#leverage imagine

Not my best work but I hope you like it!

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General Taglist:  @criminaly-supernatural, @imaginesfire, @rexit-mo, @onuen, @witchygagirl, @alexxavicry,

There was always something. A mistimed guard. An escape. Eliot too far for immediate backup. You and Harry with the damning file. Harry and you rushed down the halls, his hand gripped tightly in yours. Breanna’s voice directed you.

Your heart dropped as the goon stepped into the hallway. Shit. You pushed Harry behind you on instinct. “Eliot, we’ve got trouble.” You said into your coms. You glanced over your shoulder at Harry and handed him the file. The file that would prove Reynolds’ embezzlement. “Take the files. Get out. Now.”

Harry stared at you for a beat. His face screwed like he wanted to argue with you.

“I’m on my way.” Eliot growled through coms. “Keep ‘em occupied. Harry, get to the truck.”

He nodded and grabbed the file. Then, he took off down the hallway behind you. He’d find another way out. The goon took a step forward. You rolled your shoulders and got into the stance Eliot had taught you a long time ago.

The goon was easily twice your size. Practically a mountain of a man. And the fight was brutal. You got in a few solid hits. But one solid hit to the face and it all went black.

The world came back in a violent haze. It spun and shifted with your blurry vision and ringing ears. Your head pounded – just behind your eyes – and your cheek radiated a throbbing pain. Blood on your lips. Some on your forehead too. Fuck, you felt like you got punched by Eliot.

You groaned. A voice – familiar and urgent – danced outside your understanding. You blinked a few times, and forced yourself to focus. You vision cleared with each blink. Basement. Stacked boxes and concrete walls were a dead giveaway. The familiar urgent voice said something you couldn’t quite make out again. You tried to lift your hand, but couldn’t. Ropes. Tied to a chair, then. Great. Just great.

“Y/N? Please wake up.” Harry’s voice finally came through. “Y/N? Come on, please? Please wake up.”

“Harry?” You groaned, your head still spinning slightly. “My head hurts.”

His voice came again over coms. You could practically see his face creased in worry. “I know. I know.” He soothed. “Just hang tight, okay? Eliot’s already on his way.”

“We blown?” You whispered, testing the ropes again.

“Just you and Harry.” Sophie replied.

Before you could reply, Reynolds – the evil CEO of a healthcare company – and the same goon from earlier walked in. “Shit.” You whispered. “This is gonna get bloody.”

“Ah! Look who’s awake!” Reynolds smiled sinisterly and walked toward you as he wagged his finger. “You, you tried to steal from me.” He glanced at the goon. “I want to know who they work for.”

The goon nodded and started to roll up his sleeves. “You got it, boss.” And with that, Reynolds walked back out. Fuck, this is gonna hurt.

The first hit knocked the wind out of you. A blow to the ribs. You groaned. Another to the cheek.

“Who do you work for?” The goon yelled in your face.

“Fuck you.”

The next hit never came. As the fist came, an arm caught it. Eliot’s snarled face came up over his shoulder. And as he pulled him away, you let yourself slump into the chair. Thank god for Eliot.  

You sucked in a breath through your teeth as Eliot finished wrapping your ribs. He’d gotten you out alive and only slightly banged up. A butterfly bandage on your forehead, a bruise on your cheek, a split lip, and a set of bruised ribs. Not the worse you’d had, not the worse than the others had. Still hurt though.

“Thanks, El.” You half-smiled and winced immediately, as Eliot stood. “I appreciate the patch up.”

“Always.” He nodded, cleaning up the mess of medical supplies on the table in front of you. “Just next time, run. Don’t try to fight like that.”

You made eye contact with him. “You know why I did it.”

“I do. That’s why I’m telling you not to do something stupid like that again.” He looked pained, worried. He was always concerned when it came to protecting you. You knew he knew what you were feeling back there.

“Harry –“ You started, but stopped short as the man in question walked in. You and Eliot shot each other a quick look.

“You called?” Harry asked. His forehead creased slightly with concern. Eliot walked out.

“Hey!” You gave him a small smile. “How are you doing?”

“Me?” Harry asked incredulously. “I’m fine. You’re the one who got beat up.” He held up a bag of frozen peas and sat next to you. “May I?” You gave a small nod and he gently placed the peas to your cheek. Cool relief came instantly. You let out a soft sigh as the cold hit your skin. “You know, I still don’t know why you did that back there.”

You chuckled despite the pain in your ribs. “You’re lucky you’re cute, you know. Everyone else figured it out, hell, I think Breanna just won the bet.”

“Wait, you think I’m cute?” Harry’s eyes widened and a blush crept up his cheeks.

“Obviously. Why do you think I always try to protect you?”

“Well, I assumed it was because I was on the team.” He chuckled. “But now I’m thinking there’s a lot more to it than that.”

You smiled at him fondly. Your Mr. Wilson, so bright yet so oblivious sometimes. “And what do you think that is?”

“You like me.” His eyes crinkled in the way it always did when he was really happy. And he was holding back a laugh.

“More than I’d like to admit.” Your voice turned soft with an unspoken love. That thing you’d buried deep. It had come out in smaller moments before, and had started to fester after only a few months into his redemption journey.

His eyes searched your face, as if looking for the lie. After a moment, he softly asked, “Can I take you to dinner? When you’re all healed up, I mean.”

“It’s a date.”

Do not copy to another site. Ask for permission before bookbinding. I EXPLICITLY FORBID ANYONE FROM FEEDING MY FICS TO AI. All rude comments will be blocked and deleted.

You shrug, dropping down on all fours.

“I have four hours to waste, which means I have four hours to relax. If you wanna fuck around some?”

“Oh,” he breathes. He knows exactly how you like to fuck around when you’re stressed.

Alec looks at you wide eyed for the entire time it takes you to cross the room to his desk. Snapping out of it only when you’re kneeling in front of him and running your hands up his thighs.

He makes a choked noise, hand snapping up to cover his mike and pull it away from his mouth even with it being off.

“Jesus, baby, are you sure?”

His voice is rushed but he’s looking at you with obvious interest. You smile up at him before leaning in and ghosting the tip of your nose over where you know his cock is hiding in his basketball shorts.

You make eye contact, “Please?”

Alec’s leg jumps.

That, the soft needy question you pose, is all he needs because in a second he’s reaching his hand back for one of his pillows and dropping it down for you to kneel on. You do so with a small chuckle and a “thank you.”

He’s trembling and giving you the most eager looks in between participating, voice mainly only keeping steady because you’re not trying to distract him. You just want him in your mouth, no mischief needed. Though he is fidgety partially because he knows if the inclination struck you you could easily embarrass the hell out of him.

You laugh and move to pull his pants down his thighs with his assistance. Once he’s free to your satisfaction you brush the lightest kiss to his happy trail. He sighs, meeting your gaze intermittently as he plays through his turn. In response you trail featherlight kisses down to his dick, which is steadily hardening for your consideration, kiss at his base and then travel down to lick over his balls.

His voice stutters harshly over his next sentence and you smile before pulling away. He gives you this panicked desperate look, making as if he’s about to start complaining you, but you wave him off.

“Easy baby,” you mouth right before making him gasp by kissing his tip and then wrapping your lips around his head.

You keep your pace easygoing as Alec stutters and stops over his words; as he trembles against you, dick twitching while you slowly engulf him.

You wring your first moan out of him when you’ve gotten him all the way down your throat, mind steadily blanking on anything other than the weight of him on your tongue and the slight twinge in your jaw, when the back of your throat swallows over his head.

His head drops down and his hand clumsily snaps out to mute his microphone.

“S-shit girl, oh my god. It’s like you’re trying to kill me -goddamn.” he groans at the hum you give him.

You barely fucking hear him, have no clue when he moaned that he nearly did it for everyone to hear. You're just losing yourself in the sensations. The way he pulses in your mouth, the occasional twitch as he struggles not to fuck into your throat, how your jaw feels, the stretch of your lips, and then the drool running clear like polished glass down your chin and dripping onto Alec’s balls.

You sigh and go limp against him when his hand moves to your head. He burrows his fingers into your thick curls to get a firm grip but doesn’t do anything else. You swallow around his cock again in thanks, only in tune with the way it makes him shift against you. In the strangled noise he makes. The fact he’s on call isn’t even a factor any more; just his pleasure and how he feels in your mouth.

Your eyes flutter shut happily as he scratches blunt nails against your scalp.

“God baby,” he gasps and you whine just the tiniest bit, pussy twinging between your legs. Your hands don’t move from their position in your lap though.

Alec’s got you. The thought echoes in your mind nicely as you hand over control. You don’t have to worry about anything else but him.

- - -

Alec curses above your head, completely unregistered by you, and then rushes to get himself excused. You’re making him feel so fucking good and for that you deserve all his attention -and boy does he want to give it. Plus, you dropped so fast that he’s a bit worried about you; it typically took way more coaxing from him to get you out of your head.

He’s extra careful with his movements as he logs off and shuts down his setup. His eyes draw fully to you once he’s done and don’t leave. You were too pretty like this, face relaxed like it only ever was in sleep with your lips stretched to accommodate his girth.

He brushes his free hand over your face when he shifts too much for your liking and you let out an utterly disparaging whine.

“Shh, baby, it’s alright. You’re doing so good for me, you know that? I got you I promise,” he grinds forward the smallest bit, moaning when you squeeze down. “So damn good.”

NOTES: Hi, hope you enjoyed! I don’t know shit about dnd so I kept this as vague as possible, and I didn’t use gaming because I know even less about that shit.

I’ll catch any typos later!

I just got back on my Leverage bullshit and so now I feel I must finally blow the thick layer of built up dust off of this draft and post it. Keep in mind though that I have since turned this fic into another - heavily edited - Peter Parker fic with a similar premise because of how scared I was to post a “Hardison x Reader” story, let alone a smutty one. (I know, self plagiarism; the horrors! The whole idea of “self plagiarism” is nonsense anyway, but I digress.)

btw: if you’d like to leave a comment I’d very much appreciate it! this is a sideblog tho so I won’t respond.

“No matter how many times I put my hair up, it keeps falling out and getting in my face.” Eliot grumbled. I nodded and slipped my arms around his waist. He begrudgingly wrapped his arms around me. “Everything ok with you?” I shook my head.

“bad day.” I shrugged. “Just finished cleaning the office.” Eliot nodded and kissed my forehead. “I think I already what you’re going to say but…” I played with the back of Eliot’s shirt. “Can I braid your hair?” Eliot stared at me for a second before turning off the stove. Then he grabbed my hand and pulled me into the living room. Gently pushing on my shoulders, Eliot walked over to the bathroom. He came back with a hair tie and the hair brush.

“here.” He said, pushing them into my hands before sitting down on the floor in front of me. Reaching for the tv remote, Eliot put on the first sports game that he came across. Then he settled back between my legs against the couch. “Go ahead and start.” I hesitantly ran my fingers through his hair.

“you sure?” I asked as I gently scratched his scalp. Eliot hummed happily.

“yeah. I think we both need it.” Eliot looked over his shoulder at me. “Just don’t make it tight and make sure it wont come apart and get in my face.” I leaned down and kissed his cheek.

“thank you el.” I whispered. Eliot squeezed my knee before turning back towards the tv. Running my fingers through his hair, I sectioned it off into three parts. Grabbing the hair brush, I brushed it. Once I started braiding it, Eliot leaned further into the couch.

“How the hell is this as relaxing as it is?” He grumbled as he crossed his arms. I shrugged.

“beats me.” I carefully brushed the hair back from his face and made sure that it was tucked into the braid. “You going to fall asleep on me?” Eliot chuckled.

“maybe.” He teased. “You keep running your fingers through my hair and I just might.” I chuckled and gently tugged on his hair.

“behave yourself there mister.” I joked. Eliot groaned and leaned back further. Pulling the hair tie from around my wrist, I secured it to the bottom of the braid. “All done.” I patted his shoulders and his head lolled over onto my knee. He fake snored as I started laughing. Pushing his shoulder, Eliot couldn’t keep the smile off his face as he peeked at me laughing.

“got you in a good mood now though.” He laughed as he sat up. Kneeling in front of me, he leaned forward to kiss me. “Thank you.” Eliot whispered as he cupped my cheeks. “Wanna watch me cook?” I nodded.

“sure. If you want me to.” Eliot nodded. “You usually don’t.”

Naturally, you have an answer for everything: that you may not have known Eliot’s past when you took him home, but you sure as hell knew the man. That you don’t need to know the details of every job because you know he and his friends are best at what they do. That you know he’ll always come home to you because he’d promised you that he would.

When you get on that particular jag, Eliot knows there’s no arguing with you, so he gives in. (Or, at least, he does his version of giving in, which consists of a sour expression and a minute or two of the silent treatment even though he’s inevitably got an arm draped around your shoulder or a hand on your knee.) For your part, you’ve learned to give him a little grace with regard to that particular insecurity. You may not agree with his idea that he’s bad news, but you can’t expect him to rid himself of it overnight. But you’re always firm: you’re with him because you want to be. Because you’ve heard the bad parts and weathered the difficulties and decided you’re all in.

Today, though, it’s particularly hard.

The fourth day is the wiggle room day. Often, if you haven’t heard from Eliot in this long, you check your phone at the end of a shift and find an apologetic text or a hasty voicemail from him or, if he’s really stretched thin, from the team’s resident hacker.

But today, for whatever reason, things at the pub are painfully slow and you’ve got little else to do but idly clean behind the bar and check your cell phone near-constantly. You’d sent the other bartender on shift home early and since it was a weekday, no one would be in the kitchen until four to start prepping for dinner. There’d been no sign of anyone, not Parker or Sophie or Hardison or even Nate, and you’d only had two customers all day, both regulars.

By a conservative estimate, you were checking your phone about three times a minute and eventually you decided you’d be of no use to anyone if your hands were shaking so bad you couldn’t pour a beer. With a flip of the sign so it read that you’d be back in twenty, you were on your way up to Nate’s apartment.

You weren’t a part of the team by any stretch of the imagination, but as the longest standing member of McRory’s staff you weren’t not a part of the team. There were certain things you were made privy to, partly because it made sense and partly because it was, frankly, too difficult to hide everything from you. With the pub acting as the de facto front offices of Leverage Inc, (as the team was still affectionately called in some circles) it makes sense to have someone behind the bar that’s a little higher up in the ranks. Sophie had trained you to become an excellent liar, Parker’s shown you a few emergency escape routes in case a job follows them home, Hardison taught you the ins and outs of the pub’s beefed up security system, and even before you started dating, Eliot had insisted on showing you some self defense, in case any criminals (not the fun kind) decided to show up.

But all that doesn’t quite extend to apartment access. You know Nate lives upstairs, and the other tenants have all come down for a drink at least once, so you’d long since figured out that the elusive Tom Baker listed in the directory was none other than your boss. Taking the elevator to the corresponding floor, you try not to storm down the hallway in abject panic. Once at the door, though, you can’t help but knock a little frantically. After a few seconds of nothing, you lift your hand again, only to be met with a somewhat bewildered looking Nate.

“What?” he asks, just this side of irritable, plucking his earbud out, “what’s going on, why aren’t you downstairs?” Over his shoulder, you can see Hardison, slumped forward over a desk, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. You ignore Nate, zeroing in on Hardison only to hear a murmured apology and something along the lines of I know this has gotta be hell for you, man, but you got this. You start forward, but Nate crowds you out of the doorway.

“Hardison,” he calls, glancing over his shoulder, and once he has the younger man’s attention, he mimes taking something out from his ear. Hardison blinks slowly at him, then straightens up, removing his earpiece once he sees you.

“Hardison, what the hell?” you cry, pushing past Nate, who lets out a blustery sigh. Hardison frowns at you, confused. “It’s been more than three days,” you continue, “and I haven’t heard a word from either of you!” The realization seems to come to him slowly, as if through a fog, and he sighs once it hits him. 

“Shit,” he hisses, eyes squeezing shut with frustration, “I knew I was forgetting something.” You look at him expectantly, leg jiggling anxiously in place. “Eliot’s fine,” he says, “job’s just running a little long. We got him undercover.”

“It’s gotta be hell for him?” you protest, throwing his own words back at him–– and feeling a little guilty for being demanding like this when Hardison is clearly exhausted. But you can’t help it; even in the worst of times, Eliot and Hardison are constantly trading jabs–– If the hacker is extending that much of an olive branch, it means they’re about to be on the ropes… if they aren’t already.

“He’s fine,” Nate says, a little more firmly than kindly, before Hardison has a chance to go on. “He’s just undercover doing a sleep study. You know how he is. Why don’t you go back downstairs, huh?” He fixes you with a look, and though it’s a little stern, you also get the sense that he’s pleading with you to get out of their hair.

“Just let me talk to him,” you try. Nate almost laughs.

“Listen,” he says, “that’s about the last thing Eliot needs right now.” As much as the sentiment irks you, you know Nate is right. If Eliot knows you’re worried about him, it’ll distract him from the con. “Let him focus on the job,” Nate appeals, as if he’s reading your mind. “The sooner we get done what we need to do, the sooner you get him back, all right?” After studying him for a few moments, you grit your jaw and give a curt nod. You start to leave, but you catch Hardison’s eye on your way out.

“I need another update tomorrow,” you say. “Please?” Hardison nods gravely.

“He’s all right,” he says, “you know I’d tell you if he wasn’t.” He holds your gaze for a moment, and for all the frustration you feel, you nod. Of all of them, you know Hardison will give you the truth.

Back downstairs, the kitchen crew has arrived and is getting set up for the dinner rush. It winds up being surprisingly busy, considering the slow morning, but you’re grateful for anything to keep your mind off of Eliot and whatever the hell it is that he’s dealing with.

The next day you’re on the closing shift. You receive a text from Hardison around noon telling you that Eliot is okay. You thank him profusely before getting started on the things you need to get done before work. Finally, around the time you have to leave for your shift, you’re starting to feel better. Maybe this job is a tougher one, but with communications smoothed out, you feel reassured. It won’t be the first time Eliot has come back to you a little worse for the wear. And if he’s actually doing a sleep study like Nate said, maybe he’ll find out a few useful tidbits of information. A happy accidental byproduct.

The day is actually going pretty well until you practically crash into Sophie on the sidewalk outside the pub.

“Oh, bloody Nora!” she cries, one hand pressed to her chest as you bend down to pick up your keys, similarly startled. When you straighten up, you can tell right away that something’s wrong. Sophie may be an expert grifter, but you’ve caught her unawares.

“Sophie?” you ask, “What’s going on?” She studies you for a moment, biting her lip, and eventually sighs.

“Now listen, I’ve got to go or the whole thing is blown, just–– they’re all safe now, Parker’s taking care of Hardison and Eliot’s out of the experiment, all we have to do is––”

“Experiment?”

“It’s… really, all things considered, it’s not that bad, it––”

“Sophie,” you cut her off again, “please just tell me.” She frowns.

“Eliot went undercover into a university experiment where they were…” she sighs, “they were running sleep deprivation torture on groups of homeless men.”

Your eyes widen and you swallow thickly. Eliot hasn’t told you everything about his time in the army–– in fact, you doubt he’s told you most of it–– but he’d told you about sleep deprivation torture. How he’d been on the giving and receiving end of it, how he wouldn’t wish it on anyone, how he only understood just how evil it was once he’d been through it himself. And now he’s going through it again.

You notice, distantly, that Sophie has taken hold of your arm.

“I need to go, or the whole job could fall apart.” She levels her gaze at you. “Listen to me,” she says seriously, “Eliot is okay. Hardison’s okay. We’ll all see you tonight.” And with that, she’s off, leaving you struck dumb in the street.

Everyone at McRory’s can tell you’re on edge. You deliver the wrong orders to the wrong guests, you pour pints that are all foam. The crowd tonight is mostly regulars, which you’d be grateful for if you weren’t so preoccupied. Your coworkers pick up some of the slack, knowing you must be worried about Eliot. They don’t know exactly what he does, and no one believes any of the lies he spouts–– you keep telling him to stick to one, but he only grins and shakes his head: now where’s the fun in that?–– but they’ve all been around long enough to have seen him coming in black and blue, cut up, or worse. There are all kinds of theories floating around about the team, though none come close to the reality–– or at the very least, those who have figured it out are smart enough to keep their mouths shut.

With your relationship with Eliot being pretty much an open secret among the staff, no one bats an eye when the team straggles in and you go flying into the hitter’s arms. “Eliot,” you say, breathless, “thank god.”

He receives you with a quiet grunt at the impact, and where he might normally be a little wary at such a public display of emotion, you feel him sigh, relaxing into your touch.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he murmurs against your hair.

“Hi baby,” you croak in reply, the sound muffled against his shoulder. Eliot presses a kiss to your temple and you force yourself to pull away and look at him. The others file past you, and you reach for Hardison with one hand, catching his arm. Eliot lets you out of his hold, and though you miss the contact, you’re stunned to see Hardison is more bruised and battered than Eliot. “Holy shit,” you mumble, “what happened to you?”

“Joined a frat,” he says with a tired smile. You frown, concern pulling at your features as you look him over. “Don’t worry,” he says, giving your hand a squeeze, “your boy and my girl got me all patched up. I’m good.” He winces. “Or I will be.” You nod, letting go of his hand.

“Thank you, Hardison,” you say, “Really.” He winks.

“Any time, chica. I’ll see you later, all right?”

“See you,” you reply, already seeking Eliot’s touch again before you’ve even turned back to look at him. He takes your hands and studies you.

“How’d you find out what was going on, hmm?” he asks gently, thumb running over your knuckles. “You never get this worried unless someone gets in touch.” You sigh and lean into him again.

“Well, when I didn’t hear from you or Hardison, I got worried. I stormed up to Nate’s apartment and then I ran into Sophie, and…” You shake your head. “I just had to know you were okay.” He nods, though the look in his eyes is a little far away.

“I’m okay,” he says, though his voice is a little rougher than usual. You frown.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He hesitates, like he’s about to say more. He takes your hands in his, looks down at them like they’ll do the work for him. After a moment, it comes. 

“Hey,” he says, “think you could, uh… take me home?” 

The question practically strikes you down where you stand. Instead of doing what you want to–– instead of wrapping him in your arms and marching him out to your car, you throw a nervous glance over your shoulder.

“I–– I’m on shift,” you offer hoarsely, but before you can manage an apology, your coworker Natalie (who has been standing a little closer to the proceedings than you may have liked) interrupts.

“Are you kidding me?” she quips, “Jake’s already on his way to cover you. Get the hell out of here.” Gratitude and relief flood your features all at once.

“Really?”

“I already clocked you out, like a minute ago, so. Go. Seriously.” You look back to Eliot, who has the decency to look a little sheepish, and then skitter over to the bar to wrap your friend in an awkward hug across the lacquered wood.

“Thank you, Natty. I owe you one.” She waves you off.

“Oh, whatever. Cover my Saturday morning sometime next month so I can actually go out on a Friday.”

“Done.”

“Then we’re even,” she replies with a wink. You turn back to Eliot and he nods at the two of you.

“I’ll meet you outside,” he says, and you hurry to the back to get your things.

When you step out into the cool air, Eliot is leaned up against your car, waiting, brow furrowed in thought.

“Hey,” you say quietly, though you know the odds of startling him are slim to none. He looks up, and though he seems weary, he smiles at you. “I never got to give you a kiss,” you continue, “if you want one.” His smile widens a little at that.

“C’mere,” he says, the word caught halfway between an invitation and a plea. You lean in and take his face in your hands, pressing your mouth to his and he meets your tenderness with searing heat. You gasp softly against his lips, fingers of one hand sliding back into his hair, his hand fitting snugly against the small of your back. He kisses you like he’s afraid it will be the last time, leaving you breathless when he pulls away to rest his forehead against yours.

“Whoa,” you manage. Eliot lets out a clipped chuckle.

“Sorry,” he says, stealing another kiss, this one only a chaste peck, “sorry, I…” He shakes his head, the ends of his hair tickling your cheeks. “Felt like I was never gonna see you again.”

“Don’t be sorry,” you counter, “that was… I needed that. Trust me.” You offer a small smile as you skim your thumb across his cheek. “Now how about we get out of here, yeah?” Eliot gives the slightest of nods, a hum of agreement, but it’s a moment before he can make himself let go of you to head for the passenger seat.

The drive isn’t long, and Eliot tilts his head back against the seat and shuts his eyes. You don’t know it, but this is the first time since the university that he’s felt safe enough to do it for more than a few seconds. He doesn’t sleep, though, only listens to the quiet sounds of the road, the barely audible hush of your breathing.

With a little luck, you’re able to park close to your building, and Eliot hovers close as you make your way into the apartment. An almost tangible relief settles over the both of you once the lock slides home, and Eliot settles heavily onto the couch as you step out of your shoes. Wordlessly, you climb astride his lap and he pulls you close, face buried against your chest. His hair’s a little tangled as you start to comb your fingers through it, but you’re patient with the knots, coaxing them free so you don’t hurt him. He thumbs absent circles at the base of your spine in fits and starts, sometimes stopping and just letting you comfort him.

You can’t be sure how much time passes like that, Eliot’s breath warm against your skin, your hands in his hair, but eventually you’ve got all the knots out. You press a kiss to the crown of his head.

“Hey,” you whisper, “you hungry, sweetheart?” Slowly, he lifts his head, hair mussed adorably, thanks to your involvement.

“I could make something,” he says, expression a little foggy, though you don’t think he’d actually fallen asleep while you held him.

“Like hell you can,” you counter gently, “you’re not lifting a finger tonight. We can do takeout, hm?” 

“All right,” he concedes, looking up at you fondly.

“What sounds good?” Eliot unwraps his arms from around you and begins to trail his hands lightly up and down the length of your forearms as he weighs his options.

“Indian?” he says after a moment, “Maybe Thai?”

“Ooh, let’s do Indian; that sounds good.”

“You got it, sweetheart.” You can’t resist ducking down for a quick kiss before you disentangle yourself from Eliot’s lap, swiping your phone off the coffee table.

“You want your usual?” you ask, opening up the delivery app. Eliot is up right after you and he steps behind you and slings an arm around your waist, kissing the top of your shoulder. Warmth blooms in your chest.

“Please,” he says. “‘M gonna go take a shower. That all right?” You twist your head so you’re looking at him.

“Of course it is.” He kisses the crease that forms in your brow, then your nose, and with that, he strides off into the bathroom.

You wish he didn’t feel like he had to ask permission. Sure, this may be your apartment, but it’s as much his now as you are. He’s made a home here and in your heart, and you know he knows you’d give him anything he asked for–– and feel fuller because of it.

You also know that Eliot is a man who feels he needs permission to walk this earth. You know that every day he struggles to forgive himself for the things he’s done, asks penance for every good thing he accepts into his life now. As you change into your pajamas, you wish you could make him understand just how deserving he is. Of life, of happiness, of love. 

When the doorbell rings, the water has shut off, and you buzz in the delivery driver. You’re doling the food out onto plates when Eliot pads into the kitchen, having traded his everyday garb for sweatpants and a t-shirt.

“Feeling better?” you ask, turning from your work to take him in in all his cozy glory. He hums the affirmative and stands beside you to finish making his plate. Once you’re both settled at the table, you finally broach the subject.

“El, do you wanna talk about it?” He gives a noncommittal shrug, takes a forkful of food.

“What’d they tell you?” He doesn’t look at you.

“Not a whole lot,” you admit, “but I know you just went through at least a couple of days of sleep deprivation.” You don’t say the word torture, but then you don’t really need to. Eliot nods. He doesn’t say anything for a moment.

“Kept telling myself it’d be easy. That I’d done it before and there was a clear end in sight.” He looks up at you meaningfully, now. “Somebody to come home to.” You frown, bottom lip pinched between your teeth, and nod. “But that’s the thing about it; you lose time, start feeling delirious. Had the team in my ear the whole time, but…” He shakes his head. “It was a little too much like bein’ back there for my taste.”

You don’t know exactly where this particular ‘there’ is, but you know there are a few dark places Eliot goes when he’s sleeping, or even sometimes when he’s awake. His trauma isn’t easy for him to talk about, but you know he grapples with it often.

“Place was recruiting guys out of homeless shelters–– buncha rich kids offering three meals, a place to stay, and 50 bucks a day. Said they were studying PTSD, fuckin’ animals.” He’s getting more impassioned as he continues, but his voice is still quiet. “Pickin’ vets up off the street just to make ‘em relive the worst moments of their lives, trying to figure out how to break people––” Eliot cuts himself off, grits his teeth, and takes a slow breath. He looks at you, expression melting from angry to rueful. “Same kid behind it all had his frat beat the hell outta Hardison once they found out who I was. Got the location where they were keeping him outta the interrogator down there in less than two minutes.”

“Sounds like he got what was coming to him,” you say evenly. Eliot scoffs, and you can feel the way he deflects the vitriol away from you and onto himself.

“I’m no better’an them,” he says bitterly, not meeting your gaze, “not really. Gave me an excuse and I did the same thing they were doing.”

“El,” you say, “come on, that’s not true.” He makes himself look at you again. His eyes shine with guilt. 

“Isn’t it?”

You stand up and drag your chair closer to his and then sit back down, putting a hand on his knee. 

“Not for a second. Baby, you’re comparing yourself to men who used their power to abuse people already down on their luck. You did one bad thing to a very bad man, and you did it to save your friend.” He avoids your eyes again, jaw working silently. “And it’s eating you alive!” you cry. “Look at me,” you plead, “look at me.”

He does and your gaze is like sunlight. The warmth feels so good he can’t stand it.

“Bad people don’t worry about the things they’ve done,” you continue, “Bad people–– truly bad people–– don’t feel remorse the way you do. Bad people don’t break their backs to help people like you do. Bad people don’t love like you do… so fiercely. And so much.” Eliot is staring down at his plate, brow furrowed so deep it looks almost painful. But he nods. A little bit, he nods.

You don’t know if it’s because you’ve gotten through to him or because he wants you to feel like you have, but slow and steady has always won the race with Eliot. He reaches down to take your hand and continues eating dinner with his left. You drag your plate over, keeping your fingers laced with his, and finish your own food with your right.

Eliot insists, gently, on doing the dishes, and though you spend a few moments with your arms wrapped around him from behind, cheek pressed against his back, eventually you shuffle off to start getting ready for bed.

By the time he’s finished up, you’ve got the covers turned down on his side while you’re tucked under on yours, sitting up, waiting for him. He stands next to the bed a moment, looking apprehensive.

“What can I do?” you ask quietly. “To make it easier, I mean. Is there anything I can do?” His lips quirk into a small smile.

“You’re already doing it, sweetheart.” Eliot takes a breath and turns out the bedside lamp, crawling into bed beside you. As you lower yourself so you’re laying down, he holds out his arm, offering you your usual spot nestled against his chest. You lay your head down and he tucks his arm around you. Finally, you both feel like everything is right again.

“You sure you don’t wanna be the little spoon for a change?” you whisper, though you’re already making yourself comfortable–– an arm draped over his stomach, one ankle tucked between both of his.

“Nah,” he replies, leaning his cheek against your hair, “missed you. Missed this.” Carefully, you tilt your head back and place a soft kiss to his lips.

“You know you’re safe with me,” you say, though it sounds more like a question.

“I know.” He means it.

“I love you, Eliot.”

“I love you too, baby.”

“If you need me, wake me up, all right?” you say as you settle back into his chest.

“I’ll try––” he stops himself. “I will.”

“Good,” you whisper. It gets quiet, then, and you focus on the sound of Eliot’s heartbeat, the warmth of having him in your bed again, his arms around you. Eventually, you drift off to the sound of his slow, even breathing.