Fic: Hold My Hand (Eliot/Parker, PG)
Dec. 1st, 2010 12:13 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sherydenTitle: Hold My Hand
Author:sheryden
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1440
Pairing: Eliot/Parker (pre-relationship)
Spoilers: None
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Not mine. If it was, Eliot would be shirtless in half the episodes.
Summary: As the team is finishing up a job, Eliot struggles with memories of a past trauma.
Notes: This was written formeghan_84 for the leverage_sesa. I used the prompt “Eliot's PTSD becomes an issue on a job.” Can be read as gen, but I intend it to be a read as a precursor to a something deeper between Eliot and Parker.
“You’re crankier than usual,” Parker said, leaning against the doorframe of the old kitchen.
Eliot gripped the faded counter, knuckles white, and scowled at her. “What do you want, Parker?”
“Nate says we need to pack up.”
“So pack up,” he groused. When she didn’t move, he added, “I’ll be out in a minute, okay?”
Parker shrugged and turned to leave. “I still say you’re crankier than usual.”
After Parker disappeared through the doorway, Eliot eased his grip on the counter and let out a breath. He glanced around the kitchen of the old farmhouse the team had been using as their temporary base of operations. The house had seen better days—probably long passed, given the state of disrepair and the overgrown grass in the yard. Still, Eliot had been in far worse places than this. In fact, with a little love and upkeep, the place could almost be homey. Despite the potential of the house, though, Eliot couldn’t wait to be free of it.
They had arrived two weeks earlier to help a client get out from under a corrupt local politician. The job itself had gone smoothly, but soon after their arrival, Eliot had found himself biting back fear and panic. He’d done his best to hide his discomfort, but inside, he had been battling a storm of emotions for days.
Eliot had seen and done a lot of horrible things in his life, and for the most part, he could compartmentalize the past—he had to, or he wouldn’t be able to function like a normal person. But at times, there were smells or sounds or fleeting images that brought the past bubbling back up to the surface. The moment he had seen the old farmhouse, the bile had started to swirl around in his stomach. The creak of the steps, the way the paint was peeled off the walls by the door, the echo when someone talked. All of it was threatening to pull him several years back to a place he’d rather not revisit.
“Eliot!” Hardison called from the other room. “A little help out here!”
Swallowing down the anxiety, Eliot trudged toward Hardison’s voice. “All right,” he snapped, as he walked into the living room.
“Hey man,” Hardison said with a grin. “You got plenty of time to be lazy while I’m driving us all home. Grab that box.”
Eliot glared at him. He knew full well that Hardison was just being Hardison, and that he didn’t mean anything by his playful little jabs. But the panic and frustration that was nipping at the back of Eliot’s mind made him clench his jaw and turn away from the rest of the team.
He could hear the others laughing and chatting behind him. They had reason to be in good moods. The job had been a success, and they were leaving their client with a secure future. He wondered if he should force himself to join in, but instead, he kept focused on the job of packing up their equipment and getting them all out of there.
With a sense of purpose, he walked across the room to collect a neatly packed cardboard box. As he crouched down to pick it up, a swatch of faded red and blue on the floor in the corner caught his eye. It was a child’s ball—rubber and faded and forgotten.
Leaving the box where it was, Eliot scooped up the ball and held it in his trembling hand. It was covered with dust, but the once-vibrant blue and red stripes were still visible beneath the dirt. He squeezed it lightly, his fingers sinking into little holes where chunks of rubber had fallen out due to age and use.
Without warning, his mind traveled back to a ramshackle European farmhouse and an old woman with a warm smile and a small grandson. A flood of memories rushed to his head—the kind hands of the woman as she had cleaned his injured leg; the gleeful laugh of the boy as he had tossed his ball into the air; the softness of the first real bed he had seen in weeks; the shots and screams that had awakened him in the night.
Unable to contain his emotions, Eliot threw the ball as hard as he could at the window. The force was enough to send the toy crashing through the already-chipped glass. Muttering a few strangled obscenities, Eliot slammed his fist into the nearest wall, wincing at the self-inflicted pain. Then he punched the wall again, this time with little force behind the blow. His chest heaving from the sudden burst of anger, he leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees and trying to will himself to calm down.
Blinking back the tears that threatened to leak out of his eyes, Eliot suddenly became aware that the team—his family—was standing a few feet away, silently staring at him. He wasn’t ashamed of his emotions. They were a part of him, and they reminded him that a human heart still beat within his hitter chest. But he rarely let anyone see him so vulnerable, so raw.
Clearing his throat, Eliot walked briskly out of the door and lowered himself onto the front steps. He figured that someone would come to check on him eventually—probably Sophie. She was the team’s mother hen. But he hoped they would at least give him time to pull himself together.
After a few minutes, he heard the door creak open, accompanied by soft footsteps on the weathered slats of the porch. Parker slipped up and took a seat beside him. Not speaking, she reached over and patted him tentatively on the knee.
They sat there quietly for several moments, Eliot staring out at nothing in particular and Parker staring at Eliot. He was a little surprised that she was the one who came after him, but maybe he shouldn’t have been. Out of all of them, Eliot suspected that it was Parker who understood him best. They both had a connection to the ugliness of the world that neither of them really asked for but which seemed to be a natural fit. He often told her there was something wrong with her, but he knew deep down that whatever was wrong with her, she was almost well-adjusted compared to him.
“It’s the house,” Eliot said after a while. He let his words trail off, even though he knew Parker was waiting for him to keep talking. He just couldn’t muster up the words and instead went back to gazing out at the grass and dirt and sky ahead of him.
Making a face, Parker reached out and poked Eliot on the shoulder. “What did the house do?”
He choked out a laugh. “I guess it’s haunted.”
She inched a little closer to Eliot. “You saw a ghost? What did it look like?”
“Not that kind of haunted, Parker.” Eliot tried to muster up a tinge up annoyance in his voice, but even to his own ears, he just sounded tired. Turning to look directly at her, he said, “This house just unlocked a few memories. Stuff I don’t want to think about.”
“Of where you grew up?”
He shook his head. “Nah. Nah, I’m remembering someplace else.”
Parker cocked her head at him. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Clenching his jaw, he took a breath and shook his head. “No, I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Talking is supposed to help in situations like this,” she said.
“I said I don’t want to talk about it,” he snapped. It came out a lot louder and harsher than he had intended, and he immediately regretted his words. Running his fingers through his hair, he said, “I’m sorry. I just… if I talk about it, I have to think about it. And I don’t want to think about it more than I already have today.”
Parker nodded. “It just sounded like something Sophie would say.”
Eliot nudged her knee with his. “You don’t need be Sophie. Being you is enough.”
“I could hold your hand,” Parker said suddenly. “Would that be comforting?”
He gazed at her for a moment, then wordlessly held out a hand. She grasped his hand in hers and squeezed, her grip strong from years of climbing buildings and hanging onto ropes. Eliot closed his eyes and let the warmth from her skin calm his still uneasy mind.
“I never know how to help,” she said after a few moments.
“You’re doing fine,” Eliot said with a tiny smile. “Just sit with me and hold my hand.”
Master Fic List
***
Author:
sherydenRating: PG
Word Count: 1440
Pairing: Eliot/Parker (pre-relationship)
Spoilers: None
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Not mine. If it was, Eliot would be shirtless in half the episodes.
Summary: As the team is finishing up a job, Eliot struggles with memories of a past trauma.
Notes: This was written for
meghan_84 for the leverage_sesa. I used the prompt “Eliot's PTSD becomes an issue on a job.” Can be read as gen, but I intend it to be a read as a precursor to a something deeper between Eliot and Parker. “You’re crankier than usual,” Parker said, leaning against the doorframe of the old kitchen.
Eliot gripped the faded counter, knuckles white, and scowled at her. “What do you want, Parker?”
“Nate says we need to pack up.”
“So pack up,” he groused. When she didn’t move, he added, “I’ll be out in a minute, okay?”
Parker shrugged and turned to leave. “I still say you’re crankier than usual.”
After Parker disappeared through the doorway, Eliot eased his grip on the counter and let out a breath. He glanced around the kitchen of the old farmhouse the team had been using as their temporary base of operations. The house had seen better days—probably long passed, given the state of disrepair and the overgrown grass in the yard. Still, Eliot had been in far worse places than this. In fact, with a little love and upkeep, the place could almost be homey. Despite the potential of the house, though, Eliot couldn’t wait to be free of it.
They had arrived two weeks earlier to help a client get out from under a corrupt local politician. The job itself had gone smoothly, but soon after their arrival, Eliot had found himself biting back fear and panic. He’d done his best to hide his discomfort, but inside, he had been battling a storm of emotions for days.
Eliot had seen and done a lot of horrible things in his life, and for the most part, he could compartmentalize the past—he had to, or he wouldn’t be able to function like a normal person. But at times, there were smells or sounds or fleeting images that brought the past bubbling back up to the surface. The moment he had seen the old farmhouse, the bile had started to swirl around in his stomach. The creak of the steps, the way the paint was peeled off the walls by the door, the echo when someone talked. All of it was threatening to pull him several years back to a place he’d rather not revisit.
“Eliot!” Hardison called from the other room. “A little help out here!”
Swallowing down the anxiety, Eliot trudged toward Hardison’s voice. “All right,” he snapped, as he walked into the living room.
“Hey man,” Hardison said with a grin. “You got plenty of time to be lazy while I’m driving us all home. Grab that box.”
Eliot glared at him. He knew full well that Hardison was just being Hardison, and that he didn’t mean anything by his playful little jabs. But the panic and frustration that was nipping at the back of Eliot’s mind made him clench his jaw and turn away from the rest of the team.
He could hear the others laughing and chatting behind him. They had reason to be in good moods. The job had been a success, and they were leaving their client with a secure future. He wondered if he should force himself to join in, but instead, he kept focused on the job of packing up their equipment and getting them all out of there.
With a sense of purpose, he walked across the room to collect a neatly packed cardboard box. As he crouched down to pick it up, a swatch of faded red and blue on the floor in the corner caught his eye. It was a child’s ball—rubber and faded and forgotten.
Leaving the box where it was, Eliot scooped up the ball and held it in his trembling hand. It was covered with dust, but the once-vibrant blue and red stripes were still visible beneath the dirt. He squeezed it lightly, his fingers sinking into little holes where chunks of rubber had fallen out due to age and use.
Without warning, his mind traveled back to a ramshackle European farmhouse and an old woman with a warm smile and a small grandson. A flood of memories rushed to his head—the kind hands of the woman as she had cleaned his injured leg; the gleeful laugh of the boy as he had tossed his ball into the air; the softness of the first real bed he had seen in weeks; the shots and screams that had awakened him in the night.
Unable to contain his emotions, Eliot threw the ball as hard as he could at the window. The force was enough to send the toy crashing through the already-chipped glass. Muttering a few strangled obscenities, Eliot slammed his fist into the nearest wall, wincing at the self-inflicted pain. Then he punched the wall again, this time with little force behind the blow. His chest heaving from the sudden burst of anger, he leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees and trying to will himself to calm down.
Blinking back the tears that threatened to leak out of his eyes, Eliot suddenly became aware that the team—his family—was standing a few feet away, silently staring at him. He wasn’t ashamed of his emotions. They were a part of him, and they reminded him that a human heart still beat within his hitter chest. But he rarely let anyone see him so vulnerable, so raw.
Clearing his throat, Eliot walked briskly out of the door and lowered himself onto the front steps. He figured that someone would come to check on him eventually—probably Sophie. She was the team’s mother hen. But he hoped they would at least give him time to pull himself together.
After a few minutes, he heard the door creak open, accompanied by soft footsteps on the weathered slats of the porch. Parker slipped up and took a seat beside him. Not speaking, she reached over and patted him tentatively on the knee.
They sat there quietly for several moments, Eliot staring out at nothing in particular and Parker staring at Eliot. He was a little surprised that she was the one who came after him, but maybe he shouldn’t have been. Out of all of them, Eliot suspected that it was Parker who understood him best. They both had a connection to the ugliness of the world that neither of them really asked for but which seemed to be a natural fit. He often told her there was something wrong with her, but he knew deep down that whatever was wrong with her, she was almost well-adjusted compared to him.
“It’s the house,” Eliot said after a while. He let his words trail off, even though he knew Parker was waiting for him to keep talking. He just couldn’t muster up the words and instead went back to gazing out at the grass and dirt and sky ahead of him.
Making a face, Parker reached out and poked Eliot on the shoulder. “What did the house do?”
He choked out a laugh. “I guess it’s haunted.”
She inched a little closer to Eliot. “You saw a ghost? What did it look like?”
“Not that kind of haunted, Parker.” Eliot tried to muster up a tinge up annoyance in his voice, but even to his own ears, he just sounded tired. Turning to look directly at her, he said, “This house just unlocked a few memories. Stuff I don’t want to think about.”
“Of where you grew up?”
He shook his head. “Nah. Nah, I’m remembering someplace else.”
Parker cocked her head at him. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Clenching his jaw, he took a breath and shook his head. “No, I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Talking is supposed to help in situations like this,” she said.
“I said I don’t want to talk about it,” he snapped. It came out a lot louder and harsher than he had intended, and he immediately regretted his words. Running his fingers through his hair, he said, “I’m sorry. I just… if I talk about it, I have to think about it. And I don’t want to think about it more than I already have today.”
Parker nodded. “It just sounded like something Sophie would say.”
Eliot nudged her knee with his. “You don’t need be Sophie. Being you is enough.”
“I could hold your hand,” Parker said suddenly. “Would that be comforting?”
He gazed at her for a moment, then wordlessly held out a hand. She grasped his hand in hers and squeezed, her grip strong from years of climbing buildings and hanging onto ropes. Eliot closed his eyes and let the warmth from her skin calm his still uneasy mind.
“I never know how to help,” she said after a few moments.
“You’re doing fine,” Eliot said with a tiny smile. “Just sit with me and hold my hand.”
Master Fic List
***
