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Eliot’s in the kitchen, chopping carrots julienne for a hearty chicken stew. He’s alone in his apartment, enjoying the repetitive motions and quiet tock-tock of knife on wood, unhurried. For once he will eat by himself - although judging by the pile of vegetables, he’s entirely unlearned how to cook for one rather than five. He’ll have to freeze his dinner in portions; it’ll last him through the week. Or maybe he’ll bring some to their office tomorrow and tell Hardison not to touch it.
A noise from the living room causes him to still. It sounded like a window falling closed. He listens closely, waiting for footsteps or the rustle of clothes or a gun being cocked. He shifts his grip around the handle of the knife until he could throw it, and slowly turns around.
He isn’t kept wondering for long. Right there in the doorframe leading out into the hallway stands Mr. Quinn. The gun is raised, aimed straight at Eliot’s heart, ready to fire. Sneaky bastard.
“Long time no see,” Eliot greets. He has no idea what’s going on and it freaks him out a little. They had parted amicably enough; somehow he’d assumed Quinn would no longer take jobs which would cross the team’s paths. At least not as enemies.
“You’ve gone soft,” Quinn replies around one of his damnable smirks. They always cause his eyes to twinkle as if he were ten and plotting to raid the cookie jar.
Eliot focuses on the gun. “I’m on downtime, I didn’t expect visitors.” But silently, he berates himself for leaving the window open, for letting his guard down. He learned better. Not being on a job is no excuse.
“Not all your old friends can wait for you to show up on their doorstep.” Quinn’s outstretched arm is steady, so it’s not a mistake that his aim inches ever-so-slightly to the side. When Eliot catches his gaze again, Quinn’s head tilts to the side and forward meaningfully, as if imparting an important truth and waiting for Eliot to catch on.
Eliot considers feeling insulted; he understood the hint well enough. Quinn knows him. Knows that the only way to carry out a successful hit is to kill Eliot on sight, from a distance, to not give him a chance to defend himself. Eliot just wonders who from his colorful past is out for his blood this time.
“You should’ve called,” he says, and then agony shoots through his shoulder.
*
Eliot hates to admit it, but he actually passes out for a bit. The bullet hit his collarbone and he can just imagine it splintering and little bits of it floating all through his chest now. He’ll need surgery. His left arm will be unusable for weeks. Quinn will pay for this.
As he comes back around, he realizes he’s been propped up into a chair, his arms immobilized with a strong cord that wraps around his waist. At least it keeps his wounded shoulder in a proper position. Small mercies from the other hitter.
Quinn seems nowhere around. The space Eliot is in is vast, cold, dark and damp. Concrete and metal. An empty warehouse. There’s the sound of water outside, waves crashing against a stone wall. At the docks, then. How cliché. But the docks are one of Quinn’s favorites about working in Boston, he uses them often and knows his way around better than some of the locals.
Behind him and to his left, hinges squeak and a metal door falls back into its lock with a hollow bang. Eliot doesn’t try to turn around, it would only jar his shoulder. He doesn’t have to, because the new arrival comes closer and walks around him, until an armed woman steps into view.
“Eliot Spencer,” she says with an air of self-satisfaction and drama. She must have been waiting for this day for a while already. She’s maybe five-feet-seven, dressed casually in jeans and sneakers, and her brunette hair flows down her back in soft waves. Eliot would think her pretty if not for yet another gun being pointed in his general direction.
At his lack of response, she sighs. “You don’t even remember me, do you?”
He is certain he’s never seen her before. His voice croaks, “No.”
She puts the muzzle between his eyes. “Seven years ago, you killed my brother.”
Contrary to popular belief, there are not a lot of lives Eliot has actually taken. He knows he might be able to figure out who she’s talking about if he has enough time. But he has none left.
In the shadows, something catches the light. It takes every bit of self-control to not look there.
“A man puts a gun in your face, you got two choices,” he says.
The woman grins, obviously recognizing the quote. “You can stand there and die,” she laughs, and squeezes the trigger.
Her head explodes like a smashed watermelon. While the shot echoes in the room, blood soaks into Eliot’s hair and t-shirt.
Quinn steps forward and pushes the body to the side from where it collapsed in front of Eliot. “Or you kill the motherfucker,” he snarls. He picks up the woman’s pistol and tucks it into the back of his slacks together with his own. Then he grabs Eliot’s chin and forces his head up until he can see Eliot’s eyes. “How are you holding up?”
Eliot does his best to convey murderous rage through the hazy pain. “I can’t believe you fucking used me as bait.”
“She was careful, used a lot of middlemen. But I knew she would want to kill you personally; you were my only in.” It doesn’t sound like an apology at all, so Eliot just growls.
*
After hours of medical attention, no questions asked, strict orders not to move his arm, and a handful of serious painkillers, Quinn deposits Eliot back in his home.
“You owe me, like, five hundred favors.” Eliot hates how light his voice is. He’s still mad, really fucking mad at Quinn, but the pills also mean he’s high. His limbs are weightless and even bare wood feels cushioned.
“I replaced your ruined clothes, brought you home,” Quinn ticks off his fingers, “and now I’m going to finish that chicken stew for you before the rest of the food goes bad.”
“It’s a start,” Eliot grumbles... well, mumbles. He’s suddenly very tired. He pushes up to walk the few steps from the couch to his bed, and is determined to get there on his own, but the door jamb weaves dangerously close before Quinn catches him around the waist and pull-pushes him along.
Eliot is out like a light as soon as his body is horizontal.
*
Eliot wakes up hungry enough to eat a whole cow, and the smell of lime sauce and fish does not help. He struggles up to use the bathroom, when he notices Quinn standing in the doorway again. Sans weapon, thank fuck.
“You’re a creep,” Eliot notes.
“Just checking on you.”
Quinn had downgraded from his customary dress to worn jeans and a soft-looking t-shirt, and his hair is free of its ponytail, curling around his ears. Eliot wants to slide his hand in and grab a hold. He quickly retreats into the adjacent bathroom and closes the door behind him.
After the late lunch they go through Eliot’s netflix queue - which he’d meant to spend his downtime doing, anyways - and Eliot soon nods off again. Painkillers always did a number on him. He stubbornly does not apologize when he discovers he drooled on Quinn’s shoulder.
It’s only after sandwiches for dinner and another round of movies that Eliot gets itchy. He wants to go to bed, but he’d really like to shower first. Except that the bandages on his shoulder are not supposed to get wet, which means he’ll need help - either wrapping half his body in plastic, or. Well. He doesn’t think about options.
Quinn leans over to steal some of his M&Ms, stops, sniffs, and pulls a face.
“Yeah, thanks,” Eliot shoots back, annoyed as if Quinn had actually commented on it, “I know I need a shower.”
Without a word, Quinn gets up and walks away, after popping a handful of chocolate into his mouth. A minute later, water is running and Quinn returns. “The tub’s filling up. You have a sponge and a shower brush for your back. It’ll be easier to keep the dressings dry that way.”
Eliot feels stupid now for snapping at him. At... his friend. For all intents and purposes. He gets up as well and means to walk past Quinn, but is stopped by an open hand reaching to block the door.
“Here, let me help.” Quinn moves slowly, but Eliot still cannot suppress the flinch when Quinn’s fingers collect the hem of his shirt and brush against his skin.
Eliot lifts his right hand, while Quinn’s knuckles travel up his right side and left arm, which is trapped within the t-shirt. It’s pulled over his head entirely, and suddenly they’re standing close enough to make Eliot aware of their slight height difference again. He stared at Quinn’s lips a moment too long, he knows, when they pull up into a smile.
He raises his head, ready for any sort of smart-ass remark or nasty insult, just not for Quinn closing the last few inches of distance and pressing a dry, but warm and soft mouth against his. It is almost chaste, and brief, and Eliot is struck dumb by it.
“Yell if you need me,” Quinn says with a wink, and gives him a slight shove in the direction of the bathroom.
*
Quinn stays for two weeks. He manages to make good on two hundred and forty-three favors.