#i am once again not going to reformat this for tumblr. sorry if u read it here

[cricketchaology]

cold, kind, and lemon eyes

this fic includes violence, including descriptions of wounds and gun usage. if these things are triggering to you, please proceed with caution!

READ ON AO3

in a way, it’s human instinct to fight against the bonds. it’s an abstract thought, passing in and out of harry’s mind between winds of panic and a daughter he might not see again, he might never apologize to. it’s hard to think over the hollow static of the busted earbud nestled against the drum, the screaming of his heart, the thoughts all blurry and loose-lipped. his wrists are raw against the rope, not quite budging.

the men are gone now, but they could be back any moment. with guns, or knives, or hammers- with a ransom request if he’s lucky, and death if he’s not. worst come to worst, they’ll flay him open and leave him there for the dogs.

needless to say, if you told the mr. wilson of a dozen years ago that being consumed by wolves would be his fate, he’d laugh in your face over a glass of chardonnay. and maybe in a different world, harry might find the contrast funny.

instead, though, he finds his stomach sinking as feet pound down the hall, fast approaching in a way that screams a threat. his entire body aches at the thought, anticipating fresh blows that he isn’t sure his already worn skin can take. the shadow in the window looms over like a reaper, stretching across the concrete and dancing at harry’s feet as the bulb flickers, dying out over the guard's shoulder.

the shadow covers the whole window, leaving harry in the darkness of the cell for a moment, and he curls in on himself, fighting the innate desire to cry as the figure of death comes upon him. he closes his eyes, shivering weakly as the air in the room chills, the footsteps closer.

“hey, get up,” a voice is saying, and harry feels weightless when the gruffness of it registers. because it’s eliot, it’s eliot , and his rough fingers are working a fresh comms piece into his ear, are quickly unknotting the ropes so harry can move his hands again, and he hadn’t even realized how numb they’d become till the blood blew back into them.

“eliot,” harry mutters, because what else can he do? the relief is so intense that his thoughts white-out, becoming a silkscreen of escape, of tomorrow morning’s and sunsets he was saying goodbye to. because eliot got him, eliot always gets him, and he knows this and he should never have doubted it. but it’s during this thought that the guard wakes up from his blackout prematurely. that he gets on his comms and calls for backup, fast arriving. unaccounted for guns arriving at the scene as eliot tries to coax harry back into coherence.

before harry registers the sight of fresh men in the doorway, eliot’s head is turning to the click of the gun. he’s too late- the bullet rings true into the concrete room and lodges itself in the wall just right of harry’s head, though not before ripping through eliot’s shoulder. the spit-spray of blood blasts across harry’s skin, and he winces, blinking the red out of his vision and rubbing at his mouth wildly, unable to think, to help. his now unbound hands go to his hair, tearing, and to his tie, pulling. panicking.

“mr. wilson, get it together!” sophie is calling in his ear, and if he were a better grifter he would be certain of all the fear laced beneath the calm-construct of her voice. he can hear parker shouting eliot’s name, can hear breanna whispers, “oh god, oh god,” to something he’s sure she doesn’t quite believe in. he can hear eliot’s panting breaths two-fold, once in the room across from him and once in the earbud, amplified and so, so much worse up close.

a second shot rings out, and harry finds himself slowly able to push himself up the wall, crawling till he’s standing on uneven feet, trying to speedrun the regaining of his sea legs. sophie begs for a visual from breanna who’s fighting tooth and nail with the security systems. the guard is down, has been down for some time, and eliot is taking on a fourth- no, fifth? sixth? it’s not clear enough for harry to count the bodies as they hit the floor- armed militia man with nothing but his fists. the last one- third or fourth or more, maybe- goes down the same time harry rights himself, rushing across the room to get close to eliot who means safety, means stability.

it’s wihh horror harry realizes that eliot is bleeding. the shoulder of his shirt is soaked through, and his side isn’t faring better. the material of his jeans is torn with a long laceration, a knife that found its way deep into the meat of his thigh and harry shudders to think of the way eliot’s fingers probed into his own wound, feeling for the blood flow to make sure it didn’t strike an artery. the guns lay discarded on the ground now, unloaded and sprawled amongst the downed men. eliot is shucking off his shirt, tying it around his thigh gracelessly as his left arm lags, his breaths thinning. “eliot,” parker is hissing into their ears, the desperation in her voice laid so thickly with love that the two meld into one. “eliot, answer me, or i’m coming in.”

“no,” he’s biting out through clenched teeth. “there’s too many. no one else comes in. i’ll get us out.”

“eliot,” sophie’s voice comes in, uncharacteristically nervous. “i’ll get us out,” eliot repeats, his voice shakier by the second. “breanna, you got a visual? i need you to lead us out of here. you got that? away from guards.”

“yeah, yeah. got it. i got it,” she says, and for a second harry doesn’t believe her. the sound of eliot’s breathing distracts him in the lull between breanna’s assurance and her answer, her saying “go right out the door, then head down the hall until you see the janitor's closet. turn left after that, and you should be at the exit.” “any guards?” eliot asks, and breanna hesitates. “come on, we don’t have time. any guards?”

“one more. armed.” she mutters, and eliot nods, making eye contact with harry that means trust me. means i’ve got you, i’ve got you.

eliot reaches back, takes harry’s palm in his bloody hand. it’s a sticky sensory nightmare than grounds harry, pulling him out of his own head as eliot takes them out the door and down the hall, each of his steps less certain than the last. he intercepts the last guard, practically halfway to the ground when he unequips her with what looks to be sheer muscle memory, the muzzle of the gun gripped tight in a shaking hand. he drops the gun, fingers lost and limp and it takes everything in harry to think to sling eliot’s good arm around his shoulders before he drops to the ground just like the guard.

they hobble out the doors more so than walk out them, the pale shoulder of harry’s suit growing redder by the second, like a rabbit shot on the snow. absently, he realizes he doesn’t have any idea where the van is- he doesn’t even think to ask, just keeps running, keeps moving, dragging eliot into alley after alley in an attempt to put as much distances between there and here as he can. he doesn’t stop until eliot loses consciousness completely, becoming deadweight against harry’s side and they wind up crashing into a trashcan, street-light shielding them from the overwhelming dark.

it’s then that the adrenaline drains, harry’s body going limp against the brick of a building he can hardly register the color of.

///

the peace of unconsciousness doesn’t last long. instead, eliot jabs his elbow bruise-deep into harry’s ribs, muttering, “christ, wake up, man.”

the words feel distant, like the crackle of the earpiece is a stone cracking water-surface rather than a friend directly beside him, begging him to get up. he blinks cautiously, clearing his field of view as much as possible. the alley is dismal and dark and still. the pitter patter of a rat's claws provide ambient sound, the dripping of gutter. his back is cold against the brick, pulling him instinctively to the hot furnace of eliot by his side, still whispering and-

eliot. eliot, still bleeding , his face pale and eyes bloodshot. one of his arms jabs at harry incessantly, begging for attention, while his other clutches at the wound in his shoulder, his side. almost on instinct, harry moves his body, shucking off his suit jacket, the colors of which have moved from beige to beiger, meat-marred. he passes it to eliot who takes it, pressing it against his bleeding side. if it comes away redder than it already was, harry doesn’t know. he can’t bare to look.

“you good, man?” eliot asks, and harry laughs loosely in that crazed way he did that first day, fists clenching at his side with the weight of it. “no,” he huffs out, half hysterical. “no, of course not- not at all.” “okay, well,” eliot mumbles, his head clacking back against the brick wall, brow christened with sweat. “you’re gonna have to be, cause i’ma bleed out if we can’t get outta here.”

somehow, that snaps harry out of his stupor, a fresh jet of panic rushing through him.

“what about-” “comms are out, somethin’ must’a happened while we were down. i dunno what. must’a,” he grimaces, shifting slightly, “someone must’a found the van or somethin’. we’re outta range.”

“okay. okay,” harry says, though his breaths only come faster. his hands are shaking under eliot’s eye, watchful as always despite his waning consciousness.

“harry, you gotta breathe,” eliot says, reaching out with a hand, the digits surprisingly icy against harry’s skin, holding his wrist. his fingers probe the hollow of harry’s wrist, finding the pulse and eliot begins to breathe in sync with it. the contact is grounding though eliot’s palm is sticky with still drying blood.

slowly, harry regains his composure, inhaling with eliot’s even counts even as his voice grows fainter. it’s a familiar technique- one he remembers his daughter using before her fifth grade spelling bee. the memory floods him with something- mourning, maybe, but maybe determination too, that human desire to survive rising in him.

“okay, i’m good. i’m good.”

eliot studies him for a long moment, keeping his breathing at that even metre and harry realizes distantly that it might be partially to cope with the pain. helping harry, though, was certainly a conscious choice.

“where’d you learn to do that?” harry wonders, hoping eliot will understand the question.

eliot adverts his eyes for a moment, weighing the vulnerability of his next statement. “hardison has anxiety attacks, sometimes,” he says simply, and harry can tell no further questions will be allowed. a beat passes, the quiet of the city street outside overtaking them. cars drive by, though sparsely populated, and the laughter of drunk friends is far away. its so discongruent with the bloodied, shaking figure of eliot that harry almost becomes sick to his stomach. “okay,” harry lets out, “okay. what do we do now?” “we needa... get back in range of the comms. get somewhere they can find us, but not somewhere where someone calls the cops. the thugs got ties to ‘em, ’s how we got made in the first place. if they get me sent to a hospital, that’s it.”

“that’s it?” eliot glares at him, his lips twisted. harry swallows thickly.

“yeah. that’s it.”

///

it’s not that eliot is especially heavy- really, he’s lighter than harry might’ve expected a man with that much muscle to be. rather, its that harry hasn’t eaten in three days, and his limbs are still working to regain their independence after being strapped back for so long. his legs can barely support himself, muchless the weight of eliot spencer, living legend, who is dripping blood from god only knows how many wounds.

“are you okay?” harry asks, and eliot hides behind the curtain of hair currently falling past his face, his head hanging low on his neck as though keeping it up requires too much energy. still, he nods tersely, and harry knows it’s a lie, but there’s no point in pressing now.

they hobble across the alley, pausing every few moments to regain strength before dragging each other a handful more steps. eliot tells harry to leave him, to go ahead and get help, but harry won’t even entertain the idea.

“parker would throw me off the roof for real this time,” he parses through inhales, “if i came back and didn’t have you with me.”

if eliot laughs, harry can’t hear it over the sound of the blood rushing in his ears.

they make it to the mouth of the alley, the lips of which kiss the sidewalk, spilling out into the city street. it’s quiet, almost uncomfortably so, as eliot brings a hand to his ear, fiddling with the comms to no avail. he mumbles something quietly, a misplaced damnit, hardison, before lulling slightly, becoming heavier against harry’s side. “are you gonna pass out again?” harry questions nervously, but eliot shakes his head, gritting out a weak, “nah.”

they start down the sidewalk, sticking to the shadows granted by the awnings against the gentle moonlight. the city streetlights are weak, weepying a yellow that never quite reaches their heels as the dredge down the way, calling the rest of the teams names repeatedly and begging for connection.

the seconds slip by slowly, and harry has no clue how much time passes between the alley mouth and eliot halting, his heels digging into the asphalt. he’s turned his head to the threat before harry has even processed there might be one. eliot pushes himself away from harry, getting himself back to his full height and sparring harry a glance, just long enough to say, “run.”

“what? eliot-” “i said run!” he shouts, shoving harry aside and placing the bulk of his body between harry and the gun. he’s charging before harry can completely catch himself from falling, rushing across the sidewalk with a speed harry didn’t realize a human being was capable of.

it’s human nature to flee when given the opportunity. harry isn’t a fighter- never has been. he prided himself on years of carefully not choosing a side, of never being in the fight, instead finding the loophole out of it.

it’s human nature. fight or flight. harry hits the ground running.

///

when the hiss of the comms in his ear forms into the shape of static, he knows he’s going in the right direction. he follows the lead, reading the lines and what hides between them, until the crackle turns to whisper, and whisper into word. “eliot? harry? god, oh god,” breanna is saying- sobbing, almost, into the earpiece. “breanna?” he asks, and he’s certain he heard her, not because she responds but because her incoherence suddenly shifts into a wet gasp of relief. “harry? harry, where’s eliot?” parker demands, and harry hesitates. “he- he stayed behind. he was fighting someone, and he told me to go and i-” “you listened to him?” parker cries, a rage to her voice that harry has never heard before, and he swallows, nodding weakly before remembering she can’t see him.

“yes- yes. but he’s hurt and i- i can’t help him, you need to-” “calm down, mr. wilson,” sophie says, like it’s simple. “get us to you, first. where are you?”

the world spins around him, the colors dulled and hard to grasp. he can’t get his eyes to focus, the wind whipping at the short hair on his head and he tries to suck in thin inhales of the icy air.

“i- i don’t know, i-”

“harry, please,” parker begs- and it’s begging, it’s begging , and he hates the sound of it in her voice so much that the vertigo almost swallows him whole. instead, he grabs onto it- imagines it like an anchor he can hold onto, her grief that will destroy him if he can’t fix it. his eyes land on a sign, the lit-up letters flickering in and out desperately. he has to squint to piece them together in the right order.

“there’s- there’s a restaurant called marleen’s, i’m right by that. is that-”

“i got it,” breanna announces, and he can hear the pounding of her keystrokes through the comms. “we’re just seven minutes out.” “hold tight, mr, wilson. we’ll be right there.”

///

the tires of the van screech upon arrival in only three minutes, and he’s unsurprised to see parker tumbling out of the driver’s seat. her jaw is set, her hand clenched around the taser that harry has heard tales of. sophie is not long after, nor breanna, and the intensity radiating off the three in waves is enough to nearly knock harry off his feet. “where is he?” parker shouts, light on her feet and before him in seconds. he points weakly behind himself, and she disappears into the night as fast as she appeared.

sophie comes upon him then, her spindly fingers brushing over his face dutifully for a moment before she ushers him back to the van, breanna staring awkwardly as she holds open the doors.

“are you hurt?” sophie asks, and he cannot even begin to think of the answer. his entire body aches, but he’s not bleeding. as she pulls out alcohol wipes, beginning to brush the red out of his eyes, he realizes she can’t tell- she doesn’t know most of the blood isn’t his.

“eliot, he-” “parker will get him,” sophie tells him, something unplaceable in her voice. “he’s okay. it’s okay.”

harry finds himself nodding, though he isn’t so sure he believes her. he allows her to clean his skin, unearthing bruises that were buried beneath a sea of red as she tuts her tongue. breanna does say anything, but the fearful way she looks at harry reminds him of his daughter watching him walk out of the doors of their family home for the last time. he flinches, and sophie pulls her hands away abruptly, not knowing she did nothing wrong.

a weak grunting echoes from outside, and breanna thrusts open the doors. the city is dark behind parker’s back, the hollow light crecenting her as she pulls a limping eliot along. his face is twisted into an eternal grimace, teeth worrying over his lip in an attempt to silence his groans. one of his legs drags behind, his good arm cupping his side where blood overflows, draining between the slits of his fingers and to the ground, a quaint drip, drip, drip. it makes harry’s stomach ache, the dread of it all.

sophie extends her hands, helping parker hoist eliot into the van. he’s barely conscious, and sporting a rapidly swelling-shut eye and bleeding nose he didn’t have last harry saw him. a wave of nausea rushes over him as they settle eliot on one of the benches, breathing heavily as sophie gets back into the driver’s seat. the car peels away from the curb, leaving a spray of loose rocks dislodged in its wake as they leave the city, escaping to the temporary home base they acquired for this job.

harry lets his head thunk back against the metal wall of the van, closing his eyes so he doesn’t have to see parker begin stripping eliot of his shirt, the red pooling down him and onto the floor. so he doesn’t have to see breanna, too young for any of this, though he can still hear her ask half-desperate what she can do to help.

he imagines being elsewhere. a beach day in cape-cod, a gala at the grand. he imagines the life he used to lead, blissfully unaware- or intentionally obtuse- of the blood raining in city streets, instead focused on the glass of pinot grigio in his hand. he imagines that peace of being blameless as eliot drifts, parker frowning down at him. as breanna pretends not to cry, and sophie drives.

///

eliot doesn’t wake up when they arrive at the safe house, and it scares everyone. sophie and parker lift him, taking him to a different room where they can tend to his wounds safely (and out of sight). it leaves harry and breanna standing in the doorway, ambling around the living room absently. there’s nothing they can do, really. nothing but wait.

he settles on the coach, head in his hands, and breathes to the sound of her pacing, short strides back and forth, across and across and across the room. she’s humming slightly, a tune he doesn’t quite recognize but doesn’t hate. eventually, she wears herself down, sitting at her computer and plucking away at the keys in a way that speaks to her distracted mind, the usually hundred word per-minute speed nonpresent, slowed to a dozen.

sophie reappears from the room, her brow furrowed but otherwise unmarred. harry stands to greet her, much like a waiting room wife to a doctor, rife with anticipation. breanna swivels her chair much the same, though neither of them breathe a word, waiting. “eliot will be fine,” sophie says, and harry all but wilts with relief. “but we’ll take time off so he can heal. a month or two, maybe. he’s down pretty badly.”

sophie pauses, momentarily glancing over harry in a way that, if he were a greater man, might embarrass him. instead, he swallows down the look of pity, the way her eyes drag over him with grief.

“clean up, mr. wilson. then we’ll tend to you, too.”

///

it’s a new experience, the way the blood looks rushing down the shower drain. it’s dried to the skin, takes scrubbing to remove. some of the flakes stay whole rather than dissipate into the water, and he watches them fall from his skin and go away to nothing. his body is sticky with sweat, and it takes several lathers to get him even remotely feeling clean. he’s not sure he ever will, not with the ghost of eliot’s blood still haunting his cheek, omnipresent. he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the way the spray felt against his skin. still, when his fingers are so pruny he doubts even the team could lift a print from him, he cranks the water off. the steam does a good job disguising him; he can barely see his own feet through the thick plumes of it. he pulls back the curtain, a rush of cold air hitting him and-

“parker! what are you doing in here?” he exclaims, instinctively pulling the curtain again to shield him from her eyes, although she covered them with her hands when he exclaimed.

“eliot told me to talk to you,” she says simply, muffled through her wrists. “tell me when i can uncover my eyes. i- i didn’t think about it. sorry.”

harry sighs, reaching carefully out from the shower to grab a towel even as she keeps her eyes covered. he dries himself off quickly, slipping into the joggers and shirt that sophie handed him earlier. they don’t fit quite right, clearly not his. they’re eliot’s, he realizes, with a dull pang in his heart.

when he finishes dressing, he lowers himself onto the toilet lid, looking at parker as she keeps her eyes dutifully covered. her breathing is even, but even so, he can hear the gears turning in her head.

“eliot’s up?” harry asks, not knowing where to start. parker nods, her hands bobbing up and down with her head.

“he was in and out for a while. he’s resting now. he told me to talk to you.”

“what about?” “he said i need to tell you how i feel, because you won’t know that i’m not mad at you if i don’t. and he’s right, i know that. just sometimes eliot does the thinking for me and tells me what’s going on in my brain.”

harry furrows his brows, still perplexed by the complexities of the team's relationships. he’s almost jealous he wasn’t around to see them fall in love with each other, parker, eliot and hardison. a beat passes, parker still on the counter, her legs crossed on a space that seems too small for anyone to sit on. “can i uncover my eyes?” she asks, voice small, and harry fumbles.

“oh- yes, yes, sorry. i didn’t realize you were-” “it’s okay.” she pulls her hands from her face, revealing slightly blood-shot eyes, her nose red from tears. “i don’t blame you. for eliot getting hurt, i mean.”

harry flounders a bit at that, ringing his hands in his lap.

“i left him, though. he came to save me and he got hurt, and i let it happen. and then i left him. it’s- it’s my fault, parker, i-” “no, it’s not,” she says, and she’s glaring at him like she did hardison when she found out he was leaving. it’s not a look harry enjoys being on the receiving end of.

“it’s not your fault because eliot told you to leave. it’s what he wanted you to do, and you listened to him, so if i wanna get mad at someone for that it has to be eliot. but i can’t get mad at eliot, and i can’t get mad at you, cause i would’ve done it. maybe not now, but ten years ago i might’ve left him to die if i had to. you were scared; you weren’t thinking straight. i get that.”

she sighs slightly, eyes glued to the tile. harry sits, waiting for her as she thinks, rolling thoughts over in her head. eventually, a distant smile graces her lips.

“we can do things the others can’t,” she says, not quite meeting his eyes when she looks at him. “and that doesn’t make us bad. it makes us… us.”

though he feels like he’s missing part of it, as he often does talking to parker- and the rest of them, for that matter- it settles something in his chest. he breaths out, the hollow of his lungs lightening. she smiles at his gently; gentle in a manner harry doesn’t think he’ll ever deserve. he smiles back, hoping it reaches his eyes. with that, parker springs from the counter, leaving him alone in the bathroom with nothing but his thoughts.

///

later, when he goes to see eliot, he is still hesitant, though certainly no more than he’d be without parker’s conversation. the dim lighting of the room barely kisses the wooden walls, framing a semi-conscious eliot. he’s been stripped down to a pair of black shorts, his chest and side swathed in bandages. they crawl up this legs too, appearing in patches along his arms. simply put; he looks like shit. still, he rises upon seeing harry, sitting up carefully. one side of his face is swollen, almost unrecognizable.

“hey, man,” eliot grumbles, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “you good?”

“shouldn’t i be asking you that?”

eliot shrugs, flinching at the pain spurs in his shoulder. he readjusts, his head lulling slightly as he blinks against the sleep trying to overtake him. “nah. parker talk to you?” “she did.” “good,” eliot says, looking at harry seriously. “i ain’t mad either. you get that? i get hurt sometimes. ain’t anything to lose sleep over. i went in to help you because you’re important to us.”

“i’m not a good man, eliot,” harry mutters, not quite able to meet eliot’s gaze. “me either. that ain’t what it’s about. can’t get your soul back if i let you die, now can you?”

“...no, i suppose not.” “we all got roles to play. your’s is to not get kidnapped next time, got it?”

harry can’t help the laugh the barks out of him, a hand going to cover with mouth. it gets a hearty smile on eliot’s lips. it’s a look harry thinks he’d like to see more of.

“alright,” eliot says, still smirking as harry’s laughter trails off. “get outta here. i’m gonna sleep for a week.”

“alright,” harry says, heading towards the door. “rest well.” “you too,” eliot mumbles, half asleep already.

harry feels a smile pull at his lips, a sense of peace filling him. it’s only human nature.