Stories, Stitching and more

Robin sighed contently and adjusted her legs, her Converse high up on Steve's dashboard as she reclined in her passenger seat, the back tilted back severely. She knew he hated when she did that, always going on about road safety and “I haven't survived the Demogorgon, demo-dogs and the Russian military to get taken out in a stupid accident because you can't sit like a normal human being, Rob!”

Unfortunately, it still held true that annoying Steve Harrington was one of Robin's favourite hobbies. Plus, a more recent development was that she trusted him. And he was a good driver, no matter the antics his passengers were up to. Not an insignificant skill when you're regularly overloading your car with a gaggle of very excitable teens.

Speaking of which, Robin poked her companion's arm without even looking. “Hey Dingus, you remember we need to pick the kids up?”

“Hmm?” was Steve's monosyllabic answer.

“The kids,” Robin repeated, “you know, the ones you swear you're done babysitting every second day? Never mind that we all know who's babysitting who.”

Steve didn't answer, and Robin frowned. “Hey, you OD'd over there?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he replied a moment later, “I mean, no, sorry, Robin.”

She sat up a bit, looking at him critically. “Dude, are you getting sick? You've been spacing out at work all day, too.”

Steve waved a dismissive hand. “Just feeling a bit tired, is all,” he insisted.

Robin wrinkled her nose. She hadn't expected a truthful answer – this was the guy who had insisted he was fine when the paramedics had wanted to take him to the hospital after Starcourt, despite having been beaten up, tortured and drugged by Russian soldiers. Still, she had been hoping that he would be more forthcoming at least towards her, after all they had been through together. “You up to this evening, then?”

“Of course!” Steve protested indignantly, sitting up straighter as if that helped his case. “Besides, the kids really need this, they've been so bummed since the Byers left ...”

She rolled her eyes fondly. “I'm sure we would figure something out,” she said. “You don't have to do it if you're not feeling okay.”

“I am!” he insisted. “Look, it's not a big deal, I just got some new meds, and the doc said they could make me a bit tired. Nothing more, okay?”

Robin's heart melted, and she reached out to pat his arm. “Understood, I'll stop pestering you.” It had only been after Starcourt that he had told her about the concussions he had suffered in those years fighting against the monsters she had only learned about then, though he also admitted the first one was courtesy of Jonathan Byers, and well-deserved in his own opinion. He had been very reluctant but finally admitted that ever since, he had been prone to migraines, and she finally understood why he kept wincing at the bright lights of Family Video on some days.

Steve snorted. “As if you are physically capable of that!”

She laughed and swatted his arm. “Well, about that, at least!”

They fell back into a comfortable silence, and Robin turned her head towards the car window and let him concentrate on driving for a while.

Suddenly, Steve gasped out loud, and the next moment, the car spun out of control as he jerked on the steering wheel and slammed on the brakes.

Robin grabbed onto the handle above the window and held on for dear life while the world spun around her. “Steve!” she called out fearfully. Squeezing her eyes shut, she braced herself, waiting for a crash.

It didn't come. The car rocked and teetered as if in empty air for a moment, and then it fell back on all four wheels and came to a stop, settling onto the ground with a loud groan. Silence settled over it.

Carefully, Robin opened one eye and peeked at her surroundings. The car had gone off the road and into an abandoned field, where it had finally fetched up against a huge bale of hay. Robin took a deep breath and immediately regretted it when hay dust floating in the air from the collision made it into her nose, itching until she exploded  into a sneeze.

“Ugh,” she complained as she wiped her nose on her sweater, “why did it have to be hay?” Though in all fairness, they were probably lucky that their trajectory had brought them to a comparatively soft obstacle to halt it.

“Steve?” she asked, turning towards her friend. “You okay?”

Steve was sitting stock-still, both hands still on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead. He didn't reply, and anxiety exploded in Robin's gut. “Steve?” she asked again, reaching out her hand to put on his arm, carefully, as if he was a wild animal she didn't want to spook.

He turned towards her voice and the touch but his face was strangely rigid, and his eyes looked right through  her. “Robin,” he said, his voice breathless. “Robin!” He let go of the steering wheel, and instead she suddenly had his hands in her face, patting over her cheeks and forehead, and one finger landed in her eye, ouch!

“Steve!” she called out, grabbing his hands and trying to keep a hold of them. “What's the matter?”

“I-I can't, I can't, I … I - Robin!”

“Steve, please!” Robin took a breath, trying to calm her own rabbit heart. “Calm down, okay? You're okay, I'm okay. Nothing much happened.” She hoped she wasn't lying but she felt okay, the car appeared mostly okay, as did Steve beyond his agitation.

Steve shook his head wildly, his hands still twitching and shuddering in her hold. “No!” His voice rose, almost to a wail.

“I can't see!”

Thank God for the kid's walkies and that Steve always kept his in his car, Robin thought. Thanks to that, it had actually not taken very long to rouse someone to her calls of “Code Red! Code fucking Red!”, and luckily, it had been Lucas – Robin would  never say so aloud but from all the boys, he was probably her favourite, and he had a good, sensible head in a crisis. After exchanging some information about where they had gone off the road, he had promised to send an ambulance, and Robin could already hear the sirens drawing nearer.

She squeezed Steve's hand. “Help's coming,” she said encouragingly.

Steve, reclining in his seat with his eyes closed, nodded. “My hearing is okay,” he told her but his sarcasm lacked its usual bite.

Robin shrugged, then remembered the current problem and felt a bit like an asshole. “Good thing, too,” she said aloud. “Our friendship is, like, seventy-five percent just you listening to me rambling. Can't have it crumbling because its foundation is suddenly gone, eh?”

Not her best work but what can you do.

Steve didn't reply this time, only squeezed her hand more tightly.

Robin sighed and leaned closer, pressing her shoulder against his and ignoring the way the centre console was digging into her hip. “It will be okay,” she swore. Though she didn't know if it was a good idea to make any promises, given that she had no idea what had happened to her friend's eyesight …

Another few minutes filled with silence and tension later, an ambulance came to a halt next to them, and things went from quiet to a somehow still controlled frenzy as the paramedics descended on them with helping hands and lots and lots of questions. Through it all, Robin held Steve's hand and refused to let go whenever one of the men tried to separate them. After a few tries, they finally gave up and let them both climb into the ambulance together. Steve went willingly where she directed him, far too pliable and quiet for Robin's taste. She couldn't wait to get to the hospital where, hopefully, someone would finally have some answers for them.

The someone who finally sat down opposite of them where they sat on a bed in the emergency room was a young, fresh-faced doctor. Robin was a bit wary of how young he looked but the expression on his face was warm and caring.

“I'm Doctor Haver,” he introduced himself. “You're Steven Harrington, right?” He looked down at his notes, then back up to Steve, only giving Robin a side-glance.

“Just Steve, please,” Steve replied.

“Steve. Okay then.” The doctor smiled. “Now, Miss Buckley here has been very adamant about staying with you but given the nature of medical information, I have to ask you again if you're alright with her listening to our discussion?”

Robin bristled slightly but there was no need to insist again since Steve sat up straighter and said clearly: “Of course I am. She can hear whatever you have to say to me.” More quietly, he added: “Please, I need her here.”

Robin's heart did that strange thing where it wasn't sure if it wanted to melt at his trust in her or break at the fear in his voice. She gave his hand another squeeze – it was a wonder they hadn't squashed both their hands to a pulp with the amount of clinging and squeezing they had been doing since the accident – and looked back to the doctor, willing him to finally talk.

“Alright,” the doctor said, raising his hands and this time directing his smile towards Robin. “Then let's get down to it.” He took a deep breath. “Now, all told, you've been pretty lucky with the accident. You're both bruised at the usual areas of contact with the seatbelt and where you were thrown against the car's frame, a few minor cuts but no broken bones or more severe wounds. So far, so good. However, there is the issue of the sudden loss of vision you reported ...”

Steve stiffened next to her, his breath speeding up audibly. Robin started to rub circles on the back of his hand with her thumb and whispered: “Slow and calm, Steve. Slow and calm.”

Dr Haver directed a worried glance her way and quickly continued: “We will need to do further testing, like a CT, but I actually have a theory what might be happening. I noticed on your form that you have had multiple concussions and have reported suffering from migraines?”

Steve nodded. “Yeah, that's right,” he confirmed. “But – can that happen because of a migraine?”

“Not directly,” the doctor said, “but you wrote – or rather, Miss Buckley wrote, I assume – that you had started a new medication for it recently but you didn't remember the name.”

They both nodded, and Robin tried to press the answers from him with her stare. Did he really have to recap what they both knew anyway, given that she had filled in the form and Steve had told her what to write?

“Does the name Topamax ring a bell?” Dr Haver asked.

Steve gasped. “Yes! That's the one!”

The doctor smiled. “Well then, we're coming closer to the solution. I believe that your sudden vision loss is a side-effect of this medication. It's been reported before that it can cause sudden increases in intraocular pressure, leading to trauma to the optic nerve.”

“What does that mean?” Steve burst out. “That I'm … I'm blind?!”

Dr Haver hastily raised a placatory hand but then seemed to realise how useless this was, given that Steve had kept his eyes firmly closed the whole time except for the short examination he had gone through. He dropped his hand and instead said aloud: “Steve, please stay calm. From what I've read, the effect is not permanent.”

Robin exhaled. “You couldn't have lead with that?” she asked harshly.

He gave her a contrite look. “I'm sorry. I didn't want to alarm you, Steve. As I said, it's not permanent, or at the very least, there is a good chance that it can be reversed with the right treatment.”

Steve sagged against Robin's side. “Good,” he said hoarsely, “that's good.”

The doctor smiled awkwardly and got to his feet. “I will arrange for a CT – if nothing else, we should double-check to make sure there is nothing else going on – and then we will discuss treatment options. Until then, I'll let you rest. Please let me know if I can do something for you,” he said, then turned tail and more or less fled the room.

Robin stared after him, then shook her head and huffed. “He's gonna need to work on that,” she declared to the room at large.

Turning to Steve, her face softened. He still looked awful, pale and drawn, but she could see the tension slowly leaking from his shoulders. She reached out with her free hand, cupping his cheek. “It will be okay, dingus,” she said softly. “Everything will be okay.”

There was a crack that sounded like a gunshot in the silence of the dark basement, and Hardison froze. He had half expected the slam of a bullet into his back, but Eliot was at his back, and he always had his back, so there was actually no chance of any bullet reaching him while Eliot was still standing … He cleared his throat and murmured: “El?”

A monosyllabic grunt was the only answer but Hardison was fluent in Eliot, fortunately, so he translated it to: “I'm okay, no idea what that was, be on your guard.” He nodded shortly and started walking again. He hated creepy dark basements; why did the guys they took down always feel the need to take their cues from the Evil Overlord list?

There was another crack, this one even louder and by now sounding less like a gunshot. It was joined by a groan of someone – or something – straining under a heavy burden. Hardison threw a wide-eyed look back at Eliot but their hitter didn't look at him; instead, his gaze was fixed to the ceiling.

The next moment, rough, calloused hands closed around his wrists and yanked him back into the direction of the stairwell they had come down as Eliot exploded into motion. “Run!” he yelled, and then Hardison was back at the front, and Eliot was pushing him from behind, and for a moment, surprise and panic almost tangled his limbs together before he managed to suppress them and just did what he was told: He ran. When Eliot told you to run, you ran.

The groans and cracks were getting louder with every step he took. There, the door to the stairwell was looming towards them. They were almost out.

The ground under his feet suddenly bucked, and he stumbled; the rough concrete of the basement floor bit in his hands when he caught himself, gasping. Another shudder.

And then, with a last, big, upheaval of sound, the world collapsed, and darkness descended.

*

Hardison swam back to consciousness slowly. The darkness behind his eyelids was cloying, refusing to resolve as he blinked to clear his head, and he closed his eyes again and took a deep breath. Dust invaded his mouth and sent him into a coughing fit. Colours flashed trough the darkness with pain slicing through his torso, but finally, he managed to suppress the urge to cough and could take another breath.

When he opened his eyes again, it was still dark. Too dark. He was lying on his back, and it was dark all around him. Dark, and dusty, and utterly silent. “Eliot?” he asked, his voice grating painfully in his dry throat.

There was no answer.

“Eliot?” he tried again. He spread his arms and felt around him. His right hand bumped against something right away, cold and unyielding, and when he felt alongside it, he found a sharp corner and another, smoother surface. On his left, there was more space but not by much; the surfaces he felt there were smaller, rougher.

Still no answer from Eliot.

“El!” Hardison's voice cracked.

It couldn't be. Eliot couldn't be-- he didn't dare finish the thought. The darkness was settling down on his chest like a thick blanket, and he felt utterly, painfully alone. “No,” he gasped, “no!” His breathing was speeding up, and with each shallow breath, it felt as if what he was breathing was no longer air but the dark, and the dust, and the reality that he was back in another grave. His chest heaved, pain coiling around it like a hand squeezing his ribs mercilessly. He squeezed his eyes shut but something wet still escaped and trailed down his face, dripping into his ear, and he shuddered.

“-- ison.”

The voice swam through the swirls of fear and despair in his mind like it was mud but finally, finally, it registered. As did the feeling of something brushing the fingers of his left hand. The voice spoke again: “Hardison!”

Hardison opened his mouth, trying to answer, but all he could do was gasp for air, colours flashing behind his eyelids. Another touch, and then fingers curled around his, grasping them and squeezing weakly.

“Hardison, breathe!” the voice commanded. “Slowly. In and out. In and out.”

Hardison clapped his right hand over his mouth, fighting to do what the voice said. Breathing. Slowly. Every breath cut like knives through his chest but gradually, they slowed, becoming deeper and more regular again.

Finally, his hand fell to his side, and he turned his head to the left, where the voice was coming from. In the dark, it was barely more than outlines, but there was a hand holding his, and an arm, and beyond that arm, a silhouette of a man, with a familiar shaggy head of long hair. “Eliot,” he whispered.

Eliot's face was only a shadow so Hardison couldn't even begin to guess at his expression, but he gave their interlocked fingers another squeeze. “You back with me?” he demanded, voice rougher than Hardison had ever heard it. It caught on something, and a few harsh coughs punched their way out of the hitter's chest.

Hardison's head was still swimming but he nodded sluggishly. “Think- think so,” he said, then unwittingly followed Eliot's example and nearly bent in half as a cough climbed up his throat and threatened to steal his air again.

But Eliot's hand was holding onto him, firm and grounding. He concentrated on that point of contact, on nothing else, and when the cough finally settled, he squeezed Eliot's fingers back. “Tha-thanks,” he gasped.

Eliot shook his head (he believed). “Are you hurt?” he asked.

Hardison hesitated. The panic had overwhelmed him to a point that he hardly remembered what had happened, barely had felt his body beyond the vice closing around his chest. Now he took another deep breath, suppressing the urge to cough again, and took stock. He could move and pull up his legs, move his arms, his head – there was pain but it was dull, most likely a lot of bruises. He raised  his free hand to the wetness at his temple and brushed over it. It felt gritty but not sticky like blood. “Dunno,” he finally said, “doesn't feel as if anything's broken. Just bruises, probably.” He squinted at Eliot. “Are you?”

“I'm fine,” Eliot answered brusquely.

And that would have been alright but Hardison knew that their hitter didn't always have a definition of “fine” that matched any definition found in a dictionary written in the English language. He rolled over towards Eliot and leveraged his upper body upwards until he was finally sitting upright, at no point letting go of Eliot's hand. He didn't think he could, at this point, because whenever he moved his gaze away from Eliot, his heart and breathing threatened to speed up again.

He took a deep breath and forced himself to do it anyway, letting his eyes sweep their surroundings. The dark was not as deep any more, now that his eyes had had time to adjust, and craggy lines drew the outline of mounds of rubble and bigger pieces around them.

He raised a hand to his ear but could only confirm what he had felt: His earbud was gone. Swallowing back another bout of panic at that, he turned to Eliot. “D'you still have your earbud? I must've lost mine.”

“Nope,” was the short answer, and Hardison shuddered. The earbuds were such a constant in their life that he barely could remember how to communicate with Parker and Eliot if they were somewhere else and didn't have their earbuds in. Having that line to his people, to Parker, suddenly cut when he needed it most left him feeling unmoored.

Of course that was an exaggeration. After all, Hardison never went anywhere without at least one phone or tablet on his body. Which also could provide light! He brightened at the thought and fumbled in his pocket until he found his phone and could pull it out. It blinked to life only dully, and he bit back a curse at the large crack running through the screen – and then didn't bite back another one when it flickered and died. “My phone's dead,” he told Eliot. “Gimme yours.”

“Come and get it,” he grouched back.

Hardison frowned, then got onto his knees and shuffled closer to Eliot. And as he did so, he got a first good look at his friend past his chest. “Eliot!” he yelped.

Eliot's lower body was almost disappearing under rubble and larger pieces of wall. And... Hardison swallowed. There was a piece of rebar sticking out of it almost vertically. Sticking out of... Hardison swallowed again, feeling nausea swelling in his stomach. “Is that--” he started, stopped, started again. “Did that--- Eliot, you're not fine!”

Eliot shook his head. “Nothin' to be done about it,” he said with a tone of absolute finality.

“No, no, no!” Hardison hovered, his hands over the rubble, twitching to remove it and free Eliot, but on the other hand, it held up that piece of rusty iron that was directly over Eliot's stomach. And if his suspicion was correct (he swallowed hard, again), it was actually in Eliot's stomach. So anything that would move it... No, he didn't dare. “You're not fine, and you need to tell me stuff like that, man, that's so not okay!”

He was pretty sure Eliot was glaring at him, even if his face was still mostly in shadows.

“Phone should be in my pocket on the right.”

Hardison made a gesture that indicated the discussion was not over, then carefully slid his hand between the pieces of rock and rubble until he felt the waistband of Eliot's jeans under it and followed it to his pocket. It took some finagling and quite a few muttered curses from both men whenever his movements made the rubble shift, but finally he had freed the phone from Eliot's pocket and turned it on. The screen was all cracked to hell, too, but it came to life nevertheless and stayed on. He called Parker, and the phone had barely started ringing when she picked up, breathlessly.

“Eliot?! Are you okay? Is Hardison … is he--?!”

“Hey babe, it's me,” he quickly interrupted her. “Using Eliot's phone because mine's dead, and he's--” he interrupted himself, casting an anxious glance at the hitter's supine form.

“No,” Parker whispered, and her tone broke his heart.

It took a beat until his mind caught up, and he scrambled to explain: “No, no, he's--” Again he met Eliot's eyes, the defiant glare now visible in the low light from the phone screen challenging him to say it. “He says he's fine,” Hardison said with an eye roll. “There's a big piece of metal that says otherwise, though.”

Parker said nothing for a moment, harsh breaths all that he could hear through the phone. Then her breath returned to the smooth, controlled rhythm he knew from her, and he knew she had mastered her panic and set it aside to shift into mastermind mode. “Alright,” she said. “Emergency services are on site already. I was looking for an alternative route to get you two out earlier – so far I don't have any, though – but if Eliot's hurt, that's not an option. How is he hurt, Alec?”

Hardison frowned. “Dunno,” he admitted. “Hey, Eliot! Tell me what's hurt.” He fixed the hitter with a hard stare. “And don't you dare say “you're fine” or “it's nothing”.”

Eliot growled under his breath but suddenly burst into a series of harsh coughs. His body jerked, and the rubble covering him shifted, the piece of rebar swaying drunkenly.

Hardison swallowed  hard against a wave of nausea as he imagined what that might mean. “Hey, hey, it's okay!” He put a hand on Eliot's shoulder and rubbed it, feeling the tremors running through his sturdy frame. Meaningless platitudes fell from his lips until Eliot finally settled, his breaths sawing in and out of his chest.

Parker's voice was clamouring for his attention, and he quickly raised the phone to his ear again. “Gimme a moment, mama,” he asked. Directed at the hitter, he said tremulously: “El?”

Eliot nodded slightly. “I'm--” He visibly swallowed down his standard answer. “--still here,” he said instead. “That damned thing's in my stomach.” He gestured at the upright piece of rebar.

“Jesus, Eliot,” Hardison murmured. More loudly, he said: “Anything else?” Not that a stomach wound made by a blunt, rusty piece of metal wasn't enough …

“Nothin' serious, I don't think so,” Eliot said and glared at the hacker when it looked as if Hardison was about to say something. “Can't really move much but I can wiggle my toes without it hurtin' much, so my legs should be alright. Lotsa bruises and scrapes, I guess.”

Hardison sighed and patted his shoulder. “Okay, okay, I believe you.” To Parker, he said: “He's got a piece of rebar in his stomach.” He heard her gasp and quickly continued to reassure her: “But he says his legs are most likely fine – he's buried under a lot of stuff, so he can't move much but the rest seems like it's not serious.”

“Okay,” Parker said. “And you?”

“I'm alright,” Hardison told her, and it was mostly true – the dusty air and the half-dark were still tugging at his nerves, threatening to pull him back into a spiral, but having Eliot there and the need to look after him, coupled with Parker's voice through the phone, was just enough to shore up his defences. “Bruised and sore but mostly I'm fine.”

“Eliot should take you as an example for what that looks like,” she snorted, and he bit back a laugh. “Do you know where you were when the ceiling came down? Anything that you can see that looks like an opening, a window, a door?”

Hardison looked around. “We were moving back towards the stairwell … Hmm. Not really, sorry, babe.” To his eyes, the darkness of the collapsed basement was the same everywhere.

Eliot tugged at his sleeve, and when Hardison looked at him, he gestured impatiently for him to pass the phone. The hacker reluctantly surrendered it to him, and Eliot immediately started talking: “Parker, we were almost at the stairwell but I don't think that's a good option, that'll be the most unstable part. Go for the window on the right side, there's a bit of air comin' that way.”

“How--” Hardison started but then stopped and waved his hand. “It's probably very distinctive,” he murmured, mostly to himself, but Eliot flashed him a short grin.

The hitter listened, nodded, said another few words, and then ended the call, letting his arm holding the phone fall back down.

Hardison startled and plucked the phone from Eliot's hand. “Hey, you could've handed her back to me,” he complained but did not dial again. Instead, he placed the phone on the ground so that the display light could spill out and push back the invading darkness.

Eliot scowled at him and shook his head. “Our girl's gonna need to work on gettin' us out of here,” he said. “Can't distract her with your yapping.”

“Yapping?” Hardison gave back, offended. “I was givin' her important information!”

“Yeah, you did,” Eliot acknowledged, “but she's got it now. She'll take it from here.”

Hardison deflated a bit. Yes, he knew that Parker was their best chance to get out of here, and soon. But it had been so good to hear her voice …

He shifted closer to Eliot, again placing a hand on his shoulder. “How you holdin' up, man?” he asked.

Eliot grunted and made a see-saw motion with his hand. That was actually more than Hardison had expected, and he wasn't sure if he should be proud of the trust Eliot was showing him in being halfway honest or worried that it meant he was doing much worse.

“I wish I could do something,” Hardison lamented but knew he didn't dare moving the rubble. So he just sat there, holding onto his friend. After a while, he moved his hand down Eliot's arm until he found his hand and could intertwine their fingers. Eliot didn't say anything but when Hardison squeezed his hand, he squeezed back.

So they sat. Hardison attempted to get a conversation going – or, in the absence of much input from Eliot, a good monologue because he was a frickin' genius at monologuing – but found that each time he did, it lead him into a spiral until he had to interrupt himself and concentrate on his breathing for a while so he didn't end up hyperventilating. And finally, he gave up and just sat, holding onto Eliot's hand, from time to time giving it a squeeze or poking the hitter lightly to elicit a reaction, to ask how he was doing.

Eliot, for his part, was mostly quiet. Nothing new there but it didn't keep Hardison from worrying. He sometimes shifted a bit, carefully, or winced or scowled at the debris holding him in place, but for the most part, the hitter took it stoically. Hardison carefully catalogued each change, took note of each evasive answer Eliot gave to his questions. It was clear that he was not doing great but what was Hardison to do about that? Please, Parker, hurry!, he implored her silently.

Finally, finally, there was noise coming from the direction Eliot had said the window was, rumbling and scraping and whatnot. Hardison held onto Eliot's hand a bit more firmly and eyed the residue of walls and ceiling around them. More of that stuff collapsing was just what they did not need.

And then a path opened up between the rubble, dug by a big yellow machine, accompanied by the brightness of a powerful light, and before the machine had even fully stopped, the door opened and Parker jumped out, landing easily on her feet and sprinting towards them. Hardison opened the arm not holding onto Eliot, and she fell into it, colliding with his chest almost violently. He winced and had to suppress a groan at the impact – looked like he had some more bruises than he'd originally thought – but did not say anything, just pulled her close and held onto her. She was sweaty and dishevelled but holding her was the first thing that felt right since he had woken up in the dark.

Finally, she pushed herself off him and turned towards their hitter. “Eliot?” she asked, reaching out a tentative hand towards his face. In the light of the excavator's headlight, Hardison got his first real look at Eliot, and it made a new wave of worry and fear rush through him. Eliot's face was ashen beneath the dirt covering most of it, his eyes at half mast. There was a small trickle of blood running from the corner of his mouth down to where it dripped to the floor.

But he forced his eyes open and met Parker's gaze clearly. “Hey, sweetheart,” he said, and if Hardison felt a slight tremor run through the hand he was still holding, well, he wasn't one to tell.

“Are you okay?” Parker asked with a quiet, tense voice.

Eliot grunted. “Been better,” he admitted. “Would really appreciate it if you could get me out of here.” He looked up at these words, and with a start, Hardison only now noticed the men that had followed Parker, two of them large and powerful, clad in firefighter gear. The other two were smaller, at least in comparison, and wore EMS clothing. “Sir, can you move?” one of them addressed Hardison, and he reluctantly let go of Eliot's hand and climbed to his feet, wincing and biting back a grown when at least half a dozen minor injuries took the opportunity to complain. He looked back at Eliot and Parker, gave them both what he hoped was an encouraging smile, then followed the EMS man a few steps to the side.

There, he had to sit down again, and the man shone a light into his eyes, asked him a dozen questions or more about how he was feeling, ran light but firm hands over his limbs. Hardison tried to sit still and not fidget, to listen to the paramedic and not to what was happening behind him, but it was easier said than done. There was scraping and shifting of stone and masonry, low voices that were gruff and deep, only occasionally interrupted by Parker, sounding very impatient … And then there was a loud scream that choked off abruptly.

At that, the paramedic looked up sharply and was on his feet in an instant. “I told you to wait!” he shouted. He strode off towards the others, and Hardison turned with trepidation to look at what was going on.

The two burly firefighters had apparently made short work of the debris that had covered Eliot – Hardison could see his legs now, splayed out on the torn-up floor. His upper body was disappearing between the people clustered around him; the medic was just shoving one of the firefighters aside and kneeling down. Through the gap Hardison could meet Parker's eyes; they were big and round in her face. But she swallowed visibly and gave him a firm nod before she dropped her gaze again and he saw that she was holding Eliot's head in her lap, a hand coming up to stroke over his cheek. Eliot's eyes were closed, and he was even paler than before. Hardison swallowed and got to his feet, hobbling back to the group. Not that he could do anything there since Parker had Eliot, and the medics were working on him, one of them packing the wound – oh shit, that looked nasty, blood covering a lot of Eliot's stomach, and one construction worker was holding onto the piece of rebar that disappeared into his stomach. Hardison stood there watching, clenching and unclenching his hands. He felt so terribly useless ...

The firefighter that had been shooed away by the medic came over to him and stood by his side. “You wanna get out of here, son?” he asked in a low, friendly tone. “Think you look good enough that you don't need to wait for them over there.” He nodded his head at the EMS techs.

Hardison hesitated for a fraction of a second – the basement was finally no longer dark, and he knew that he could leave any time but his nerves were still itchy with the remnants of his earlier panic – but shook his head. “Not without him,” he said with a gesture towards Eliot or rather the parts of him he could see.

The firefighter just shrugged his shoulders, folding thick arms over a broad chest. “Suit yourself,” he said. “He your friend?”

“Yes.” The answer seemed unsatisfactory, insufficient to describe the relationship between Eliot and him. Co-workers, friends, brothers … All of that did and did not entirely fit for what Eliot and he were. But he was barely able to puzzle it out for himself, so he was not about to explain that to a stranger after being rescued from being buried under a collapsed building, with Eliot injured and Parker right there. So he left it with the curt answer, and the firefighter shrugged again, seemingly getting the message that he wasn't in a chatty mood.

“He'll be fine,” the man assured him and then turned away. “Gonna get things ready,” he told him as a good-bye and went back to his machine.

Hardison just nodded and turned his gaze back to the huddle around Eliot. Oh, how he hoped the man was right … He told himself that it was Eliot, and Eliot was always fine. He had seen the hitter beat-up and bloody more times than he could count, and he had always got back to his feet. But usually, it wasn't a whole building that fell on him.

*

Maybe fifteen minutes later, some of the longest fifteen minutes in Hardison's life, they finally emerged from the collapsed building into open air. Hardison blinked in the harsh light that stung in his eyes. It was strange that the day wasn't over, even though it had felt like hours, ages, that they had been stuck in the dark, and he had been convinced that it had to be night by now.

He looked back to where Eliot was carefully guided from the rubble by the paramedics, carried in a rescue basket by the firemen. Parker was at his side, holding his hand, and Hardison ached to join them – not sure whose hand he actually wanted to hold.

Parker noticed him looking and waved him over with a smile.

He went, like he always did whatever she wanted him to do. He'd long given up the illusion of being the dominant part in their relationship.

Reaching her, he pulled her into his arms and for a moment, he just held her and breathed, for what felt for the first time in a long, long while. When he finally pulled back, he pressed a short kiss to her forehead. “Thank you for coming for us,” he told her.

“Of course!” she replied, indignant. Then she turned and tugged him with her after the men who had started loading Eliot in the back of an ambulance. “Come on, he needs us,” she said, “and you'll need to get checked out, too.”

“I'm fine, babe,” he protested but followed willingly. One of the medics looked like he wanted to protest when he saw both of them arriving at the ambulance but Parker just gave him a hard look, shoved Hardison into the ambulance and clambered up behind him.

Hardison fell heavily on the bench next to the stretcher and before the medic could actually protest, he simply pulled Parker onto his lap so that they took up as little space as possible. Then he turned his attention to Eliot. Their hitter was lying still on the stretcher, out cold. For the most part, he did not look that bad, if very pale under the dirt and dust, but there was still that piece of rebar sticking out of his belly, now somewhat shorter and secured in place by a multitude of bandages. Hardison swallowed and took Eliot's hand. “Hold on, man,” he whispered. “Just hold on.”

*

In the hospital, Eliot was whisked away behind the doors of an OR pretty quickly, and then Hardison had to sit and stoically suffer the ministrations of a nurse who found every scrape and scratch with an almost uncanny precision, cleaned, washed and dressed all of them. Parker was sitting with him but she kept bouncing her leg, eyes flitting to and fro, her hold on his hand just on the side of too tight to be uncomfortable. He wished he could comfort her but his fear for Eliot was buzzing underneath his skin, too. He knew the hitter was in good hands and was strong but still, what if something in his stomach had been messed up beyond repair? Or if it had been too long, and he had lost too much blood? Or what if the rusty metal had leaked poison into his body, and he'd develop an infection and …

“Stop this!” he told himself, and only when the nurse stopped and looked at him with consternation did he notice that he had spoken aloud. “Not you,” Hardison said, shamefaced, and gestured for her to carry on. “I was just telling myself to stop overthinking stuff.”

Parker looked at him, her eyes shining. “He'll be okay,” she said, and he wasn't sure who she was trying to reassure, him or herself. “He's Eliot.”

“He's Eliot,” he echoed her, and with a sigh, he leaned his head against her shoulder. Eliot had never let them down. Hardison had to believe that he wouldn't start now.

*

It took another couple hours until they were finally allowed to see Eliot. To Hardison's great relief, it was not the ICU but a normal ward they were taken to. And he breathed another sigh of relief once he could lay eyes on Eliot again.

He was not looking great but better than Hardison had expected. Still pale but he imagined that his skin had regained at least a little bit of colour. No tube in this throat, no mask covering his face, only an IV stand with a couple of bags – saline and blood, if he was not mistaken. He'd definitely seen him look worse. He didn't know what was beneath the hospital gown and blankets covering his stomach, and right now he didn't really want to know. All that counted was that he had gone through surgery and had come out the other side. Everything else they would see later.

Parker tugged at his hand, pulling him over to two plastic chairs placed next to the bed, and dropped into one of the chairs. With her free hand, she reached for Eliot's, and Hardison saw how a good part of her nervous energy dissipated at once. She sagged forward and rested her cheek against Eliot's chest.

He sat down, too, and took Eliot's other hand so they were forming a triangle. “Hey man,” he murmured, giving Eliot's hand a squeeze. “Glad to know you've made it this far. Now hurry up and wake up. I wanna hear you bitch at me about being in the hospital.”

He stopped abruptly. Had the hand in his just twitched? He carefully gave it another light squeeze. And this time, he was sure that he did not imagine the slight pressure in return.

Suddenly hopeful, Hardison looked up – and met Eliot's eyes. They were mere slits and slightly clouded, yes, but they were open, and as he watched, the hitter's gaze swept left and right, then flickered down to Parker's head resting on his chest, and finally back up.