. Hardison didn't turn around, but Eliot saw his shoulders flinch, just slightly.
Without glancing back at Parker and Sophie, Eliot just turned and headed for the door. He tried not to think about hockey games and Hardison, and what might have even come after if things had been very, very different.
If maybe he'd been human, and could have said yes to a friend wanting to be more.
Continue to Part Three