glorious_spoon | Hell Bent and Bound

Title: Hell Bent and Bound
Fandom: Leverage
Pairing: Eliot & Hardison
Warnings: None

Summary: There's no telling which way Hardison will jump. Coda for 'The Big Bang Job'.
Link: On AO3

He’s not that worried about the others. Nate knew him back in the day, by reputation at least, Sophie is perceptive enough to read between the lines, and Parker--well, he wouldn’t be all that surprised if Parker’s dropped a few bodies of her own. If any of them was gonna have a problem with him, they would have done it already.

Hardison’s a different story, though. In so many ways, he’s still a kid, for all his brains. Innocent, although he’d be offended as hell if anybody told him that. Eliot would bet a significant chunk of his ridiculous fortune that Hardison didn’t really know about the uglier highlights of his past until someone shoved his face in it, and now that he does there’s no telling which way he’ll jump.

He keeps telling himself he doesn’t care, but it’s hard to believe that when he’s three drinks in at the bar and hasn’t even bothered to flirt with the pretty bartender. He’s morose, though, not deaf, so he knows that Hardison has wandered up from his blind side and is hovering just out of what he thinks is Eliot’s reach (he’s underestimated by about five feet; twenty if Eliot was wearing a knife, which he’s not), shifting his weight back and forth. His sneakered feet squeak rhythmically on the stone floor.

Eliot doesn’t trust himself to turn around until he’s got his expression under control, and by then, Hardison has taken the decision out of his hands. He plops down in the next seat and signals the bartender. “Get me the most expensive champagne you have,” he says, and hooks a thumb at Eliot. “He’s paying for it.”

The bartender gives Eliot a wide-eyed look. He pinches the bridge of his nose, downs the rest of his drink, and nods. “It’s fine. Put it on my tab.”

“I’m sending you the cleaning bill for my suit, too,” Hardison adds. Eliot finally lifts his eyes from the bar and looks at him. He raises his chin, looking belligerent and very young. “You got a problem with that?”

“I’ll buy you a new suit,” Eliot says. “Since when do you drink champagne?”

“Since the guy who’s supposed to make sure I get out in one piece stood there and watched me drown in a pool,” Hardison says, and Eliot has to hand it to him: his voice doesn’t even shake. It feels like a slap in the face. “I’m turning over a new leaf.”

“Hardison—”

“Don’t even start.” The bartender sets a glass of champagne down in front of him, looks between them, and quickly backs off. Hardison spins the glass around on the coaster but doesn’t drink. “That was some bullshit, and you know it.”

Eliot sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“Excuse me?”

“What do you want me to say, Hardison?”

“I mean, ‘sorry’ is a good start,” Hardison says, and finally takes a sip of his champagne. “I just thought it would take you longer to get there.”

“I wasn’t gonna let you drown.”

“Sure seemed that way from my angle.”

“Yeah, what the hell do you think Moreau would have done if I’d jumped in there after you, huh?”

Hardison is silent for another longer moment. Finally, he sets the glass down with a wobbly clink on the bartop. Eliot catches it before it can tip over. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

“We’re talking, like, death, dismemberment, dispatched with extreme prejudice kind of deal here?”

Eliot pushes his hair out of his face, feeling suddenly and comprehensively exhausted. Sometimes--not always, but sometimes--just being around Hardison makes him feel ancient. It’s not even a logical thing; there’s maybe fifteen years between them. Maybe less. But still. “Moreau doesn’t like surprises. You were supposed to be a job, not somebody I--” Cared about, he doesn’t say. “It was a test.”

“Uh huh.” Hardison eyes him for a moment, then picks up his glass and downs most of it in a single gulp and stands. “We’re still not cool, you and me.”

“I got it.”

“Because that was a really messed up thing to do. Especially the part where you didn’t even warn me.”

“I said I got it, Hardison!”

“You know, the yelling, this whole business, it’s so, so not necessary,” Hardison says, zipping up his hoodie. He rocks on his feet for a moment, looking painfully like the kid that he isn’t, really, then adds, “I took care of the warehouse, by the way. Gang shootout, yadda yadda, nobody’s gonna be asking any questions. You oughta dump the guns if you still have ‘em, though.”

“I don’t—” Eliot swallows. Nate didn’t say anything, but Hardison is about as far from stupid as a person can get. Of course he knew. It wasn’t like Moreau was going to bother with the clean-up. “I took care of it.” And then, painfully, “Thanks.”

A corner of Hardison’s mouth tilts up, just a little. To his dying day, Eliot will deny the punch of relief that goes through him at that. “Just don’t make a habit of it, alright?”

“Believe me, I won’t,” Eliot mutters, spinning back toward the bar. He drops his elbows against the polished surface. After a moment, a warm hand clasps him briefly on the shoulder.

“See you in San Lorenzo,” Hardison says, then lets go. His soft footsteps are moving toward the doorway before Eliot can even think to respond.

He waits until Hardison is gone to signal the bartender for another round.