Tin Man, 3/4, Leverage, Rated R
Nov. 8th, 2010 11:01 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gilascaveFrom Part Two
A quick look at his back showed Eliot that it was, indeed, a knife wound. Juggling the extendable handheld mirror, he quickly determined he simply couldn't see anything more than the surface of the wound. Sighing, Eliot conceded that he was going to need help with this one.
Luckily, Doc Martinez was just over in upstate New York, close enough that Eliot could drive there tonight. He would have to take his truck -- riding his bike would be faster, but excruciatingly more painful. He'd done similar before when there was no choice; given the option he would opt for less pain and more comfort.
Before he left he sent her a message; no point in making the drive if she was unavailable. But within a few minutes she sent a response back: I'll be here. So Eliot locked up his house and drove west -- the very house he'd argued with himself about buying, telling himself it was absurd and a waste before finally relenting to the shaky logic that a house would offer him more privacy and it certainly wasn't like he couldn't afford it. Even with only a third of the money left from the check Hardison had handed him after that first job, there was more than enough for a house in Brighton.
The bulk of his money had gone directly to Doc Martinez. When the Project closed down she had taken what she could -- and what Eliot and his brothers had smuggled out -- and set up shop for them. It wasn't like they could go to a regular doctor when something broke down and she had always been the only one of the Project's employees who had seen them first as people and secondly as constructs built in a lab.
She'd even tried to re-socialize them once they'd returned to the base to begin their missions; the Project had initially taught them how to act human by throwing them into Basic Training with eighteen year old recruits who didn't know what was training beside them. Before Basic Training it had been labs and surgeries, and no interaction that could have been called human, at all.
The Project had only wanted them to be soldiers; Doc Martinez had seen them trying to learn how to be more, and had done what she could to encourage them. Much as he'd liked her back then, Eliot had never trusted her with his desire to learn to cook. Inside the Project there were very few chances to keep a secret, except in the barracks he and his brothers had secured for themselves. But Dr. Eidelman had never objected to Martinez talking to his creations as if they were people; only stepping in to correct her when she went too far. She'd tried to celebrate Christmas with them one year, bringing in cookies and tiny, wrapped presents. Eidelman had chided her for her misplaced emotions and dumped it all in the trash.
There was a reason why Eidelman had been the only casualty when the Project had folded, though that small incident had been the tamest of the lot.
But Doc Martinez had earned the affections of the soldiers she'd helped make, and now she also served as their only doctor, in a carefully hidden laboratory, furnished and funded by such endeavors as Eliot and his brothers could undertake. Eliot suspected he wasn't the only one to hand over a check worth millions; the truth was, parts and repair work for a half dozen biologic-machine hybrids was pretty damned expensive. The need for secrecy made it even harder, and thus more expensive. The Project had shut down due to budgetary reasons and Eliot and his brothers had been listed as de-activated and destroyed.
In reality they had snuck away, using their Project-given training and a fortuitous window in security courtesy Doc Martinez. But members of the Project were still around, many still on the government's salary and Eliot knew if any of them learned that their creations were still active, there would be hell to pay and a lot of people, Martinez included, would be in danger.
All of which meant he was cautious as he approached Doc Martinez' farm, driving straight past the long, obvious driveway that went up to her house. Instead he continued past, turning onto a small dirt track hidden among a grove of trees. It led up to the rear of a barn; the sensors recognized him as he drew near and the double doors swung open, and Eliot drove inside and parked.
He let himself through the doorway at the rear of one of the empty stalls, into a recessed storage closet. As the door slid closed, another opened and he hurried down a short flight of stairs to the lab.
Two of his brothers had built the place, digging out the over-large basement for the barn and carrying in the equipment. Eliot and the others had scattered across the globe, working whatever jobs they could to raise money to funnel back for the construction. Eliot had only been here a few times since.
He knew the place well, though, as not much had changed. New pieces of equipment here and there, but overall it was simply a large room, outfitted as an operating theatre and workshop. There was a table in the center of the room, and beside it was Doc Martinez herself.
She gave Eliot a smile as he walked in; Eliot found himself smiling back, and resisting the urge to go over and hug her.
"You know, I keep telling you boys you can visit without bleeding," she said lightly, smiling at him though her eyes flashed dark, not quite hiding her worry. She looked no older than she had the last time he'd seen her, no older, really, than the first time he'd laid eyes on the scientist who had introduced herself to him with an out-stretched hand -- the first, and for a very long time the only human to ever bother doing so. She was fifty-four, now, and Eliot wondered if she would still look the same twenty years on, with her kind, dark eyes and long, thick black hair wound up in a bun, and a wide, cheerful face that always had held a smile for him.
Eliot ducked his head, thinking of an excuse she might actually believe, but finally just settling on, "Yes, ma'am."
She patted the table and Eliot went over, pulling off his shirt and lying down on his stomach. He'd re-patched it with another clear bandage, though the skin had already begun to close. He felt her peel it off and begin checking the damage.
"Do you want to stay awake for this, or would you rather sleep?" she asked a moment later. Her hand touched his shoulder, gently. "I know you don't care for it, mi hijo, but I can run a more thorough diagnostic and do your other repairs."
"I just need that patched up," he told her. He didn't like being switched off, even when he knew he was perfectly...probably safe. It wasn't the same as shutting down at night; being switched off meant waiting for someone to switch him back on.
There was a pause, then, in a very knowing tone, she asked, "And you've done nothing at all in the last two years that might have caused any damage?"
He opened his mouth, then stopped, and glanced over his shoulder at her. "I might've," he admitted. "But nothing's been bothering me--"
"While these bruises here look fresh as this wound you're showing me, those on your leg look several days older. And the scar on your shoulder is new since last time. As is the one above your left elbow."
Eliot ducked his chin, down against the table, then looked up at her. "There might've been one or two fights." Forty-seven, precisely, as long as he didn't count the incidents which involved him hitting someone else once and taking no hits, himself.
She gave him a look like she knew the number he'd thought to himself. "So maybe I should run a full diagnostic?"
"I have to be back in Boston in the morning," he offered, as his last and only line of defense.
"I'll have you up and around in time," she said, giving his shoulder a pat. "Unless I find damage that's too extensive, but I can wake you up and let you know before I start anything that will take longer than tonight to fix."
"Thank you," Eliot said, and he rested his head back down on his arms. He felt her hand touch the back of his neck, fingers combing through his hair gently for a moment, then there was nothing.
~~~
~~~
Eliot opened his eyes slowly and saw that he was still lying on the table in the lab. It felt like he had only shut his eyes seconds before, but a quick check of his internal clock showed that it was nearly five in the morning. He shifted, making sure everything seemed fine before pushing himself off the table. His hands and feet were cold; he realized he was barefoot as the chill of the concrete floor registered. He found his boots, socks and shirt set neatly on a chair and he got dressed, then headed upstairs.
In the barn his truck was right where he'd left it; he hesitated, knowing that he could simply get in and drive back to Boston. Doc Martinez would probably be asleep now, having been up all night working on him. But instead of getting into his truck, he turned and walked out of the barn, and headed up to the house.
The house was quiet and Eliot was careful to move silently. He went into the kitchen and looked around, then gathered up a few things. He could spare an hour before he needed to leave, knowing that Nate wouldn't likely expect him to show up much before eleven. Scones and a breakfast casserole could be made quickly and left in the fridge for later.
Eliot had the casserole in the oven when he heard the stairs creak; a moment later Doc Martinez came in, wrapped in a thick terry robe over a pair of flannel pajamas.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," Eliot apologized.
"Está bien, Eliot. I was upstairs reading. I'll be up for another couple hours yet, then I'll take a nap, later." She gave him a smile, and headed over to the coffee maker. She paused, and took a sniff. "You're making breakfast! Gracias, mi hijo."
Concentrating on the dough for the scones, Eliot just shrugged. "Seemed the least I could do."
"It's too bad you can't stay long enough to make me some tamales," she said, her tone teasing.
Eliot laughed. "Next time, I promise. But I really do have to get back to Boston."
As she poured herself a cup of coffee, Doc Martinez gave him a measuring look. "Boston, mm? You're still working with Mr. Ford, I take it?"
Eliot's jaw dropped and he gaped at her. The last time he'd seen her had been three months before he'd joined Nate's team. As he stared, she smiled at him, calmly. Mentally shaking his head, Eliot sighed. "Yeah, I'm still working with them. We're in the middle of a job, that's how I got that knife wound. I couldn't exactly tell them where I was going, so I have to be back before they realize I've gone anywhere."
She sat down at the kitchen table, holding her cup in both hands, taking a moment to simply enjoy the smell of the coffee. "Two years. You must like working with them," she said, leadingly.
Ignoring the question of just how she knew, Eliot nodded. "Yeah, I do." As he finished up the scones, he started telling her about some of the jobs they'd done. He ended up sitting at the counter with a cup of coffee, telling her about the team while the casserole baked. When the oven's timer finally went off, Doc Martinez hadn't said a single word; Eliot had been talking non-stop.
He gave her an apologetic grin as he took the casserole out of the oven. "I really should be going," he said, though he found himself wondering just how early Nate might be expecting him. He knew better than to disappear in the middle of a job, though. Not just because there was work to do, but if the others did go looking for him and couldn't find him, they'd suspect Harper had done something and try to mount some kind of rescue that would probably get them into trouble and risk blowing the con.
Doc Martinez gave him a smile. "It's been good to see you, Eliot. I mean it about coming by whenever you want. Or you could invite me down to Boston, to meet these friends of yours. But call at least, once in a while?"
"I... yeah, I will," Eliot stammered, hoping he sounded convincing, and pretty sure he didn't. It was barely a four hour drive to her place, Eliot reminded himself, and he looked her in the eye. "I will," he said, meaning it this time.
Her smile widened, and he could see she was genuinely pleased to see him. She always had been, once he'd stopped dripping blood and fluids on her floor. It would be nice to come visit without spending most of the time shut down in the lab.
Eliot started gathering the dirty dishes he'd made; Doc Martinez came over and took a pan out of his hands. "You best be going, mi hijo. I can clean up. You go take care of this Harper person. You can let me know how it turns out." She looked sideways at him, then added, "And make sure you apologize to Hardison."
"I...what?" Eliot replayed what he'd said to her -- he was pretty sure he hadn't said anything about the hockey game, certainly hadn't told her how he felt about turning him down.
"Judging by the way you kept mentioning his name and looking guilty whenever you did, I'd say you two had a fight, or you did something you regret," she said. "So you should apologize."
"But I can't." He didn't think he had to tell her why. If anyone knew exactly what he was, it was the lady who'd had her hands in his guts just hours ago.
She gave him a sharp look. "Why not?"
"Because..." Eliot waved, vaguely, at his body. "He.. I can't...He wouldn't-- There's no point."
Her stern expression suddenly melted away, and she shook her head, eyes full of pity. "Oh, mi hijo," she whispered, and she reached over, cupping his cheek with her hand. "I didn't realize. Tú lo amas."
"I don't--" Eliot began, then looked away. Suddenly she stepped close, wrapping her arms around him in a hug. He stood frozen, feeling awkward and unsteady. He had to force one arm up, to wrap around her waist, and for a long moment he simply stood there. When he finally stepped away, he couldn't quite look up at her.
"Lo siento," she whispered, and she gripped his hand, tightly. "I'm sorry, I wish...." She shook her head. "Remember to call me," she said in a more normal tone.
"I will," Eliot promised, knowing that he would -- once, at least. Let her know about Harper, and maybe he would make sure not to mention Hardison at all. "Thank you," he told her, and she gave him another smile.
"Take care of yourself," she said, then gave him another quick hug.
When Eliot left, he found it difficult not to turn back and go inside.
~~~
He stopped by his place on the way back into Boston, showering and changing clothes before grabbing his bike and heading for Nate's place. He felt a lot better than he had, not just the absence of pain from the knife wound, but the little clicks and whirrs of other injuries he'd grown used to had been tracked down and repaired.
The diagnostic report Doc Martinez had filed in his log listed each repair she'd made. They were mostly minor, but the snapped support strut in his ankle had been fixed. The bone had been fine, so he'd never thought much of it, though he definitely appreciated the repair, now. He could move his ankle without pain, had even regained complete range of motion.
There was a notation in the log about how he might have got it repaired sooner instead of limping for six months, and if he ever did that sort of thing in the future there was going to be a lecture and possibly disciplinary yard work involved. It made him smile -- then made him feel guilty all over again. He told himself he would call her once the current job was done, and try to call her a couple times a year, at least, just to let her know how things were going.
It was nearly noon before he got to Nate's place, where he grabbed a coffee from the stand next door. When he let himself into Nate's condo he found the entire team already there. As he walked in, they all turned and stared at him.
Eliot stopped. He'd checked his voicemail at the house and he hadn't missed any messages. But the looks he was getting made him think they'd been trying to find him for awhile. "What's going on?" he asked, carefully. They didn't look frantic or relieved, like they thought he'd been captured by Harper's goons. But they definitely weren't happy.
"Not a thing," Nate said, breezily. His tone made Eliot's instincts stand on edge, and he tensed. Nate looked at him sharply and asked, "How are you? Everything OK?"
Narrowing his eyes, Eliot looked at him. As far as they knew he'd been home; they hadn't tried to reach him, so they wouldn't know he'd been gone. Shouldn't know anything other than he'd been home all night. "Everything's fine," he began, giving Nate a suspicious look.
"And how is Dr. Martinez?" asked Hardison, and Eliot's coffee slid from his hand, hitting the floor with a crash.
Eliot stared at Hardison, who was looking back at him, challenging and knowing. Distantly, Eliot noticed his blood pressure had dropped, knew his face would be pale and how the hell had they learned her name? "What?" he managed, wondering if maybe he was still shut down on the Doc's table, and she'd finally given him the ability to dream.
"Saw your truck headed west," Hardison said, clicking the remote to make the computer screens behind him come to life. There was a shot from a traffic camera, then another, clearly showing his route to upstate New York.
"But how do you--" Eliot began, and he couldn't say it. How they could know about the Doc, and not know about him, he wasn't sure. He could barely think, could barely drag his eyes from the picture of his truck on the highway. His profile was slightly shadowed, but it was unmistakably him.
Nate stepped forward, crossing his arms. "Eliot, if you're injured, we have to know--"
"What?" Eliot snapped his head towards him. They knew who Doc Martinez was, but worse, they knew why he would be going to her. He took a step backwards, heart pounding and the maps of the building, maps of the city flashed through his mind. Escape routes, out of there and away; two routes highlighted as more preferable destinations. He didn't follow the logic trail to see where he would end up going, just noted them each in case....
Nate was looking at him, annoyed, but concerned. "If you're injured badly enough you need to see Dr. Martinez, I need to know. I can't run this team if I don't know when one of you is hurt."
"Besides, Eliot, we're your friends," Sophie said, her tone soothing, and totally lacking the false quality she used on marks. Eliot looked at her, trying to judge just what it was they thought they knew. They couldn't know, not unless they'd somehow figured it out overnight in which case there would be a lot more questions, and a lot more shouting. Not this strong, direct, but calm glare he was getting now.
Trying desperately to regroup, Eliot tried just glaring back. "It wasn't-- I'm fine."
"So you decided to make a social call in the middle of the night?" Hardison asked. "Or are you just saying she was able to fix you up?"
Eliot glared at him hard as he could to hide the fact he wanted to run. He could feel himself trembling, jerked his muscles still and forced himself to take a deep breath. "I don't know what the fuck you're talking about," he ground out, and even if he didn't have to run right that moment -- he definitely needed to be gone. He could be out of the country by tonight, leave the fucking house and bike and everything behind. How the hell he'd let himself get seduced into working on a team for so long....
"Hardison showed us your files," Parker said, quietly, not moving from where she stood, behind the others. She looked at him, uncertainly.
Eliot had to lock his knees to keep from leaping forward. His fingers clenched as they twitched, over the couch, left hand on her throat, tighten, turn, drop the dead body. It was impossible that what she was saying was true, impossible that they would be so calm about it if they really knew. He tensed, tightening his grip on himself, because safer as it was he couldn't let himself give in to the instinct. Kill them and run.
Off to one side, Hardison just shrugged. "Before that first job, I looked all y'all up," he began, giving each of them a bashful smile. "Wanted to know who I was working with. Yours took a little more digging," he said, turning back at Eliot. "When we started working together, I figured I better show your files to Nate. You know, just in case. He told Parker and Sophie about--"
Eliot gaped at him. "The first job?"
Hardison paused, mouth still open, then he nodded, slowly. "Yeah, man. The job on Dubenich. When he first hired me, before we decided to make this thing a real gig."
"You're lying."
At that, Hardison glared at him, then said, slowly, "Right before our first job, I looked up each of your files. Yours said you didn't exist before 1998, so I did a little digging. It took a lot of digging, but I found the Eidelman Project."
Eliot felt something stab through him at the sound of the name on Hardison's lips. "You can't have," he said, weakly, and his head was spinning.
"Why not? I'm the best hacker in the world, baby, ain't nothing they can hide from me forever." Hardison grinned smugly, buffing his fingernails on his shirt.
"Because you...you're acting like.. you can't possibly know what you're talking about."
"Why? Because it's a big hush-hush secret government project?" Hardison asked with disdain. "Did I not just say I was the best in the world?"
"Because you're fucking treating me like I'm normal!" Eliot shouted. Then he shut his eyes briefly, despite how bad a tactical move it could be. He forced himself to look at them, afraid to find out they hadn't known and he had just blown everything.
Maybe he could still talk his way out of this. Maybe he could still leave.
"No, we treat you like you're Eliot," Nate said. "Just like we treat Parker like she's Parker, and she's definitely not normal. No offense, Parker."
Parker gave Nate a happy smile, then gave Eliot a thumbs up, mouthing to him, "She's crazy as a loon!"
"At least she's--" Eliot ground out, then stopped himself just in time.
"Blonde?" Hardison offered, then he subsided a little when Eliot just glared at him. "All right, fine. We all know that you were designed by the Eidelman Project to be a super-bad cybernetic soldier. Is that what you're trying not to say out loud?"
Eliot crossed his arms in front of him, knowing how much of his body language they would be reading. They would know too much -- they already knew too much. They really had seen his files, they knew what he was.
Something clicked, and he replayed Nate's comment when he'd come in. He'd been pissed because Eliot hadn't given him a sit-rep about his injury. They'd known what he was for nearly two years and had never, in all that time, once mentioned it. They'd treated him like he was just another member of the team. Like he was human.
He looked at them, bleakly. "I'm not human," he said, feeling his throat try to close up. Words he'd never said out loud before, he wanted to wrench them out and undo them, make none of this real.
"Technically, you're a cyborg," Hardison said. "72% human DNA, 23% cybernetics, 5% shark DNA which, man, is just damn cool."
"I know how they fucking made me," Eliot snapped.
For a moment, Hardison simply looked at him, expression never wavering. Then he lifted the remote again, clicking over his shoulder at the screens behind him. The picture of Eliot in his truck vanished, replaced by a series of articles and websites. "One of the leading fields in medical prothesis is the development of robotic limbs, which can take signals directly from the brain to direct movement. Additionally, advances made in pacemaker technology as well as insulin pumps are making such devices more efficient and accurate, due to the computer chips controlling them. Cochlear implants, similar to the design of the earbuds y'all wear, are a cybernetic technology--"
"What's your point?" Eliot interrupted, though he had a feeling he knew what Hardison was going to say. Some of Doc Martinez' own work had 'mysteriously' found its way into a lab in the UK, and was being used to help rehabilitate patients.
Hardison rolled his eyes, briefly. "My point is that there are cyborgs everywhere, from deaf kids to soldiers with their limbs blown off, to people who've been paralyzed and can't speak or move but can communicate with their families with the help of a neurological implant called a BCI." He clicked off the screens, and frowned sternly. "My point is that if you get hurt and need a doctor you don't need to sneak off in the middle of a job without telling us."
Parker asked, "I thought that was Nate's point?"
Hardison glanced back at her without any trace of anger and he said, "I'm borrowing it."
"Oh." Parker nodded.
"Eliot?" Nate asked, and Eliot braced himself. But Nate just nodded towards the floor. "Don't forget to clean that up, will you?"
Nate wandered away, then, heading over to the couch and sitting down in front of his laptop. Parker looked at Eliot for another moment, then went over to sit on the couch beside Nate, putting her feet up and wrapping her arms around her knees as she stared at the screen while he typed. Sophie walked into the kitchen, and Hardison just stayed where he was, watching Eliot.
Eliot looked down at the coffee he'd dropped. He shook himself to go get a rag or something, then looked up, confused, as Sophie came over holding a towel. "Here," she said, handing it out, making no further comment other than giving him a smile.
"Thanks." Eliot took it and crouched down, sopping up the spilled coffee. The polished wooden floor wouldn't stain at least, but he was annoyed because the barrista had finally made his coffee exactly the way he liked it. He didn't think he could tempt fate by going down and buying another one -- though it would at least give him an excuse to get out of there.
He didn't flinch much when Hardison sat down on the floor beside him. "Seriously, man, you all right?"
Eliot nodded. "I'm fine." He glanced up, then reluctantly admitted, "It was just a knife wound. Severed a piece of--" He stopped, not wanting to say it out loud. Wiring, and tubing of lubricant that connected to his hips. He would have lost mobility in his legs eventually if the lubricant had all leaked out, but there was no serious damage done.
But Hardison just nodded. "That's the real reason you didn't wanna spend the evening following Harper's goons around?"
Again, realization slammed into him, and Eliot rocked back on his heels and stared at Hardison. "You've really known? All this time?"
"Yeah, man. I've really known." He looked over, and all the bluster was gone, just the same comfortable camaraderie that made him easy enough to work with when he wasn't talking mile-a-minute about crap Eliot had never heard of.
"But you... asked me out. To the game."
Hardison frowned, glancing away before looking back. "Look, I just thought...I mean, you seem interested sometimes, and I just figured--"
"But you know that I'm not human."
"Bullshit, man. We just had that conversation. Cyborgs are human, just..." He waved a hand. "With additional components." He tilted his head, clearly waiting for further argument, then his eyes widened. "Is that the reason you turned me down?"
Eliot felt himself blush, and ducked his head.
"Seriously? So the answer is really yes, you were just freaking out?"
"No, the answer was--" Eliot stopped. He swallowed, and thought about it. Hadn't he wanted to say yes? If he'd been human, he would have. But he'd always known he couldn't, because of what he was -- only Hardison knew, they all knew, and for some reason they didn't seem to think he was a freak.
Compared to Parker, at least, which was saying something. Or possibly saying nothing. Was being a machine worse than twenty pounds of crazy shoved in a five pound bag? He looked down at the coffee-stained towel he was holding in his hands. "I--"
Hardison leaned closer. "Did they not give you a..." He waved his fingers downwards, towards Eliot's crotch.
Eliot blinked, then realized what he was asking and growled. "Of course they-- I'm not a eunuch, Hardison. I'm just--" Just what? It was really fucking hard to think clearly with Hardison sitting right there, treating him like he had all along, like he was part of their team and a friend, and...human. He still wanted to beat the shit out of someone, and if Hardison kept pushing it, he was going to be the first candidate.
"So you've had sex before," Hardison said, and Eliot narrowed his eyes.
"Yes, I've had sex before." Hardison was about ten seconds away from getting his arms ripped off and his larynx crushed.
"With a guy?"
"We were talking about going to a hockey game, not inviting you over to spend the night," Eliot reminded him.
And Hardison just blinked at him in surprise. "Oh, so you've never dated before."
Instead of beating Hardison senseless, Eliot twisted the towel, nearly tearing it in half. "Why are we having this conversation?"
"Because, man, I still wanna go out with you, but I need to know where we stand. And you're gonna hurt Nate's towel if you keep doing that."
"I'm gonna be hurting you in a second if you don't stop."
"Have you ever gone on a date? I mean a real one, not part of a con?"
Gritting his teeth, Eliot said, "I have dated, and yes, I have done the whole routine from dinner and movie and sex and breakfast the next morning and before you ask yes, I've slept with guys before as well as women so what is your fucking problem?"
Hardison raised an eyebrow. "I'm trying to figure out what your problem is. I mention sex and a hockey game and you act like I'm asking you to move in with me." He glanced down at Eliot's hands. "You ever been on a second date?"
Eliot threw the towel down and stood up. Hardison got to his feet as well, and put a hand on Eliot's arm. Eliot flinched, stopping himself from knocking Hardison's hand away -- possibly breaking it in the process.
Hardison stepped closer, and spoke quietly -- though Eliot knew the others could hear every word, and wouldn't even be pretending not to be listening in. "You ever been in love before?"
Eliot glared, but he didn't answer. He didn't try to move away, either, because between Hardison and Doc Martinez, he was beginning to feel exhausted. Cornered, as well, and as much as he wanted to fight his way out, he didn't honestly want to hurt Hardison.
He wanted to go to a hockey game, wanted to have dinner and a few beers and listen to the man talk about TV shows and movies he'd never heard of, and try to guess the origins of the names he used for their fake badges. He wanted to argue with him, knowing that it didn't mean anything more than what it was, knowing that it was just a game and the second they stopped the animosity would be gone.
"I've been on a second date a couple of times," he said, trying to sound like he wasn't shaking inside.
Hardison smiled at him. He took a step forward and Eliot took one step back, then another and his back slammed up against the door. Hardison just advanced again, then he put his hand on Eliot's face before leaning in and kissing him. Eliot stood still, letting him, trying to kick his brain into some kind of gear where any of this made sense.
Mostly, though, he noticed that Hardison was kissing him.
A moment later Parker said, "I stole some tickets for you."
Eliot broke away from Hardison's kiss and looked at her. He'd heard her walking over, but Hardison clearly hadn't, judging by the way he'd jumped when she'd spoken. Eliot wondered if he should point out the barely-muffled high-pitched squeak Hardison had made. Probably, but perhaps not right that moment.
Parker was holding out a couple of tickets; Eliot reached over and took them. "Game three is in Vancouver," she said, excitedly. "But game four is here in Boston so I stole you tickets. Sophie said you'd have made up by Friday, which is when the game is. And she said if you hadn't, then I could go to the game with Nate."
"These are good tickets," Eliot said, then glanced sharply at her. "Parker, you stole these from someone who's looking forward to the game. Normally I wouldn't care, but these are the playoffs. You can't--"
"Oh, it's OK. Nate made me steal them from a scalper." She paused, then smiled. "I stole more than two." Her grin widened, turning decidedly mischievous.
Hardison looked from her to Eliot. "Do you think we should ask what she did with the other tickets?"
Eliot shook his head. "I don't wanna know."
"Then maybe we can get back to what we were doing?" Hardison pressed in closer, slipping his hands onto Eliot's hips.
"Or, here's a thought," Nate said from the couch. "We could do something about this guy named Harper, whom we promised our client we would take care of?"
Hardison thought about it, then shook his head. "I like my plan better."
Eliot didn't tell him to duck when Nate threw the couch pillow towards his head. As Hardison sputtered and turned an accusatory glare at him, Eliot just shrugged. "You need to work on your reflexes."
Inside, his heart was still pounding. It was still possible he was dreaming, or that Doc Martinez had tried again to develop an anesthetic for them and it had a lingering side-effect of inducing hallucinations. He looked around the room, still pressed against the door with Hardison's hands on him and his body leaning up against his own. Nate, Sophie and Parker all looked like nothing strange was happening. Stranger than normal.
When he turned back to Hardison, he saw a quiet look in the other man's eyes that made Eliot wonder if maybe he understood. Eliot opened his mouth, then closed it again when he realized there was nothing he could say.
Hardison gave him a soft smile, then pressed a soft kiss to Eliot's lips. Then he asked, "Did you say you make breakfast the morning after?"
Eliot just scowled, which for some reason got him kissed again.
Continue to Part Four
A quick look at his back showed Eliot that it was, indeed, a knife wound. Juggling the extendable handheld mirror, he quickly determined he simply couldn't see anything more than the surface of the wound. Sighing, Eliot conceded that he was going to need help with this one.
Luckily, Doc Martinez was just over in upstate New York, close enough that Eliot could drive there tonight. He would have to take his truck -- riding his bike would be faster, but excruciatingly more painful. He'd done similar before when there was no choice; given the option he would opt for less pain and more comfort.
Before he left he sent her a message; no point in making the drive if she was unavailable. But within a few minutes she sent a response back: I'll be here. So Eliot locked up his house and drove west -- the very house he'd argued with himself about buying, telling himself it was absurd and a waste before finally relenting to the shaky logic that a house would offer him more privacy and it certainly wasn't like he couldn't afford it. Even with only a third of the money left from the check Hardison had handed him after that first job, there was more than enough for a house in Brighton.
The bulk of his money had gone directly to Doc Martinez. When the Project closed down she had taken what she could -- and what Eliot and his brothers had smuggled out -- and set up shop for them. It wasn't like they could go to a regular doctor when something broke down and she had always been the only one of the Project's employees who had seen them first as people and secondly as constructs built in a lab.
She'd even tried to re-socialize them once they'd returned to the base to begin their missions; the Project had initially taught them how to act human by throwing them into Basic Training with eighteen year old recruits who didn't know what was training beside them. Before Basic Training it had been labs and surgeries, and no interaction that could have been called human, at all.
The Project had only wanted them to be soldiers; Doc Martinez had seen them trying to learn how to be more, and had done what she could to encourage them. Much as he'd liked her back then, Eliot had never trusted her with his desire to learn to cook. Inside the Project there were very few chances to keep a secret, except in the barracks he and his brothers had secured for themselves. But Dr. Eidelman had never objected to Martinez talking to his creations as if they were people; only stepping in to correct her when she went too far. She'd tried to celebrate Christmas with them one year, bringing in cookies and tiny, wrapped presents. Eidelman had chided her for her misplaced emotions and dumped it all in the trash.
There was a reason why Eidelman had been the only casualty when the Project had folded, though that small incident had been the tamest of the lot.
But Doc Martinez had earned the affections of the soldiers she'd helped make, and now she also served as their only doctor, in a carefully hidden laboratory, furnished and funded by such endeavors as Eliot and his brothers could undertake. Eliot suspected he wasn't the only one to hand over a check worth millions; the truth was, parts and repair work for a half dozen biologic-machine hybrids was pretty damned expensive. The need for secrecy made it even harder, and thus more expensive. The Project had shut down due to budgetary reasons and Eliot and his brothers had been listed as de-activated and destroyed.
In reality they had snuck away, using their Project-given training and a fortuitous window in security courtesy Doc Martinez. But members of the Project were still around, many still on the government's salary and Eliot knew if any of them learned that their creations were still active, there would be hell to pay and a lot of people, Martinez included, would be in danger.
All of which meant he was cautious as he approached Doc Martinez' farm, driving straight past the long, obvious driveway that went up to her house. Instead he continued past, turning onto a small dirt track hidden among a grove of trees. It led up to the rear of a barn; the sensors recognized him as he drew near and the double doors swung open, and Eliot drove inside and parked.
He let himself through the doorway at the rear of one of the empty stalls, into a recessed storage closet. As the door slid closed, another opened and he hurried down a short flight of stairs to the lab.
Two of his brothers had built the place, digging out the over-large basement for the barn and carrying in the equipment. Eliot and the others had scattered across the globe, working whatever jobs they could to raise money to funnel back for the construction. Eliot had only been here a few times since.
He knew the place well, though, as not much had changed. New pieces of equipment here and there, but overall it was simply a large room, outfitted as an operating theatre and workshop. There was a table in the center of the room, and beside it was Doc Martinez herself.
She gave Eliot a smile as he walked in; Eliot found himself smiling back, and resisting the urge to go over and hug her.
"You know, I keep telling you boys you can visit without bleeding," she said lightly, smiling at him though her eyes flashed dark, not quite hiding her worry. She looked no older than she had the last time he'd seen her, no older, really, than the first time he'd laid eyes on the scientist who had introduced herself to him with an out-stretched hand -- the first, and for a very long time the only human to ever bother doing so. She was fifty-four, now, and Eliot wondered if she would still look the same twenty years on, with her kind, dark eyes and long, thick black hair wound up in a bun, and a wide, cheerful face that always had held a smile for him.
Eliot ducked his head, thinking of an excuse she might actually believe, but finally just settling on, "Yes, ma'am."
She patted the table and Eliot went over, pulling off his shirt and lying down on his stomach. He'd re-patched it with another clear bandage, though the skin had already begun to close. He felt her peel it off and begin checking the damage.
"Do you want to stay awake for this, or would you rather sleep?" she asked a moment later. Her hand touched his shoulder, gently. "I know you don't care for it, mi hijo, but I can run a more thorough diagnostic and do your other repairs."
"I just need that patched up," he told her. He didn't like being switched off, even when he knew he was perfectly...probably safe. It wasn't the same as shutting down at night; being switched off meant waiting for someone to switch him back on.
There was a pause, then, in a very knowing tone, she asked, "And you've done nothing at all in the last two years that might have caused any damage?"
He opened his mouth, then stopped, and glanced over his shoulder at her. "I might've," he admitted. "But nothing's been bothering me--"
"While these bruises here look fresh as this wound you're showing me, those on your leg look several days older. And the scar on your shoulder is new since last time. As is the one above your left elbow."
Eliot ducked his chin, down against the table, then looked up at her. "There might've been one or two fights." Forty-seven, precisely, as long as he didn't count the incidents which involved him hitting someone else once and taking no hits, himself.
She gave him a look like she knew the number he'd thought to himself. "So maybe I should run a full diagnostic?"
"I have to be back in Boston in the morning," he offered, as his last and only line of defense.
"I'll have you up and around in time," she said, giving his shoulder a pat. "Unless I find damage that's too extensive, but I can wake you up and let you know before I start anything that will take longer than tonight to fix."
"Thank you," Eliot said, and he rested his head back down on his arms. He felt her hand touch the back of his neck, fingers combing through his hair gently for a moment, then there was nothing.
~~~
EidelmanOS version 2.1.3 (C) 2000 EIDELMAN PROJECT United States Executive Branch
ELECTRUM SELACHIMORPHA BIOS REVISION 2.1.3
ES-6 SYSTEM BOOT
Initializing CPU subsys syntheticgrid
Syntheticgrid firewall established
Initializing Biologic Interface System
BIOS Cranial Interface Established
Initializing Communications Node
Receiver/Transmitter Functioning Normally
Network Connection Activated
Reading Diagnostic System ES-6 Node 5
Diagnostic Reads Normal
Electrum Selachimorpha Unit 6 Online
Software Update 2.1.3 Installed
Error Log: CYM Maintain More Regular Contact With Support
~~~
Eliot opened his eyes slowly and saw that he was still lying on the table in the lab. It felt like he had only shut his eyes seconds before, but a quick check of his internal clock showed that it was nearly five in the morning. He shifted, making sure everything seemed fine before pushing himself off the table. His hands and feet were cold; he realized he was barefoot as the chill of the concrete floor registered. He found his boots, socks and shirt set neatly on a chair and he got dressed, then headed upstairs.
In the barn his truck was right where he'd left it; he hesitated, knowing that he could simply get in and drive back to Boston. Doc Martinez would probably be asleep now, having been up all night working on him. But instead of getting into his truck, he turned and walked out of the barn, and headed up to the house.
The house was quiet and Eliot was careful to move silently. He went into the kitchen and looked around, then gathered up a few things. He could spare an hour before he needed to leave, knowing that Nate wouldn't likely expect him to show up much before eleven. Scones and a breakfast casserole could be made quickly and left in the fridge for later.
Eliot had the casserole in the oven when he heard the stairs creak; a moment later Doc Martinez came in, wrapped in a thick terry robe over a pair of flannel pajamas.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," Eliot apologized.
"Está bien, Eliot. I was upstairs reading. I'll be up for another couple hours yet, then I'll take a nap, later." She gave him a smile, and headed over to the coffee maker. She paused, and took a sniff. "You're making breakfast! Gracias, mi hijo."
Concentrating on the dough for the scones, Eliot just shrugged. "Seemed the least I could do."
"It's too bad you can't stay long enough to make me some tamales," she said, her tone teasing.
Eliot laughed. "Next time, I promise. But I really do have to get back to Boston."
As she poured herself a cup of coffee, Doc Martinez gave him a measuring look. "Boston, mm? You're still working with Mr. Ford, I take it?"
Eliot's jaw dropped and he gaped at her. The last time he'd seen her had been three months before he'd joined Nate's team. As he stared, she smiled at him, calmly. Mentally shaking his head, Eliot sighed. "Yeah, I'm still working with them. We're in the middle of a job, that's how I got that knife wound. I couldn't exactly tell them where I was going, so I have to be back before they realize I've gone anywhere."
She sat down at the kitchen table, holding her cup in both hands, taking a moment to simply enjoy the smell of the coffee. "Two years. You must like working with them," she said, leadingly.
Ignoring the question of just how she knew, Eliot nodded. "Yeah, I do." As he finished up the scones, he started telling her about some of the jobs they'd done. He ended up sitting at the counter with a cup of coffee, telling her about the team while the casserole baked. When the oven's timer finally went off, Doc Martinez hadn't said a single word; Eliot had been talking non-stop.
He gave her an apologetic grin as he took the casserole out of the oven. "I really should be going," he said, though he found himself wondering just how early Nate might be expecting him. He knew better than to disappear in the middle of a job, though. Not just because there was work to do, but if the others did go looking for him and couldn't find him, they'd suspect Harper had done something and try to mount some kind of rescue that would probably get them into trouble and risk blowing the con.
Doc Martinez gave him a smile. "It's been good to see you, Eliot. I mean it about coming by whenever you want. Or you could invite me down to Boston, to meet these friends of yours. But call at least, once in a while?"
"I... yeah, I will," Eliot stammered, hoping he sounded convincing, and pretty sure he didn't. It was barely a four hour drive to her place, Eliot reminded himself, and he looked her in the eye. "I will," he said, meaning it this time.
Her smile widened, and he could see she was genuinely pleased to see him. She always had been, once he'd stopped dripping blood and fluids on her floor. It would be nice to come visit without spending most of the time shut down in the lab.
Eliot started gathering the dirty dishes he'd made; Doc Martinez came over and took a pan out of his hands. "You best be going, mi hijo. I can clean up. You go take care of this Harper person. You can let me know how it turns out." She looked sideways at him, then added, "And make sure you apologize to Hardison."
"I...what?" Eliot replayed what he'd said to her -- he was pretty sure he hadn't said anything about the hockey game, certainly hadn't told her how he felt about turning him down.
"Judging by the way you kept mentioning his name and looking guilty whenever you did, I'd say you two had a fight, or you did something you regret," she said. "So you should apologize."
"But I can't." He didn't think he had to tell her why. If anyone knew exactly what he was, it was the lady who'd had her hands in his guts just hours ago.
She gave him a sharp look. "Why not?"
"Because..." Eliot waved, vaguely, at his body. "He.. I can't...He wouldn't-- There's no point."
Her stern expression suddenly melted away, and she shook her head, eyes full of pity. "Oh, mi hijo," she whispered, and she reached over, cupping his cheek with her hand. "I didn't realize. Tú lo amas."
"I don't--" Eliot began, then looked away. Suddenly she stepped close, wrapping her arms around him in a hug. He stood frozen, feeling awkward and unsteady. He had to force one arm up, to wrap around her waist, and for a long moment he simply stood there. When he finally stepped away, he couldn't quite look up at her.
"Lo siento," she whispered, and she gripped his hand, tightly. "I'm sorry, I wish...." She shook her head. "Remember to call me," she said in a more normal tone.
"I will," Eliot promised, knowing that he would -- once, at least. Let her know about Harper, and maybe he would make sure not to mention Hardison at all. "Thank you," he told her, and she gave him another smile.
"Take care of yourself," she said, then gave him another quick hug.
When Eliot left, he found it difficult not to turn back and go inside.
~~~
He stopped by his place on the way back into Boston, showering and changing clothes before grabbing his bike and heading for Nate's place. He felt a lot better than he had, not just the absence of pain from the knife wound, but the little clicks and whirrs of other injuries he'd grown used to had been tracked down and repaired.
The diagnostic report Doc Martinez had filed in his log listed each repair she'd made. They were mostly minor, but the snapped support strut in his ankle had been fixed. The bone had been fine, so he'd never thought much of it, though he definitely appreciated the repair, now. He could move his ankle without pain, had even regained complete range of motion.
There was a notation in the log about how he might have got it repaired sooner instead of limping for six months, and if he ever did that sort of thing in the future there was going to be a lecture and possibly disciplinary yard work involved. It made him smile -- then made him feel guilty all over again. He told himself he would call her once the current job was done, and try to call her a couple times a year, at least, just to let her know how things were going.
It was nearly noon before he got to Nate's place, where he grabbed a coffee from the stand next door. When he let himself into Nate's condo he found the entire team already there. As he walked in, they all turned and stared at him.
Eliot stopped. He'd checked his voicemail at the house and he hadn't missed any messages. But the looks he was getting made him think they'd been trying to find him for awhile. "What's going on?" he asked, carefully. They didn't look frantic or relieved, like they thought he'd been captured by Harper's goons. But they definitely weren't happy.
"Not a thing," Nate said, breezily. His tone made Eliot's instincts stand on edge, and he tensed. Nate looked at him sharply and asked, "How are you? Everything OK?"
Narrowing his eyes, Eliot looked at him. As far as they knew he'd been home; they hadn't tried to reach him, so they wouldn't know he'd been gone. Shouldn't know anything other than he'd been home all night. "Everything's fine," he began, giving Nate a suspicious look.
"And how is Dr. Martinez?" asked Hardison, and Eliot's coffee slid from his hand, hitting the floor with a crash.
Eliot stared at Hardison, who was looking back at him, challenging and knowing. Distantly, Eliot noticed his blood pressure had dropped, knew his face would be pale and how the hell had they learned her name? "What?" he managed, wondering if maybe he was still shut down on the Doc's table, and she'd finally given him the ability to dream.
"Saw your truck headed west," Hardison said, clicking the remote to make the computer screens behind him come to life. There was a shot from a traffic camera, then another, clearly showing his route to upstate New York.
"But how do you--" Eliot began, and he couldn't say it. How they could know about the Doc, and not know about him, he wasn't sure. He could barely think, could barely drag his eyes from the picture of his truck on the highway. His profile was slightly shadowed, but it was unmistakably him.
Nate stepped forward, crossing his arms. "Eliot, if you're injured, we have to know--"
"What?" Eliot snapped his head towards him. They knew who Doc Martinez was, but worse, they knew why he would be going to her. He took a step backwards, heart pounding and the maps of the building, maps of the city flashed through his mind. Escape routes, out of there and away; two routes highlighted as more preferable destinations. He didn't follow the logic trail to see where he would end up going, just noted them each in case....
Nate was looking at him, annoyed, but concerned. "If you're injured badly enough you need to see Dr. Martinez, I need to know. I can't run this team if I don't know when one of you is hurt."
"Besides, Eliot, we're your friends," Sophie said, her tone soothing, and totally lacking the false quality she used on marks. Eliot looked at her, trying to judge just what it was they thought they knew. They couldn't know, not unless they'd somehow figured it out overnight in which case there would be a lot more questions, and a lot more shouting. Not this strong, direct, but calm glare he was getting now.
Trying desperately to regroup, Eliot tried just glaring back. "It wasn't-- I'm fine."
"So you decided to make a social call in the middle of the night?" Hardison asked. "Or are you just saying she was able to fix you up?"
Eliot glared at him hard as he could to hide the fact he wanted to run. He could feel himself trembling, jerked his muscles still and forced himself to take a deep breath. "I don't know what the fuck you're talking about," he ground out, and even if he didn't have to run right that moment -- he definitely needed to be gone. He could be out of the country by tonight, leave the fucking house and bike and everything behind. How the hell he'd let himself get seduced into working on a team for so long....
"Hardison showed us your files," Parker said, quietly, not moving from where she stood, behind the others. She looked at him, uncertainly.
Eliot had to lock his knees to keep from leaping forward. His fingers clenched as they twitched, over the couch, left hand on her throat, tighten, turn, drop the dead body. It was impossible that what she was saying was true, impossible that they would be so calm about it if they really knew. He tensed, tightening his grip on himself, because safer as it was he couldn't let himself give in to the instinct. Kill them and run.
Off to one side, Hardison just shrugged. "Before that first job, I looked all y'all up," he began, giving each of them a bashful smile. "Wanted to know who I was working with. Yours took a little more digging," he said, turning back at Eliot. "When we started working together, I figured I better show your files to Nate. You know, just in case. He told Parker and Sophie about--"
Eliot gaped at him. "The first job?"
Hardison paused, mouth still open, then he nodded, slowly. "Yeah, man. The job on Dubenich. When he first hired me, before we decided to make this thing a real gig."
"You're lying."
At that, Hardison glared at him, then said, slowly, "Right before our first job, I looked up each of your files. Yours said you didn't exist before 1998, so I did a little digging. It took a lot of digging, but I found the Eidelman Project."
Eliot felt something stab through him at the sound of the name on Hardison's lips. "You can't have," he said, weakly, and his head was spinning.
"Why not? I'm the best hacker in the world, baby, ain't nothing they can hide from me forever." Hardison grinned smugly, buffing his fingernails on his shirt.
"Because you...you're acting like.. you can't possibly know what you're talking about."
"Why? Because it's a big hush-hush secret government project?" Hardison asked with disdain. "Did I not just say I was the best in the world?"
"Because you're fucking treating me like I'm normal!" Eliot shouted. Then he shut his eyes briefly, despite how bad a tactical move it could be. He forced himself to look at them, afraid to find out they hadn't known and he had just blown everything.
Maybe he could still talk his way out of this. Maybe he could still leave.
"No, we treat you like you're Eliot," Nate said. "Just like we treat Parker like she's Parker, and she's definitely not normal. No offense, Parker."
Parker gave Nate a happy smile, then gave Eliot a thumbs up, mouthing to him, "She's crazy as a loon!"
"At least she's--" Eliot ground out, then stopped himself just in time.
"Blonde?" Hardison offered, then he subsided a little when Eliot just glared at him. "All right, fine. We all know that you were designed by the Eidelman Project to be a super-bad cybernetic soldier. Is that what you're trying not to say out loud?"
Eliot crossed his arms in front of him, knowing how much of his body language they would be reading. They would know too much -- they already knew too much. They really had seen his files, they knew what he was.
Something clicked, and he replayed Nate's comment when he'd come in. He'd been pissed because Eliot hadn't given him a sit-rep about his injury. They'd known what he was for nearly two years and had never, in all that time, once mentioned it. They'd treated him like he was just another member of the team. Like he was human.
He looked at them, bleakly. "I'm not human," he said, feeling his throat try to close up. Words he'd never said out loud before, he wanted to wrench them out and undo them, make none of this real.
"Technically, you're a cyborg," Hardison said. "72% human DNA, 23% cybernetics, 5% shark DNA which, man, is just damn cool."
"I know how they fucking made me," Eliot snapped.
For a moment, Hardison simply looked at him, expression never wavering. Then he lifted the remote again, clicking over his shoulder at the screens behind him. The picture of Eliot in his truck vanished, replaced by a series of articles and websites. "One of the leading fields in medical prothesis is the development of robotic limbs, which can take signals directly from the brain to direct movement. Additionally, advances made in pacemaker technology as well as insulin pumps are making such devices more efficient and accurate, due to the computer chips controlling them. Cochlear implants, similar to the design of the earbuds y'all wear, are a cybernetic technology--"
"What's your point?" Eliot interrupted, though he had a feeling he knew what Hardison was going to say. Some of Doc Martinez' own work had 'mysteriously' found its way into a lab in the UK, and was being used to help rehabilitate patients.
Hardison rolled his eyes, briefly. "My point is that there are cyborgs everywhere, from deaf kids to soldiers with their limbs blown off, to people who've been paralyzed and can't speak or move but can communicate with their families with the help of a neurological implant called a BCI." He clicked off the screens, and frowned sternly. "My point is that if you get hurt and need a doctor you don't need to sneak off in the middle of a job without telling us."
Parker asked, "I thought that was Nate's point?"
Hardison glanced back at her without any trace of anger and he said, "I'm borrowing it."
"Oh." Parker nodded.
"Eliot?" Nate asked, and Eliot braced himself. But Nate just nodded towards the floor. "Don't forget to clean that up, will you?"
Nate wandered away, then, heading over to the couch and sitting down in front of his laptop. Parker looked at Eliot for another moment, then went over to sit on the couch beside Nate, putting her feet up and wrapping her arms around her knees as she stared at the screen while he typed. Sophie walked into the kitchen, and Hardison just stayed where he was, watching Eliot.
Eliot looked down at the coffee he'd dropped. He shook himself to go get a rag or something, then looked up, confused, as Sophie came over holding a towel. "Here," she said, handing it out, making no further comment other than giving him a smile.
"Thanks." Eliot took it and crouched down, sopping up the spilled coffee. The polished wooden floor wouldn't stain at least, but he was annoyed because the barrista had finally made his coffee exactly the way he liked it. He didn't think he could tempt fate by going down and buying another one -- though it would at least give him an excuse to get out of there.
He didn't flinch much when Hardison sat down on the floor beside him. "Seriously, man, you all right?"
Eliot nodded. "I'm fine." He glanced up, then reluctantly admitted, "It was just a knife wound. Severed a piece of--" He stopped, not wanting to say it out loud. Wiring, and tubing of lubricant that connected to his hips. He would have lost mobility in his legs eventually if the lubricant had all leaked out, but there was no serious damage done.
But Hardison just nodded. "That's the real reason you didn't wanna spend the evening following Harper's goons around?"
Again, realization slammed into him, and Eliot rocked back on his heels and stared at Hardison. "You've really known? All this time?"
"Yeah, man. I've really known." He looked over, and all the bluster was gone, just the same comfortable camaraderie that made him easy enough to work with when he wasn't talking mile-a-minute about crap Eliot had never heard of.
"But you... asked me out. To the game."
Hardison frowned, glancing away before looking back. "Look, I just thought...I mean, you seem interested sometimes, and I just figured--"
"But you know that I'm not human."
"Bullshit, man. We just had that conversation. Cyborgs are human, just..." He waved a hand. "With additional components." He tilted his head, clearly waiting for further argument, then his eyes widened. "Is that the reason you turned me down?"
Eliot felt himself blush, and ducked his head.
"Seriously? So the answer is really yes, you were just freaking out?"
"No, the answer was--" Eliot stopped. He swallowed, and thought about it. Hadn't he wanted to say yes? If he'd been human, he would have. But he'd always known he couldn't, because of what he was -- only Hardison knew, they all knew, and for some reason they didn't seem to think he was a freak.
Compared to Parker, at least, which was saying something. Or possibly saying nothing. Was being a machine worse than twenty pounds of crazy shoved in a five pound bag? He looked down at the coffee-stained towel he was holding in his hands. "I--"
Hardison leaned closer. "Did they not give you a..." He waved his fingers downwards, towards Eliot's crotch.
Eliot blinked, then realized what he was asking and growled. "Of course they-- I'm not a eunuch, Hardison. I'm just--" Just what? It was really fucking hard to think clearly with Hardison sitting right there, treating him like he had all along, like he was part of their team and a friend, and...human. He still wanted to beat the shit out of someone, and if Hardison kept pushing it, he was going to be the first candidate.
"So you've had sex before," Hardison said, and Eliot narrowed his eyes.
"Yes, I've had sex before." Hardison was about ten seconds away from getting his arms ripped off and his larynx crushed.
"With a guy?"
"We were talking about going to a hockey game, not inviting you over to spend the night," Eliot reminded him.
And Hardison just blinked at him in surprise. "Oh, so you've never dated before."
Instead of beating Hardison senseless, Eliot twisted the towel, nearly tearing it in half. "Why are we having this conversation?"
"Because, man, I still wanna go out with you, but I need to know where we stand. And you're gonna hurt Nate's towel if you keep doing that."
"I'm gonna be hurting you in a second if you don't stop."
"Have you ever gone on a date? I mean a real one, not part of a con?"
Gritting his teeth, Eliot said, "I have dated, and yes, I have done the whole routine from dinner and movie and sex and breakfast the next morning and before you ask yes, I've slept with guys before as well as women so what is your fucking problem?"
Hardison raised an eyebrow. "I'm trying to figure out what your problem is. I mention sex and a hockey game and you act like I'm asking you to move in with me." He glanced down at Eliot's hands. "You ever been on a second date?"
Eliot threw the towel down and stood up. Hardison got to his feet as well, and put a hand on Eliot's arm. Eliot flinched, stopping himself from knocking Hardison's hand away -- possibly breaking it in the process.
Hardison stepped closer, and spoke quietly -- though Eliot knew the others could hear every word, and wouldn't even be pretending not to be listening in. "You ever been in love before?"
Eliot glared, but he didn't answer. He didn't try to move away, either, because between Hardison and Doc Martinez, he was beginning to feel exhausted. Cornered, as well, and as much as he wanted to fight his way out, he didn't honestly want to hurt Hardison.
He wanted to go to a hockey game, wanted to have dinner and a few beers and listen to the man talk about TV shows and movies he'd never heard of, and try to guess the origins of the names he used for their fake badges. He wanted to argue with him, knowing that it didn't mean anything more than what it was, knowing that it was just a game and the second they stopped the animosity would be gone.
"I've been on a second date a couple of times," he said, trying to sound like he wasn't shaking inside.
Hardison smiled at him. He took a step forward and Eliot took one step back, then another and his back slammed up against the door. Hardison just advanced again, then he put his hand on Eliot's face before leaning in and kissing him. Eliot stood still, letting him, trying to kick his brain into some kind of gear where any of this made sense.
Mostly, though, he noticed that Hardison was kissing him.
A moment later Parker said, "I stole some tickets for you."
Eliot broke away from Hardison's kiss and looked at her. He'd heard her walking over, but Hardison clearly hadn't, judging by the way he'd jumped when she'd spoken. Eliot wondered if he should point out the barely-muffled high-pitched squeak Hardison had made. Probably, but perhaps not right that moment.
Parker was holding out a couple of tickets; Eliot reached over and took them. "Game three is in Vancouver," she said, excitedly. "But game four is here in Boston so I stole you tickets. Sophie said you'd have made up by Friday, which is when the game is. And she said if you hadn't, then I could go to the game with Nate."
"These are good tickets," Eliot said, then glanced sharply at her. "Parker, you stole these from someone who's looking forward to the game. Normally I wouldn't care, but these are the playoffs. You can't--"
"Oh, it's OK. Nate made me steal them from a scalper." She paused, then smiled. "I stole more than two." Her grin widened, turning decidedly mischievous.
Hardison looked from her to Eliot. "Do you think we should ask what she did with the other tickets?"
Eliot shook his head. "I don't wanna know."
"Then maybe we can get back to what we were doing?" Hardison pressed in closer, slipping his hands onto Eliot's hips.
"Or, here's a thought," Nate said from the couch. "We could do something about this guy named Harper, whom we promised our client we would take care of?"
Hardison thought about it, then shook his head. "I like my plan better."
Eliot didn't tell him to duck when Nate threw the couch pillow towards his head. As Hardison sputtered and turned an accusatory glare at him, Eliot just shrugged. "You need to work on your reflexes."
Inside, his heart was still pounding. It was still possible he was dreaming, or that Doc Martinez had tried again to develop an anesthetic for them and it had a lingering side-effect of inducing hallucinations. He looked around the room, still pressed against the door with Hardison's hands on him and his body leaning up against his own. Nate, Sophie and Parker all looked like nothing strange was happening. Stranger than normal.
When he turned back to Hardison, he saw a quiet look in the other man's eyes that made Eliot wonder if maybe he understood. Eliot opened his mouth, then closed it again when he realized there was nothing he could say.
Hardison gave him a soft smile, then pressed a soft kiss to Eliot's lips. Then he asked, "Did you say you make breakfast the morning after?"
Eliot just scowled, which for some reason got him kissed again.
Continue to Part Four