ot3tropetober

"Dammit, Hardison, what is going on here,” and other Frequently Asked Questions below the read more

Alec yells from behind his door. “Put the damn sword away in the living room, you’re gonna break something!”

“Dammit Hardison!”

“Oh since when do you actually call me that like everybody else does?

When Hardison had put up a message in the local coffee shop for people in fancy dress to come to his little sister’s art show in exchange for ‘free champagne, cheese cubes, and the warm feeling of helping a struggling art student’, he wasn’t really expecting anyone to show up, even though he’d gotten a few e-mails about it.

There were a bunch of probably-bored-theatre-kids in thrifted outfits who seemed to take their job as 'pretend to be interested in certain pieces to trick rich assholes into buying them’ very seriously. And then there was the couple…

The incredibly hot couple who was his age, and who’d walked over to him (him with a glass of champagne, her with a cheek full of cheese cubes) to ask if he was Hardison, and if so, which one was his sister’s art, because, in the words of the cute blonde (Parker, she introduced herself as Parker) “we’ve been practicing our arty-farty commentary with Sophie”.

The guy, Eliot, had given a hapless shrug, pretending he wasn’t staring at his girl with heart eyes so big they could be seen from space, and had told him 'she thought it sounded like a fun date, and what Parker wants, Parker gets’.

He’d shown them Breanna’s art, had some more champagne they made arty-farty commentary about it, had some more cheese cubes, and totally attracted some rich collector’s interest. At the end of the night, Breanna was flipping out because all her artwork had sold, and Eliot and Parker invited him back to their place.

When Parker’s therapist had suggested taking up knitting as a form of practicing ‘something meditative’, she hadn’t been very impressed. Real meditation set her on edge, and she already had to stay unnaturally still in her job a lot of the time anyway. But knitting seemed a lot better than her other suggestions (she’d been extremely disappointed to find out that 'diamond painting’ contained no actual diamonds).

Besides, she liked the grumpy man who ran the yarn shop.

He wasn’t actually grumpy. Well, he was, but he wasn’t mean. And he always took the time to help her figure out her mistakes, even that time when she’s gotten so frustrated she’d chucked her whole project off of the skyscraper she’d been hanging from and she’d had to untangle it from a tree. He hadn’t even commented on the leaves still stuck in her supposed-to-be-a-hat.

And if maybe he flirted a little with her, and she flirted back, and he gave her his number (for 'yarn emergencies’ of course), well… she did call with those. And the fact that he picked up at three in the morning to answer them said a lot about both how their brains might be similar, and that maybe he liked her as more than just a customer. (When he’d accepted one of her video-calls smiling, shirtless and with sleep mussed hair, that had sure helped Parker make that assessment.)

“Your favourite customer is back,” Parker said, beaming and swinging her ponytail as she bounced by the counter where Eliot was working through the list of pre-orders and re-orders. From the front of the store, he could hear the little bell ring and the sound of excited children’s feet rushing to the children’s section.

“He’s not my favourite customer,” he grumbled at her. She threw him a knowing look.

“Then how did you know who I meant without even looking up?” she asked, grinning when he growled a ‘dammit Parker’ under his breath. She’d only started teasing him more about his ‘little crush’ since they’d started dating. He didn’t have time to reply, though, because Hardison had just walked into earshot, a small child on his shoulders as he was trying to talk to a gaggle of teens and tweens.

“…stay with the little ones and make sure Carlos picks out something that isn’t related to gruesome murdersssaaaaand I’ve lost Breanna and Marty to the sci-fi section, thanks guys.” He grinned at Eliot and Parker. “Hi.”

Parker smiled, before slipping off. “I’ll go help Carlos find something with only child-appropriate murders in them,” she said, which was probably not the best thing to say to a customer, but Hardison laughed.

“Hi,” Eliot said. “I have your order all ready to go.” Not that he’d taken extra care to wrap it up and put it in a bigger bag because there were bound to be extra purchases like pretty much every other Wednesday afternoon.

“Thanks man,” Hardison said, smiling that sunshine smile of his. “This is Daisy, she just earned a gold star for being able to write out her ABCs, so we’re here to pick out a very special book for her.” On his shoulders, Daisy gave a shy smile. “And I told her you’d know just the perfect book, like always.”

“Okay then, miss Daisy, what do you like to read about?” he asked. She dithered for a second, looking down at Hardison for reassurance. He gave her an encouraging nod.

“Dragons,” she said.

Eliot grinned. “I have just the book for you, this way.”

After two tours, Eliot Spencer takes his father’s old hardware store in Stars Hollow and turns it into a diner. He goes to Town Meetings mostly to make sure Taylor doesn’t try to pass anything too crazy and twee, and he tries to help out where he can.

His life changes when Parker and Hardison move to town with their adorable and incredibly smart daughter, Rory. He makes them their coffee every morning  (far too much coffee to be healthy), sees them at Town Meetings (where all three seem to enjoy causing as much chaos as possible) and he tries not to watch them too conspicuously when they compete in the 24-hour dance marathon every year (the year Hardison wore suspenders and Parker had that yellow dress nearly broke him).

No matter what Miss Patty says, he knows better than to tell them how he feels. They’re obviously ridiculously in love, he’s not going to try and come between that. He gets to see them every morning for breakfast and usually a couple of times a week for dinner. He gets to make Rory a ridiculous coffee cake for her birthday and make her soup when she’s sick and teach her how to throw a punch when that little jerk in sixth grade keeps harassing her. He teaches Hardison how to fish for some kind of business trip. Twice a year for Hardison and Parker’s birthday, he comes to the house and fixes whatever needs fixing and stays to make them dinner. It’s enough.

It’s just Hardison being kind when he helps Eliot paint the diner. It’s just Parker being Parker when she slips behind the counter and into his personal space to steal a fresh pot of coffee before he can head to their table. It’s just a joke that every year, they get into a furious bidding contest with each other over Eliot’s picnic basket at the auction, even though it always ends up with all three of them eating it together anyway.

The lights are so bright that the arena looks unreal.  The air is thick with dust and the smell of fried foods and horses.  Hardison tried to kick some dirt over his new boots so he’d look a little less like a greennose or whatever they’re called.  Greenhorn, that’s the one.  It might be his first rodeo, but he doesn’t want it to seem like it to anyone else.

The cowboy straddling the bull looks pretty damn cute.  His boots aren’t new, that’s for sure, and his thighs are straining against the tight denim of his jeans as he wedges his hand under the ropes that are his only connection to the bull.  Hardison leans on the fence and watches.  

The bull leaps free of the gate, heaving like a wave.  Somehow the cowboy stays on, those thighs gripping the bull’s sides, his free hand waving.  And then he’s off, taking advantage of the bull’s momentum to fling himself free.  The bull wheels, snorting, and out of nowhere pops an angel in an oversized pair of overalls, blonde hair gleaming under the lights.  She dances and the bull is mesmerized along with half the audience.  Even the cowboy stops staggering toward the fence and looks at her with admiration.

Spy vs Pie

“I thought you were a spy!” he hisses.  They’re crouched under an upended table.  He risks a peek over and ducks quickly back down.

“I thought you were a food critic!” she hisses back.

“What about this seems like critiquing food?” he demands.  “Those guys have guns!  Big ones!”

She scoffs.  “Clearly you haven’t been a critic for long.”

Hardison hadn’t wanted to play the composer’s new piece this season.  The inclusion of contemporary instruments and contemporary modalities felt cheap and gimmicky.  It was a piece written to sell seats.  Yes, the symphony needed to bring in money, and yes, ticket sales were the easiest way to do that, but it felt wrong.  People should come to the symphony because they wanted to hear beautiful antiquity.  The classics were classics for a reason.  They could play newer pieces, of course - Copland, Barber, Neuwirth, Chin - but without succumbing to the public’s need for mashups or ploys.

Hardison wakes up in somebody’s arms, cradled close to a broad chest.  It’s warm, feels nice.  He looks up and shrieks a little.  It’s the damn guy in the damn mask from the haunted house, and he’s still wearing the mask.

“Hey, man, I didn’t mean to scare ya."  

"You fainted,” Parker puts in.  She’s trotting along next to them.  She takes Hardison’s hand and squeezes.  “Eliot here picked you up and carried you out of the haunted house.”

“I can walk,” Hardison insists, even though he’s enjoying being carried a lot more than he thought he would.  

“If you say so,” Eliot says, and sets Hardison gently on his feet.  Hardison doesn’t mind the arm Eliot keeps around his waits to make sure he’s steady, which is a little unexpected.  

“At least let me buy y'all a drink,” Eliot says.  He takes off the mask and shakes out his hair.  “To make up for the, you know, screaming, fainting, all that noise.”

“He’s cute,” Parker says, looking at Hardison.  “Right?”

“Yeah, he’s cute,” Hardison says.  “I mean, without the mask.  Please don’t wear the mask to the bar.”

“Uh, thanks,” Eliot says.  “I wasn’t planning on it.”

“I think we’ll take you up on that,” Hardison says.  “As long as the mask stays, and I can’t stress this enough, off."  Parker links her arm through his and offers her hand to Eliot.

In Hardison’s opinion, the punch had been well-deserved. Heck, if he hadn’t been trying to radiate Calm Authority, being a teacher and all, he would have high-fived the girl. Sadly, she’d done it in a crowded hallway, in front of the Vice Principal. When Hardison had asked her who to call, she’d grinned a feral grin and rattled off a phone number. Hardison knew that grin. And this? This was going to be good.

Since he was the youngest teacher on staff, he’d gotten the shit job of sitting next to both Molly and the kid she punched in the awkward plastic seats outside the Principal’s office. Possibly to keep another punch from happening. Possibly to intercept the second angry parent. He wasn’t quite sure.

Inside the office, the boy’s mother was raising hell, shouting about how could the let this happen and her poor baby’s nose. Yeah, it was definitely broken. And if Hardison maybe pressed the bag of ice to his face with a little more force than necessary when Tim moved it away, well, Molly wouldn’t tell on him.

Then, a man in a leather jacket came sweeping into the office, long hair billowing, face like a vengeful god.

Oh no, he’s hot.

“Molly, what happened?” he asked, completely ignoring Hardison as he stood up and tried to… well, he didn’t know, he was a little tongue tied. Introduce himself?

“Tim snapped my bra strap, so I broke his nose,” she stated matter-of-factly. In the other chair, Tim sunk further into his seat under the glare Eliot shot him, trying to hide behind his ice-pack.

“Did you put your hips into it?” he asked. When Molly nodded, he grinned. “That’s my girl.”

Before Hardison could say anything, the door opened. A furious woman stepped out, followed by the principal. “Mister Spencer,” he greeted. “Your daughter is going to be expelled for…”

“Protecting herself against sexual assault?” Eliot cut off. The woman next to him spluttered. “Because Molly just told me he was snapping her bra. I assume you only called me down here to know if I want to press charges against the perpetrator.”

“There’s no evidence that…” the principal began quickly. Oh hell to the no.

“I saw him do it,” Hardison cut in. “He made more than one attempt, and from what I could tell, Molly warned him before she resorted to…” A beautiful right hook. “Self-defense.”

For the first time since he came in, Mister Spencer looked at him. Oh no, his eyes were really pretty too.

By the time Mister Spencer had firmly read the principal the riot act, scared little Timmy’s mother into submission, and made Tim rethink ever touching another girl without their consent again, Hardison was pretty sure he was in love.

“Come on,” Molly’s dad said, holding his hand out to his daughter. “This calls for pizza and milkshakes.”