hello love, my invincible friend.

"I ain't dancin'," is the first thing Eliot says as they walk in.

"It's a gay club, Eliot. Gonna be either you or Nate—" And before Hardison's even finished the sentence, a look of disgust or possibly horror crosses Eliot's face, and Hardison has to grin.

"Also—" And here's the clincher! "—it's for my birthday. An' I mean to party like I didn't when I was twenty-one, 'cause I was too busy saving all y'all's asses."

And thiefing. Thieving? And being an awkward geek with muscles in all the wrong places. The point is, Hardison is a hot commodity now and he has the confidence to back it up. He deserves this.

Hardison is already turning on the move, walking backwards, when Eliot stumbles into him as if Parker gave him a shove. But as Hardison knows from experience, it's very hard to budge Eliot if he doesn't want to be budged. There was something awfully performative about the protest, anyhow.

He catches Eliot's hips. Hooks his long fingers deftly through the big ol' belt loops, and tugs him in.

"You a lot prettier than Nate."

Contrary to her usual preferences (black) she'd glammed it up for Hardison's birthday and the club. Which works, because everything in here is flashing lights and sequins and glitter body paint and holographic foil, and she's blended right away into the pulsating music and flailing bodies.

Air's already so hot with other people and other people's sweat, Eliot can't even tell if he's blushing or not.

"Too damn tall is what you are," he growls in response to the flirtation. "Shut up."

But he's looping his arms up around Hardison's neck anyway. Gripping the base of his skull with a strong hand.

The EDM's gonna make his ears bleed before the night's over. But there's a throughline beat in there somewhere, if he listens for it, so he lets go. Just a little. Lets his body flow into it. Just like Parker flowed away — to rob the crowd blind in pursuit of a(nother) birthday gift for Hardison, he would guess.

"Now you got the image in my head anyway, I almost—" he can barely hear himself, good thing they're pressed this close, or he'd have to be fully shouting, "—almost wanna see you get Nate dancin' with you to somethin' like this."

The blackmail potential would be worth it, if nothing else. And the priceless opportunity to point and laugh.

Eliot tosses hair back from his face. "Di'you TELL him this is where we were goin'?"

Ford had been remarkably poker-faced when they pulled up to the curb and the music could be felt in the car windows. (Eliot knows this because Parker had slung herself across his lap to plant both of her hands on the one next to him to appreciate the vibrations.)

The bass drops and some of the dancers start to scream in approval, so now he does have to yell. "This ain't exactly his scene!"

Is it Eliot's?

Hell no.

His workshop has a different, though not notably more intuitive, semblance of organization than the store. Less labyrinthine, with more space than it implies from outside. Where the store is stuffed with glass shelves and display cases, this room has only a few solid cabinets that rise up like pillars from floor to ceiling. Doors of various sizes go all the way up, and all the way around. What's visible of the floor is patterned in such a way that space distorts, but Géraud strides across it with assurance. Floating lights in crystal balls follow him to his work table. He plucks one from the air and sets it beside the box, where it stays.

Here magic is made. And unmade. And taught. And shared. And used. And used up.

And so is tea. There's a smaller table by the outlet to plug in his electric kettle.

On the subject of fees, he lifts an eyebrow. "I'll throw in the garden gnome?"

Géraud may not relish working through distraction, but he has a lot of practice. He picks white chalk off the table and inscribes a circle. It doesn't have to be elaborate, for this purpose; it only has to direct power so he doesn't channel too much himself. It takes only a moment. Géraud taps the stark white line with the ball of light.

Briefly, the circle flares with fire, and the contents are exposed. A handful of red and gold feathers flutter, then settle at the bottom.

"Ah, good." He gives his retrieval specialist a dry look. Your gopher? Cara asked, when he told her that her lesson would have to be postponed until after his other appointment. Because he goes-fer... He doesn't suppose O'Malley would appreciate her sense of humor. "It's the right box."

Not much chance of him giving more positive reinforcement than that, but O'Malley shouldn't need any any, no? That's what payment is for. The flame dies in a whoosh, leaving no mark on the table. With a soft cloth, Géraud wipes the chalk. Then to one of the cabinets, to open it with a murmur, to slide out a much smaller box, to fish out a silver chain.

"You've earned this."

He holds it up. It shines like a river in winter.

"It isn't just enchanted. The enchantment is the chain. You'll have to wear it to reap the benefits; fortunately, it ought to blend in with your... appearance." Such as it is.

And then there's the floating lights. Doesn't trust those, either. Half expects one of these days they'll come up off the counter and start launching magic lightning bolts or some shite at him. Like the combat training droids from fuckin' Star Wars.

Fynn remains in exactly the same spot, exactly the same pose (him and his gnome, his new friend) as when he came through the curtain.

But he's watching Géraud the entire time.

Wizard knows his stuff.

About the only positive thing you can say about him.

Fynn's eyes narrow at the flare of flame. (He may have a twitch, now, about sudden fire. Thanks for that. Can only hope eventually he'll stop smelling his own skin burning. …Not that today was the first time.)

"Oh. Yayyy." His eyebrows bob up sardonically. Nice to know he didn't burn half alive on a fruitless whim. "It's got feathers?" His eyebrows remain up. "Phoenix?"

What, he knows stories. He reads.

Géraud probably won't tell him. He's the paid fetcher, not a partner. Doesn't need to know the hows and whys. Just needs to deliver the gear intact and on time.

He doesn't expect the chain. Or the statement that accompanies it.

Tries to hide his surprise, unsure if he succeeded. Probably only find out if Géraud mocks him for it.

…appearance? Why the fuckin' PAUSE?

Fynn lifts a hand to dip his fingers into the collar of his shirt, finding his own worn and familiar chain. Or, technically, Bunn's chain, and cross. "Y' don't have t' believe. Less y'r memory's goin'. Saw it well enough last month when that protection sigil went off an' I was speed-strippin' in here thanks t' the magic bees generated inside my fuckin' clothes."

Is he annoyed about that still? A bit.

The Fuck You gnome gets set aside on an available shelf. Then Fynn slips his necklace up over his head, unclasps it, and slides the scratched-but-gleaming Celtic cross off and into his palm.

Eyes Géraud's chain warily before putting out a hand for it.

"Aren't you full of innuendo today?"

Other than a snort through her nose, she doesn't comment further. Which is quite restrained, all things considered, and personally she thinks she deserves to be acknowledged for that; nothing too special, maybe just a burst of confetti and glitter. You know, on the theme of restrained.

"Timey? All timey? You can't imagine the dimensions I perceive any more than a straight line can imagine a sphere. Every particle of you is younger than the newest beam of light from the star that made me." She grabs his waggling finger and squeezes hard enough to generate heat. "Think of yourself as a baby dinosaur. Time is the one thing you have plenty of. Stop worrying."

Fzzsshh goes the finger. Well, she warned him.

Not that, 99% of the time, he's ever wanted to "have game."

Been busy.

And then he pulls a different face, mouth all mushed up, sort of biting at the insides of it. "Never said I was wor — "

He goes taut, muscles locking up. A soft, "Shhhhhhhhhhite…" escapes his teeth, to go along with the faint hiss of — well, aye — his flesh doing a bit of a sizzle.

But is he going to yank away? From the heat, or the pain, or her?

Fuck no.

Might be a hint of sweat starting to bead on his forehead. His eyebrows twitch. His voice is about as even as he can get it. Definitely no catches in his breathing. Oh no, definitely not. "Maybe you...? That mean y' DO know what'll do me for keeps? 'Cause y're plannin' it?"

every leverage dynamic ⮎ maggie collins & parker

dialogue prompts from sunburn by chloe michelle howarth.

i am at a very tricky age.

feeling adult was everything to me.

i function far better with you than without you.

you're so cute. everybody likes you.

you're always looking at me like you hate me.

i want you to feel understood.

the silence says a lot.

i've never known a person like you.

it was easiest just to hate _____.

i suppose it's nice to live somewhere quiet.

stories carry weight, even when nobody really believes them.

being busy isn't the same as being satisfied.

you're not as harsh as you seem.

i need to stop acting my age and grow up.

i wouldn't make sense without _____. i might not even exist.

i pretend so well, i almost believe myself.

we all have secrets. everybody is hiding something.

there is no more room for grey areas.

sometimes i just hear what i want to hear.

do you even realize all the things people say about us?

it was a human mistake.

all i want is to avoid how i feel.

i can't say the things you deserve to hear.

i would like you to know me authentically.

you could do worse. you have.

you belong everywhere you go.

what a wonderfully big heart you have.

you are just so easy to look at.

the way i feel about _____ isn't the way i feel about anyone else.

i've always seen what i want to see.

i like you. that's all.

i can't believe you stood up for me.

do i even have the right to be angry?

in every life but this one, we would probably be together.

you are such a cure.

this is no time to be afraid.

why won't you look at me?

if you want me, i'm yours.

i used to stare at your mouth so much.

i don't know if i've ever felt so secure with another person. with myself.

i didn't realize this feeling existed. i didn't realize how badly i needed to feel it.

it just felt so good to know you were there.

a few minutes of you would really be enough to keep me going for years.

i don't know where you end and [name] begins.

i didn't realize i was ever unhappy until you made me this happy.

just because you don't see it doesn't mean it isn't happening.

normalcy is something i can't afford.

be honest: how long did you fancy me before we got together?

it costs nothing to be nice. that's what ____ says.

chaos always begins with peace.

i need to get out of this house.

when are you going to grow up?

you look unreal in [color].

there's nothing to do now but hide and wait.

i love you a lot more than i know how to say.

it's easy to be a hero when you're not around enough to be a villain.

it feels so good to hug you again.

we both have parts to play.

it might be nice if we didn't talk tonight.

i don't want to be anybody's ____. i want to be my own person.

do you want to be safe and secure, or do you want to be happy?

sometimes the best thing to do is the hardest.

i know what loving you can do to a person.

you're so amazing. i don't tell you often enough.

you deserve all the love in the world.

i'll look after you, and you'll look after me.

i'd never be safer with anybody else.

darling, please stop talking.

can we just be happy for a few days, then?

for a little while, it really was bliss.

you have been wonderful all your life.

it's nice to see some life in you.

i'd like to clean the house for you. make you dinner.

i can't wait any longer for you to be brave.

you've existed without me before. you could do it again.

i've seen what being motherless can do to a person.

you are the first and last thing i want, but you are not the only thing.

why are you making small talk with me?

even when there's nothing there, it's so hard to go.

i'm so tired of disappointing you.

i've actually never done this.

i was trying to be another person.

don't rush to figure yourself out.

i've decided never to fall in love again.

i always let myself go too far.

i was always endlessly impressed by you.

before today, i was doing really well.

not everything is a symbol.

i ought to feel guilty, but i don't.

you are the sun. you always have been.

i don't even have the same heart anymore.

you wouldn't love me if you knew me now.

hate me, if you want to hate me. i'd love the attention.

all ____ ever wanted was to disappear.

i wish it was different. i wish i was different.

The box stops when Géraud sets eyes on it, as if intimidated. If only that trick would work on everyone.

"Suffering such burning curiosity in your customary forbearing silence must have been very painful."

Holding it by the brass-reinforced corners, he squares the box on the counter. The spells that seal it better than a lock could remain in place, which is good for O'Malley on multiple counts.

"Most of them are made of resin nowadays. Cheaper. People like the gnomes." (He likes the gnomes. He doesn't like specialists. His greatest preference, of course, would be to work with his own people, but students are so much more flammable.) With a helpful gesture: "Perhaps you just haven't found one that speaks to you yet. Try that one; it's making rather a rude gesture."

Not right now, though. Their business hasn't quite concluded.

This miserable old wizard uses a lotta big words.

He's got half an eye on Géraud — and on that box, because he doesn't trust it, as he doesn't trust any magical object he handles — and half an eye genuinely roaming the titular offerings of the shop. (And, look, see? He can use fancy words too. Fuck you very much.)

Géraud receives the dirtiest, most scathing, frankly a bit murderous look Fynn's capable of. Probably for the best that the curtain's already swung shut behind him by the time it's targeted in full force on the back of his who-knows-how-expensive suit.

Back bloody entrance. The venomous look shifts into a petulant sneer as Fynn mouths the words, head bobbing back and forth.

Like the sight of him would lessen the real estate value. Or drive away the clientele. Of THIS place.

Just for that, he, in fact, stretches across the counter and plucks the impertinent gnome in question off the shelf. Gives him a little flip, catches him, holds him up to the light.

"Aye," Fynn praises him, with low, deep sincerity. "That's the spirit."

And then (only then) does he make to follow the wizard into the depths of his closely-guarded inner sanctum. The sense of derision and judgment and entitlement positively radiates back there, even more so than out front amongst the knickknacks and nonsense.

Fynn does so by using the gnome to hold aside the curtain.

And he does so with words offered in a tone that couldn't be any flatter than Kansas.

"Bark. Woof." He steps through. Forearm resting on its little hat, he props the gnome on his hip. Facing Géraud. "Y' gonna tell me t' sit an' stay, next?" Juts his jaw a bit off at an angle. "I already fetch. But if y' want me t' beg, my fee goes up."

But hey, don't worry about her getting too serious. If he moves any higher on her rib cage, ticklishness is going to get her laughing. A weakness not even scarab can eliminate—she's lucky not just anyone can unlock it.

"And that way you can also take notes. Let me know if it's structurally sound. Or where a sniper could hide. Or if the staff look nerdy enough... All your areas of expertise." Beat. "Damn, maybe you should've been the librarian."

At the invitation to sit, she shakes her head against his chest. "No, not really."

Though then she does pull back, almost immediately. As his hand reaches her shoulder blades, and scarab, she lifts hers, too. Fixes his hair. Or possibly messes it up more, by picking at individual strands and brushing them back behind his ear.

She's not supposed to have this future. It feels like standing at a threshold she isn't allowed to walk over.

But delicately, her fingers scrape down his jawline, through his beard. Her expression is searching. Staring is fair play. She can't live in this moment forever, and that's okay. That's how it is. There will be other moments. For now, it's that much easier to make the decision: to eat when she doesn't feel like eating, to go somewhere she's afraid to go, to have him with her when it's selfish, to let him carry her over the threshold.

She doesn't say yes or no, but her a different smile breaks across her face, no longer quite able to take all this in earnest.

"Thanks. You may have to let go of me first."

And ain't it weird and amazing, how often in his life now that series of events occurs? Alice: does something. Bucky: laughs immediately.

He's pretty sure that if there weren't a few wires crossed in his head that seem to prevent it, he might get kinda giddy thinking about it. But so far euphoria's not quite moved back into the neighborhood. That's no reason to give up hope, though. Not yet. Not with her.

"I'm thinkin' you're still a far better bet for librarian, solntse." His fingers gradually splay as they meet the lower edge of scarab. Frame it. Trace its perimeter beneath her shirt. Map its center line from top to bottom. Absent, but thoughtful, at the same time. "...'Fraid my blank-eyed stare might scare the kids away."

As her fingers travel the side of his face, he makes a little humming sound. Low, warm. Little like an idling engine revving slightly under a soft touch on the throttle.

He resists the urge to let his eyes close, or at least unfocus, to better enjoy the sensation. He's too busy enjoying looking at her.

Too busy suddenly thinking a few seconds back in the conversation. Something she said that he definitely caught, but is somehow still catching up to him just now. And he's feeling a little flutter of something in the pit of his stomach. A bit of weightlessness, breathlessness — the spark of excitement (that should maybe be fear, but there go crossed wires and misfires again) right before taking a plunge.

Her smile, her tease, gives him a second's reprieve. (But it's still there. On the lip of the drop. Heel almost off the edge.)

His eyes dip at her words. Fake surprise as he takes in the lack of distance between them.

"Ah. Damn." A rueful little head tilt, now, which ruins the adjustments she made to his hair. More of it falls free. "Y'know what...?" Nodding, nodding. Smiling back, but still pretending like this is the revelation of the week. "You're pro'ly right. As always."

He sighs, letting his hand slip over scarab, back to her spine, down to her lumbar area and idly returning around to her side and waist. Makes as if to twist to look back at the pan of eggs still waiting on its potholder on the island, but pauses halfway, to look back at her. Make sure he's snagged her eyes.

"I do love you, by the way."

And there it goes. The hatch dropping open in his stomach. The plummet.

But just in case we don't wanna dwell on that, he quickly adds, "And I got a proposal — "

"Wow. That's both an abuse of power, and a violation of professional ethics." Guess she's not beating the no-fun-police allegations.

Alice leans over the stair rail, holding it lightly with both hands. That habitual, contemplative line between her eyebrows. But not as if she's contemplating being mad. Her braids fall over her shoulder, twisting like Rapunzel's out the tower window.

"Do I get to know yours?" She doesn't make it a condition—I won't be mad if... With Khaji Ren's loose grasp of privacy, she'd have to be some kind of hypocrite to ask who told him. But she'd like to know about him. Even if it seems like—

Well, by the time his birthday rolls around, who knows if he'll be here?

It's a shame he's here for hers, instead. Bad time of year for a birthday—always false spring, never the real thing. Julie has gotten her to acknowledge it, but only low-key.

"Did you have someplace particular in mind?" Alice doesn't need a plan, but she can admire one in other people. "Somewhere meeting the librarian-approval criteria for dust, dim lighting, and little old white ladies whispering hush..."

He's rubbing the back of his neck as he glances up. "Yeah… I think maybe they think we, uh—" He slips his hand around forward to rock it back and forth in a gesture, her and him, "—should hang out..."

As the kids say. And why shouldn't they, anyway? Two consenting adults… (Doesn't get much more adult than 100-plus, in his case.) He knows he likes her. She seems to have not hated having him in and out of her library the past almost-year-now… Why not spend more time enjoying each other's company? While he's got it to give.

"Me?"

If he sounds surprised she asked. Well. He is. Though maybe he shouldn't be. Her genuine interest in other people is hardly the least of her many charms.

"The 10th." All casual. Two days from now, actually, though he wasn't about to mention it until she asked.

He's got a Happy Birthday from Coney Island card from Steve folded up in his back pocket right now. Hasn't missed a year since Bucky's been… back. The first year or two he wondered how Steve managed to know where he was to send it. Has since given that up, knowing the kind of intel resources at Rogers' fingertips if he really wants to use them.

Bucky, tilting his head again, props the clipboard against his side. Rests his free hand on his hip.

And — God, no — that feels even more awkward than nervously flipping it.

"Well, I mean, if you want dust, specifically concrete, we could go into the unfinished basement—" He tips a thumb off his hip and behind him. An excuse to move his hand and shift his weight out of that stupid goddamned pose. "—an' I could crack open my lunch box ri'now…"

He twitches her a smile. Little lopsided. Little silly. On purpose, again. "I did, actually. On the chance you'd say yes." The smile lingers, but sobers slightly, with genuine conviction. "Guy who asks a pretty girl to go somewhere with him an' doesn't have a plan's just asking for her to change her mind. And he'd deserve it."