a hard man to find

i have returned to life with the rest of the leverage fandom

but tumblr won’t let me post shit

every time i try to post i just get ‘there was an error saving your post, try again later’. anyone know how to fix this bullshit? i’ve switched browsers to post this but i’d like my tumblr back u kno

but tumblr won’t let me post shit

sc: @hardmantofind

“ — This is our Nakatomi plaza. ”

He takes his hand and shakes; grip firm with lack of tremble — control despite situation. Doesn’t let anyone see for good reason. Let ‘em think this wasn’t affecting him as much as it was; let ‘em think he’s okay. He is, in some sense; there’s confidence in that. But worry eats still. Family, and he’d promised to protect them until his dying day. 

The pause comes with reason; bury the hatchet and bury the memory. Croatia had a promise, a flag, a uniform, and a band of brothers. But, a promise kept could only be made once ( she’d let him know with a ring on her finger and an apology strained ). So, already on the path, he kept following that road. Something broken, and someone a little lost, what happened later came a lack of familiarity; a stranger in the mirror and hands…stained with red.  

“ Knezevic family. Took over when the Kasun lost their territory. ” 

He’s let go, thumb pointing to the direction of his Dodge. 

“ Takin’ down one of the main families, you get these factions fightin’ each other to try to take the crown. Had do deal with ‘em too. ” 

Always a struggle for breath at the mention of a name. Every knows him, he wouldn’t be surprised if Quinn had to take a deal too. The guy liked a particular brand of person; a coldness with professionalism, and a ferocity almost animalistic. Besides, extra perk: hitters were a surplus.

“ Moreau had his hands in on it. War mongerin’s not off his list. ”

“That’s a lot of enemies.”

It’s amused, almost congratulatory. Takes a special kind of man to go to a country and end up with everybody after him. There’s a sense there that Croatia hadn’t been a job but a duty. Funny, how often the two seem to overlap with Eliot.

Not so with Quinn.

Military service had left him only disenchanted, resting on a false perception of his own strength. And so he’d ended up in a Ukrainian hospital, cuffed to the bed and with his insides intact only through pure damn luck. Thinks about it every time he sees the scar in the mirror, the ugly, knotted thing that stretches from sternum to navel. Duty isn’t something he retained.

But the name? The name is a surprise. Enough that shoulders tighten, just for a second, brows rise a fraction. It’ll speak volumes to Eliot.

      “Moreau.” A familiar name, indeed. Not a man anybody crosses lightly, but least of all those who’ve done his dirty work. Those who know what he asks. What he’s capable of. Quinn’s as guilty as all the rest, but he had the gall to survive.

( I like you, the man had said, smile like a shark, and that’s when Quinn had known it was time to get out. )

“He still got his hands in it?” Because that’s a different job. That’s a job there might not be enough hitters in the world to get done. Last he heard, the man had been in prison, courtesy of Eliot and his team.

“Good thing you’re on the move again.”

No matter how Quinn meant it, it sits like blame on his shoulders. Tony was the one who coaxed him into staying in one place, who kept asking him to stay. Who brought all that pain and misery down on his head. 

“I was born to take those hits.”

It’s not just his job. Some part of him, something in his blood or maybe his bones, is made for this. To deal out damage and to take it in return. There’s as much violence in him as there is control. Makes no difference if he’s in one place or he’s on the move.

      “I could afford to be a little less on-the-move for a while.”

@hardmantofind

“I thought you were really dead this time.”

How long has it been? Long enough for him to have collected a handful of AA chips for his own personal bragging rights, despite not buying the message of a ‘higher power’. 

Long enough for Sokovia. For the accord. Long enough to have moved out of the tower and boxed up the photo that used to sit beside his (their) bed. 

    “Couple times I almost was.”

Old debts, old grudges, old injuries. New scars. It all comes to the surface in the end, and Quinn’s a dangerous man, but so are his enemies.

“ Roundin’ down ain’t an option. ” 

( Sometimes, he wished he could. )

He could yell until he lost his voice, could tell them every detail of anything and everything that would happen; and still, they’d be there. Still, they’d stand there alongside him. Still, they’d call them a mark to me made. What’s another crime syndicate to add to their list? Frustrating…and yet, he understands. Eliot knows family, knows it in blood and brothers in arms, and this — it’s not so different. 

“ Same deal. Same figures. ” 

But rules? Well, they were hard to tell.

Rare is the need for help; it doesn’t sit well in his bones — still the mentality of taking things on his own remained. He took the hits after all, dealt and absorbed the punishment so they didn’t have to. What kind of enforcer, what kind of protector was he to let Parker and Hardison take the hit for something they weren’t involved in?

He has a job, he does it well, he’s embraced what he does and what he’s got to do. It’s personal, and things might get a little dirtier than normal. 

“ Hardison and Parker, they don’ know half of what I know. Good as they are. ” Hands on his hips lift to cross over his chest. He’s kept it this way for a reason; an echo of a conversation he’d once brushed upon.

( Don’t ask me that. )   

“ Alright, Spencer. Got yourself a deal. ”

Hand is held out to shake, a familiar gesture now, ever since that first time, impeded a little by the cuffs. It’s friendly, in a detached sort of way --- strictly business. The lie he tells himself every time he goes back to them. Always asked, first, never of his own volition. Waits to be needed.

“ They’re still young. ”

Quinn is, too -- younger than Eliot, not as young as Hardison. But that’s not really what he means. He means that they’re criminals, sure, and they’ve each seen their own hardship. But there’s some special sufferings that age a man, that make him more than his years.

Eliot’s seen ‘em. So has he. And they’ve both been on the other end, too.

They’ve both done bad things. Quinn still does them, if the price is right. Eliot might have moved away from that life, but once it gets its claws in you -- it never backs down and it never stops pursuing. It’ll always be there. Sometimes, times like this, it’ll catch up.

“ Some things, they don’t need to know. “ It’s a promise, unspoken, to help keep those things from them. He’s soft on them, this little family, and maybe one day it’ll get him into trouble. Hardison, who for all he’s irritating does a damn good job at anything you put him to. Who loves Parker.

Parker, who sometimes from the corner of his eye looks a little like Jeannie. Parker, who dances to her own tune and won’t apologise for it.

“ Anything I should know, going in? ”

“ One so far. ” Irritation in the gravel of his voice, a frustration where curious minds and sticky fingers had led to chase a thread uncut. He doesn’t like loose ends, doesn’t like getting tied down to anything either — at least, not on his terms. Lips are stretched a little thin, and where they speak in silence, there’s a nod to men they were and something he once was. 

( A flag over his shoulder; a heart on his sleeve, a gun pressed to his chest — always a soft spot for those who needed to be protected. Though methods aren’t with shield, but with sword, and Eliot doesn’t remember at times how he got somewhere; how he had once gotten lost and no longer recognised that man that looked back at him in the mirror ).   

“ It ain’t their game. ” 

And still, they’ll play; a loyalty to the team and cards in the hand — they called his bluff and they’ve pushed the chips forward. Go big, or go home. 

“ Liberated Croatia — doesn’ mean everyone’s happy about it. ” 

Balkans; and therein was the problem, like all other organisations with point of origin, structure and that original clan, there’d been growth with the seed cared for — and they know, in the world they live in that the roots stretch deep. 

“ They found me. ” Me, not them. Alone. Thank God. A pause that’s long, a breath that’s deep and he then clicks his tongue. “ Then, Hardison found them. ”  

“ Sounds like one too many. ”

It’s the same annoyance in his voice that’s in Eliot’s. Only semi-convincing, though there’s a warning note there, too. As long as it’s the geek I think it is. He can probably get by without punching Hardison for a day. The other one -- Chaos, even the thought of the name dripping with derision -- there’s no chance.

It ain’t their game.

That adds a note of interested tension to his spine. This is a hitter’s game. This is his game. 

“ Well, can’t let curiosity kill the cat. No matter how tempting it is. ” Quinn knows the rules. No matter what happens, Eliot’s family don’t get hurt. Whatever it takes. They’re kept safe. And now, Eliot’s asking for his help to make that happen.

“ I’ll help you out, Spencer.  Dangerous game, dangerous people; you could do with some help. Same rules, I assume. ”

The rules being: 

    One ---- no calling your own shots.     Two ---- no guns.

And Quinn isn’t so fond of the second, but he’ll replace bullets with fisted fingers if he’s asked. He’ll blunt his sharp edges, just for one job.

Something special might ring a few bells, if he was serious. Still, goes along with it. 

“ That’s not what I like to hear. ” 

Feigned concern with furrowed brows and lifted chin, his lips are turned in a grin that’s crooked - shows a few teeth, comes with a puff of laughter. The world’s a big place, and they know the wolves and how they bite. Been here a long time, dealt with more than he’s let on. Quinn knows. They don’t need to speak, see it in the form of fists and shifts of stance, in the puff of breath and the resistance to fall and fail. 

( They have their reasons for what they do, they protect what they think they should. Cut from the same cloth, but sometimes where one warps the other wefts. )

“ Got a job. Thought I’d ask if you wanted in. ”

Arms folded, he stands, head tilting as if to ask, you in? 

A tip of the head is Eliot’s only answer to that, a switch to the silent conversation that’s easily enough read between the two of them, almost impermeable to those without. It’s the angle of heads and the tightness of muscle, posture and stance and those small movements of mouth, of eyes. A whole language in silence.

Eliot says that’s not what I like to hear, and without saying a word, Quinn says back don’t worry about it. Reassurance, casual dismissal. These favours are saved only through lack of demand. Barely counted, any more, because Eliot’s semi-regular invitations are as much a favour to Quinn.

There’d been a while when he’d almost forgotten that there are people in the world who matter.

“ And you really need to stop wearin’ a goddamn suit every time. ” 

He knows he won’t stop. Part of the brand, part of the package. His hands slip into his pockets, steps slow as he circles around the the unconscious mark. Eyes down, a look - some appreciation there, in the other’s handiwork. Hand raised, a small wave that pairs with a small shrug. 

“ Hey man, you’re the one that’s not cashin’ them in. ”

No answer to that, only curling smile at corner of mouth; the suits are important. What was it Jeannie used to say ----? Just because you’re a criminal, you don’t have to look like one. It’s professionalism, it’s a sort of armour. Won’t protect him from knives or from bullets, but protects him from the slippery slope, from doing his job to doing something more.

“Maybe I’m saving ‘em for something special.“

Or maybe he just doesn’t have need of favours. He spends his life like this, place to place and job to job. Eliot offers favours because there’s things he cares about. Quinn doesn’t have enough to do the same, even despite those fragile, tenuous bonds between himself and Eliot’s little rag-tag family.

   “You know, we really need to stop meeting like this.”

Words spoken before the finally body hits the ground, prone and unmoving. Not dead; some things rub off on you, sometimes. Hospital visit, a few minor surgeries and a couple years of physio, and he might even fight again. Hands adjust cuffs, slide into pockets before he turns to Eliot, casual as you like.