#tragicallynerdy

[khruschevshoe]

Still not over how badly the bag was fumbled with the Olu/Jim storyline in Season 2. I know I just posted about how good the first 3/4 episodes are of the show, but that has one GIANT exception: whatever the hell was going on with the writing of their relationship. I may be biased as they are two of my favorite characters on the show, but I honestly think that from a writing POV, they had possibly the best set up at the end of Season 1 (bar Ed and Stede, and yet I still was more interested in the Tealoranges plotline; oops!) Of friends who had finally admitted their feelings to each other after what is implied to be at least a year of pining, especially in the case of jim, who was notoriously cut off in their feelings until they finally were allowed to have a few hours of Happiness/security/safety for the first time in their LIFE before it was ripped away forcefully. The amount of absolute gold in the plot line of both of them trying to find their way back to each other, but Jim being literally physically kept almost hostage, in a way, by Blackbeard was absolutely amazing. And then when they finally met, we got no big reunions. We got almost no acknowledgment of the fact that they had finally found peace with Olu before it was torn away. We got nothing but the "family who fucked" line to describe their connection with each other and spent more time with Zheng/Olu and Archie/Jim than with them.

Now, as an admitted fan of the possible poly Dynamics, there was a way to have made this work. In fact, with the exception of their being no big reunion where they talk even a bit about everything with each other, I felt like their plot line up until episode 6 was pretty decently well handled. The dynamic between the Olu/Jim/Archie was at its best during Calypso's birthday.

But then episode 7. And "family who fucked." And the idea that after spending months trying to get back to each other, Olu would be willing to just...walk away.

Though I have way more ethical issues with the way that the show handles abuse and trauma, from a writing point of view this is my biggest WTF of the season. Because you took some of the most well-developed characters from the First season, with the most potential, and just got rid of it? Especially when you had two amazing actors in those roles?

Djenks I am in your walls begging for answers and fanfic writers thank God for giving me some semblance of actual poly development (shout out to tragicallynerdy and aletterinthenameofsanity on ao3 for soothing some part of my soul)

[khruschevshoe]

And that's why I'm glad for fanfiction, bc every time I get absolutely furious about aspects of the show, I have authors that I can turn to and actually trust that they can execute and bring me joy all at once. If anyone wants recs, @ruecrown, @aletterinthenameofsanity, and @fool-for-luv are all really good writers who have written some really good stuff (as well as others who I don't know the Tumblr handles of bc I only know their ao3 handles- please go try out more!) that execute better/more fleshed out versions of season 2 than the show itself!

Seeing s1 content (from before s2 dropped) just makes me sad now? Like oh baby remember when you loved and trusted this show with ur whole heart and it made you happy in an uncomplicated way. Joy is fleeting and cannot be recaptured, idiot.

[thetragicallynerdy]

Last Line Tag Game

Rules: post the last line you wrote, then tag as many people as there are words.

I got tagged by @zombiethingy, thanks for the tag friend!! Sorry it took me 40 days to get to it 💀

He’s still angry, furious and jealous and feeling possessive as all hell – but part of him is also flaring with giddy delight at getting to do this.

Tagging: @candyfloss-esophagus, @alfalfairy, @skollwolf, @thewollfgang, @windwardstar, @bringinghometherain, @mithrilwren, @kawaii-queen-kaiju, @dragonmuse

I am not tagging 27 people LMAO but if you see this and want in this is your call. All the folks tagged are on the list I have of folks who like being tagged in writing games - if you want on or off the list please let me know!!

[nonplayer-character]

Barista Jim confronting Oluwande on staring at them for a very weird reason? Yeah.

Just a little fanart of tragicallynerdy’s the rainbow connection

[bringinghometherain]

Alright @thetragicallynerdy I need you (and everyone else on this site) to know how much you've DERAILED my week.

I am not much of an AU gal with my fanfic, but I generally enjoy your writing, and I saw you'd put up a 2nd installment of the OFMD Ed/Jim Remington Steele AU and I was like "ah hell let's try something new, I can trust @thetragicallynerdy."

Well, I didn't know ANYTHING about Remington Steele except that he's played by Pierce Brosnan. I CERTAINLY did not realize that Remington Steele is about a lady private investigator who makes up a fake male boss so that her agency will be taken more seriously and then conman Pierce Brosnan swindles his way into assuming the Remington Steele identity and line of work. That's WAY more interesting than some secret agent thing I had assumed the show was about.

And then THEE tragicallynerdy has this brilliant idea to cast Jim as the serious-but-perpetually-overlooked private detective and Ed as the smooth con man who semi-accidentally ends up working as a private detective. And tragicallynerdy, if you didn't already know, writes possibly the BEST Jim-centric fic I have ever seen, so like OBVIOUSLY this was going to be good. My god, what a perfect set-up.

I am kicking myself for not having read this fic earlier. Not only does our dear tragicallynerdy write excellent characterizations of Jim, and not only is this actually a GREAT alternate universe in which Jim has been placed, but my god the smut is EXCELLENT. I have read it over TWICE.

And now, as to how my week has been derailed: I am WATCHING REMINGTON STEELE. Because of YOU @thetragicallynerdy. And it is QUITE AN ENTERTAINING SHOW AND PIERCE BROSNAN IS VERY CHARMING AND STEPHANIE ZIMBALIST IS GREAT AS LAURA HOLT.

This bit especially (S1E2) got me right in the gut:

So thank you! I enjoy both your writing and your taste in 80s TV shows.

[yerbamansa]

Tagged by @dragonmuse– thank you! <3

Rules: share the first lines of ten of your most recent fanfics and tag ten people. If you have written fewer than ten, don’t be shy and share anyway.

Fun! Here’s the last 10 in AO3…including a random one-shot I posted an hour ago.

a silver vision convalesced my soul (Jim & Oluwande, 2.5k)

They’re on the run again.

Kitchen Mistakes & How To Avoid Them (Ed/Stede & crew, 62k WIP)

Stede Bonnet sat at his desk in the well-appointed Office of the Publisher at GALLEY Magazine, staring at a blank screen.

Ask Me Anything: A TealOranges SMAU (w/tragicallynerdy, Jim/Oluwande, 34k WIP)

S.W. Ontario, Spring 2022: It’s a slow morning between student groups and everyone’s taking time away from cramped ship quarters.

never travel back the way you’ve come (Revenge Ranch Jim/Oluwande & crew, 5.8k)

Brains can be so fucking annoying.

let’s pretend we’re bunny rabbits (Ed/Stede + Izzy/Lucius, 1k)

“Come on, Gent,” Lucius coos, tucking the tiny bunny under his arm.

heard the planets singing, singing as they spun (Revenge Ranch Oluwande/Jim, 5.1k)

Jim didn’t have an appreciation for the mystical.

Revenge Ranch Slowvember '22 (Revenge Ranch multi, 20.3k)

He’s coming home today, John thought fondly.

be sweet to me, baby (Ed/Stede, 1.3k)

“Oh, Stede, look at this—” Ed gasped.

oceanographer's choice (Oluwande/Frenchie, <500)

Oluwande surprised himself, sometimes.

and then i stop – and say all right (Revenge Ranch Roach & crew, 10.3k)

First thing in the morning, Roach checked Facebook on his phone.

hey @thetragicallynerdy @alfalfairy ummm who else hasn't already played this that i've seen... *eek*

[flowers-creativity]

[Flower writes] Einstürzende Neubauten

Fandom: Leverage

Characters: Alec Hardison, Eliot Spencer, Parker

Warnings: Major injury, blood, panic attacks

Summary: During a con, a building collapses, trapping Eliot and Hardison under the rubble. With Eliot injured and Hardison struggling to keep from panicking, they have to rely on each other until Parker can get them out of there.

Notes: Written in response to prompt #1 of Leverage Writing Prompts

I wanted to write for this prompt as soon as I saw it but actually doing it took some time - and for some reason, finally posting the finished fic took even more time (the last save date was 1 January '22 ...). I hope that you still like it!

I chose Hardison as the POV because there was already a story with Eliot's POV - the excellent (and much longer) but don't you shake alone by tragicallynerdy. I haven't written him much before, so I hope I did him justice!

Yes, the title is in German and an obscure reference that probably won't make sense to 99% of the readers. No, I'm not sorry.

AO3 link

There was a crack that sounded like a gunshot in the silence of the dark basement, and Hardison froze. He had half expected the slam of a bullet into his back, but Eliot was at his back, and he always had his back, so there was actually no chance of any bullet reaching him while Eliot was still standing … He cleared his throat and murmured: “El?”

A monosyllabic grunt was the only answer but Hardison was fluent in Eliot, fortunately, so he translated it to: “I'm okay, no idea what that was, be on your guard.” He nodded shortly and started walking again. He hated creepy dark basements; why did the guys they took down always feel the need to take their cues from the Evil Overlord list?

There was another crack, this one even louder and by now sounding less like a gunshot. It was joined by a groan of someone – or something – straining under a heavy burden. Hardison threw a wide-eyed look back at Eliot but their hitter didn't look at him; instead, his gaze was fixed to the ceiling.

The next moment, rough, calloused hands closed around his wrists and yanked him back into the direction of the stairwell they had come down as Eliot exploded into motion. “Run!” he yelled, and then Hardison was back at the front, and Eliot was pushing him from behind, and for a moment, surprise and panic almost tangled his limbs together before he managed to suppress them and just did what he was told: He ran. When Eliot told you to run, you ran.

The groans and cracks were getting louder with every step he took. There, the door to the stairwell was looming towards them. They were almost out.

The ground under his feet suddenly bucked, and he stumbled; the rough concrete of the basement floor bit in his hands when he caught himself, gasping. Another shudder.

And then, with a last, big, upheaval of sound, the world collapsed, and darkness descended.

*

Hardison swam back to consciousness slowly. The darkness behind his eyelids was cloying, refusing to resolve as he blinked to clear his head, and he closed his eyes again and took a deep breath. Dust invaded his mouth and sent him into a coughing fit. Colours flashed trough the darkness with pain slicing through his torso, but finally, he managed to suppress the urge to cough and could take another breath.

When he opened his eyes again, it was still dark. Too dark. He was lying on his back, and it was dark all around him. Dark, and dusty, and utterly silent. “Eliot?” he asked, his voice grating painfully in his dry throat.

There was no answer.

“Eliot?” he tried again. He spread his arms and felt around him. His right hand bumped against something right away, cold and unyielding, and when he felt alongside it, he found a sharp corner and another, smoother surface. On his left, there was more space but not by much; the surfaces he felt there were smaller, rougher.

Still no answer from Eliot.

“El!” Hardison's voice cracked.

It couldn't be. Eliot couldn't be-- he didn't dare finish the thought. The darkness was settling down on his chest like a thick blanket, and he felt utterly, painfully alone. “No,” he gasped, “no!” His breathing was speeding up, and with each shallow breath, it felt as if what he was breathing was no longer air but the dark, and the dust, and the reality that he was back in another grave. His chest heaved, pain coiling around it like a hand squeezing his ribs mercilessly. He squeezed his eyes shut but something wet still escaped and trailed down his face, dripping into his ear, and he shuddered.

“-- ison.”

The voice swam through the swirls of fear and despair in his mind like it was mud but finally, finally, it registered. As did the feeling of something brushing the fingers of his left hand. The voice spoke again: “Hardison!”

Hardison opened his mouth, trying to answer, but all he could do was gasp for air, colours flashing behind his eyelids. Another touch, and then fingers curled around his, grasping them and squeezing weakly.

“Hardison, breathe!” the voice commanded. “Slowly. In and out. In and out.”

Hardison clapped his right hand over his mouth, fighting to do what the voice said. Breathing. Slowly. Every breath cut like knives through his chest but gradually, they slowed, becoming deeper and more regular again.

Finally, his hand fell to his side, and he turned his head to the left, where the voice was coming from. In the dark, it was barely more than outlines, but there was a hand holding his, and an arm, and beyond that arm, a silhouette of a man, with a familiar shaggy head of long hair. “Eliot,” he whispered.

Eliot's face was only a shadow so Hardison couldn't even begin to guess at his expression, but he gave their interlocked fingers another squeeze. “You back with me?” he demanded, voice rougher than Hardison had ever heard it. It caught on something, and a few harsh coughs punched their way out of the hitter's chest.

Hardison's head was still swimming but he nodded sluggishly. “Think- think so,” he said, then unwittingly followed Eliot's example and nearly bent in half as a cough climbed up his throat and threatened to steal his air again.

But Eliot's hand was holding onto him, firm and grounding. He concentrated on that point of contact, on nothing else, and when the cough finally settled, he squeezed Eliot's fingers back. “Tha-thanks,” he gasped.

Eliot shook his head (he believed). “Are you hurt?” he asked.

Hardison hesitated. The panic had overwhelmed him to a point that he hardly remembered what had happened, barely had felt his body beyond the vice closing around his chest. Now he took another deep breath, suppressing the urge to cough again, and took stock. He could move and pull up his legs, move his arms, his head – there was pain but it was dull, most likely a lot of bruises. He raised  his free hand to the wetness at his temple and brushed over it. It felt gritty but not sticky like blood. “Dunno,” he finally said, “doesn't feel as if anything's broken. Just bruises, probably.” He squinted at Eliot. “Are you?”

“I'm fine,” Eliot answered brusquely.

And that would have been alright but Hardison knew that their hitter didn't always have a definition of “fine” that matched any definition found in a dictionary written in the English language. He rolled over towards Eliot and leveraged his upper body upwards until he was finally sitting upright, at no point letting go of Eliot's hand. He didn't think he could, at this point, because whenever he moved his gaze away from Eliot, his heart and breathing threatened to speed up again.

He took a deep breath and forced himself to do it anyway, letting his eyes sweep their surroundings. The dark was not as deep any more, now that his eyes had had time to adjust, and craggy lines drew the outline of mounds of rubble and bigger pieces around them.

He raised a hand to his ear but could only confirm what he had felt: His earbud was gone. Swallowing back another bout of panic at that, he turned to Eliot. “D'you still have your earbud? I must've lost mine.”

“Nope,” was the short answer, and Hardison shuddered. The earbuds were such a constant in their life that he barely could remember how to communicate with Parker and Eliot if they were somewhere else and didn't have their earbuds in. Having that line to his people, to Parker, suddenly cut when he needed it most left him feeling unmoored.

Of course that was an exaggeration. After all, Hardison never went anywhere without at least one phone or tablet on his body. Which also could provide light! He brightened at the thought and fumbled in his pocket until he found his phone and could pull it out. It blinked to life only dully, and he bit back a curse at the large crack running through the screen – and then didn't bite back another one when it flickered and died. “My phone's dead,” he told Eliot. “Gimme yours.”

“Come and get it,” he grouched back.

Hardison frowned, then got onto his knees and shuffled closer to Eliot. And as he did so, he got a first good look at his friend past his chest. “Eliot!” he yelped.

Eliot's lower body was almost disappearing under rubble and larger pieces of wall. And... Hardison swallowed. There was a piece of rebar sticking out of it almost vertically. Sticking out of... Hardison swallowed again, feeling nausea swelling in his stomach. “Is that--” he started, stopped, started again. “Did that--- Eliot, you're not fine!”

Eliot shook his head. “Nothin' to be done about it,” he said with a tone of absolute finality.

“No, no, no!” Hardison hovered, his hands over the rubble, twitching to remove it and free Eliot, but on the other hand, it held up that piece of rusty iron that was directly over Eliot's stomach. And if his suspicion was correct (he swallowed hard, again), it was actually in Eliot's stomach. So anything that would move it... No, he didn't dare. “You're not fine, and you need to tell me stuff like that, man, that's so not okay!”

He was pretty sure Eliot was glaring at him, even if his face was still mostly in shadows.

“Phone should be in my pocket on the right.”

Hardison made a gesture that indicated the discussion was not over, then carefully slid his hand between the pieces of rock and rubble until he felt the waistband of Eliot's jeans under it and followed it to his pocket. It took some finagling and quite a few muttered curses from both men whenever his movements made the rubble shift, but finally he had freed the phone from Eliot's pocket and turned it on. The screen was all cracked to hell, too, but it came to life nevertheless and stayed on. He called Parker, and the phone had barely started ringing when she picked up, breathlessly.

“Eliot?! Are you okay? Is Hardison … is he--?!”

“Hey babe, it's me,” he quickly interrupted her. “Using Eliot's phone because mine's dead, and he's--” he interrupted himself, casting an anxious glance at the hitter's supine form.

“No,” Parker whispered, and her tone broke his heart.

It took a beat until his mind caught up, and he scrambled to explain: “No, no, he's--” Again he met Eliot's eyes, the defiant glare now visible in the low light from the phone screen challenging him to say it. “He says he's fine,” Hardison said with an eye roll. “There's a big piece of metal that says otherwise, though.”

Parker said nothing for a moment, harsh breaths all that he could hear through the phone. Then her breath returned to the smooth, controlled rhythm he knew from her, and he knew she had mastered her panic and set it aside to shift into mastermind mode. “Alright,” she said. “Emergency services are on site already. I was looking for an alternative route to get you two out earlier – so far I don't have any, though – but if Eliot's hurt, that's not an option. How is he hurt, Alec?”

Hardison frowned. “Dunno,” he admitted. “Hey, Eliot! Tell me what's hurt.” He fixed the hitter with a hard stare. “And don't you dare say “you're fine” or “it's nothing”.”

Eliot growled under his breath but suddenly burst into a series of harsh coughs. His body jerked, and the rubble covering him shifted, the piece of rebar swaying drunkenly.

Hardison swallowed  hard against a wave of nausea as he imagined what that might mean. “Hey, hey, it's okay!” He put a hand on Eliot's shoulder and rubbed it, feeling the tremors running through his sturdy frame. Meaningless platitudes fell from his lips until Eliot finally settled, his breaths sawing in and out of his chest.

Parker's voice was clamouring for his attention, and he quickly raised the phone to his ear again. “Gimme a moment, mama,” he asked. Directed at the hitter, he said tremulously: “El?”

Eliot nodded slightly. “I'm--” He visibly swallowed down his standard answer. “--still here,” he said instead. “That damned thing's in my stomach.” He gestured at the upright piece of rebar.

“Jesus, Eliot,” Hardison murmured. More loudly, he said: “Anything else?” Not that a stomach wound made by a blunt, rusty piece of metal wasn't enough …

“Nothin' serious, I don't think so,” Eliot said and glared at the hacker when it looked as if Hardison was about to say something. “Can't really move much but I can wiggle my toes without it hurtin' much, so my legs should be alright. Lotsa bruises and scrapes, I guess.”

Hardison sighed and patted his shoulder. “Okay, okay, I believe you.” To Parker, he said: “He's got a piece of rebar in his stomach.” He heard her gasp and quickly continued to reassure her: “But he says his legs are most likely fine – he's buried under a lot of stuff, so he can't move much but the rest seems like it's not serious.”

“Okay,” Parker said. “And you?”

“I'm alright,” Hardison told her, and it was mostly true – the dusty air and the half-dark were still tugging at his nerves, threatening to pull him back into a spiral, but having Eliot there and the need to look after him, coupled with Parker's voice through the phone, was just enough to shore up his defences. “Bruised and sore but mostly I'm fine.”

“Eliot should take you as an example for what that looks like,” she snorted, and he bit back a laugh. “Do you know where you were when the ceiling came down? Anything that you can see that looks like an opening, a window, a door?”

Hardison looked around. “We were moving back towards the stairwell … Hmm. Not really, sorry, babe.” To his eyes, the darkness of the collapsed basement was the same everywhere.

Eliot tugged at his sleeve, and when Hardison looked at him, he gestured impatiently for him to pass the phone. The hacker reluctantly surrendered it to him, and Eliot immediately started talking: “Parker, we were almost at the stairwell but I don't think that's a good option, that'll be the most unstable part. Go for the window on the right side, there's a bit of air comin' that way.”

“How--” Hardison started but then stopped and waved his hand. “It's probably very distinctive,” he murmured, mostly to himself, but Eliot flashed him a short grin.

The hitter listened, nodded, said another few words, and then ended the call, letting his arm holding the phone fall back down.

Hardison startled and plucked the phone from Eliot's hand. “Hey, you could've handed her back to me,” he complained but did not dial again. Instead, he placed the phone on the ground so that the display light could spill out and push back the invading darkness.

Eliot scowled at him and shook his head. “Our girl's gonna need to work on gettin' us out of here,” he said. “Can't distract her with your yapping.”

“Yapping?” Hardison gave back, offended. “I was givin' her important information!”

“Yeah, you did,” Eliot acknowledged, “but she's got it now. She'll take it from here.”

Hardison deflated a bit. Yes, he knew that Parker was their best chance to get out of here, and soon. But it had been so good to hear her voice …

He shifted closer to Eliot, again placing a hand on his shoulder. “How you holdin' up, man?” he asked.

Eliot grunted and made a see-saw motion with his hand. That was actually more than Hardison had expected, and he wasn't sure if he should be proud of the trust Eliot was showing him in being halfway honest or worried that it meant he was doing much worse.

“I wish I could do something,” Hardison lamented but knew he didn't dare moving the rubble. So he just sat there, holding onto his friend. After a while, he moved his hand down Eliot's arm until he found his hand and could intertwine their fingers. Eliot didn't say anything but when Hardison squeezed his hand, he squeezed back.

So they sat. Hardison attempted to get a conversation going – or, in the absence of much input from Eliot, a good monologue because he was a frickin' genius at monologuing – but found that each time he did, it lead him into a spiral until he had to interrupt himself and concentrate on his breathing for a while so he didn't end up hyperventilating. And finally, he gave up and just sat, holding onto Eliot's hand, from time to time giving it a squeeze or poking the hitter lightly to elicit a reaction, to ask how he was doing.

Eliot, for his part, was mostly quiet. Nothing new there but it didn't keep Hardison from worrying. He sometimes shifted a bit, carefully, or winced or scowled at the debris holding him in place, but for the most part, the hitter took it stoically. Hardison carefully catalogued each change, took note of each evasive answer Eliot gave to his questions. It was clear that he was not doing great but what was Hardison to do about that? Please, Parker, hurry!, he implored her silently.

Finally, finally, there was noise coming from the direction Eliot had said the window was, rumbling and scraping and whatnot. Hardison held onto Eliot's hand a bit more firmly and eyed the residue of walls and ceiling around them. More of that stuff collapsing was just what they did not need.

And then a path opened up between the rubble, dug by a big yellow machine, accompanied by the brightness of a powerful light, and before the machine had even fully stopped, the door opened and Parker jumped out, landing easily on her feet and sprinting towards them. Hardison opened the arm not holding onto Eliot, and she fell into it, colliding with his chest almost violently. He winced and had to suppress a groan at the impact – looked like he had some more bruises than he'd originally thought – but did not say anything, just pulled her close and held onto her. She was sweaty and dishevelled but holding her was the first thing that felt right since he had woken up in the dark.

Finally, she pushed herself off him and turned towards their hitter. “Eliot?” she asked, reaching out a tentative hand towards his face. In the light of the excavator's headlight, Hardison got his first real look at Eliot, and it made a new wave of worry and fear rush through him. Eliot's face was ashen beneath the dirt covering most of it, his eyes at half mast. There was a small trickle of blood running from the corner of his mouth down to where it dripped to the floor.

But he forced his eyes open and met Parker's gaze clearly. “Hey, sweetheart,” he said, and if Hardison felt a slight tremor run through the hand he was still holding, well, he wasn't one to tell.

“Are you okay?” Parker asked with a quiet, tense voice.

Eliot grunted. “Been better,” he admitted. “Would really appreciate it if you could get me out of here.” He looked up at these words, and with a start, Hardison only now noticed the men that had followed Parker, two of them large and powerful, clad in firefighter gear. The other two were smaller, at least in comparison, and wore EMS clothing. “Sir, can you move?” one of them addressed Hardison, and he reluctantly let go of Eliot's hand and climbed to his feet, wincing and biting back a grown when at least half a dozen minor injuries took the opportunity to complain. He looked back at Eliot and Parker, gave them both what he hoped was an encouraging smile, then followed the EMS man a few steps to the side.

There, he had to sit down again, and the man shone a light into his eyes, asked him a dozen questions or more about how he was feeling, ran light but firm hands over his limbs. Hardison tried to sit still and not fidget, to listen to the paramedic and not to what was happening behind him, but it was easier said than done. There was scraping and shifting of stone and masonry, low voices that were gruff and deep, only occasionally interrupted by Parker, sounding very impatient … And then there was a loud scream that choked off abruptly.

At that, the paramedic looked up sharply and was on his feet in an instant. “I told you to wait!” he shouted. He strode off towards the others, and Hardison turned with trepidation to look at what was going on.

The two burly firefighters had apparently made short work of the debris that had covered Eliot – Hardison could see his legs now, splayed out on the torn-up floor. His upper body was disappearing between the people clustered around him; the medic was just shoving one of the firefighters aside and kneeling down. Through the gap Hardison could meet Parker's eyes; they were big and round in her face. But she swallowed visibly and gave him a firm nod before she dropped her gaze again and he saw that she was holding Eliot's head in her lap, a hand coming up to stroke over his cheek. Eliot's eyes were closed, and he was even paler than before. Hardison swallowed and got to his feet, hobbling back to the group. Not that he could do anything there since Parker had Eliot, and the medics were working on him, one of them packing the wound – oh shit, that looked nasty, blood covering a lot of Eliot's stomach, and one construction worker was holding onto the piece of rebar that disappeared into his stomach. Hardison stood there watching, clenching and unclenching his hands. He felt so terribly useless ...

The firefighter that had been shooed away by the medic came over to him and stood by his side. “You wanna get out of here, son?” he asked in a low, friendly tone. “Think you look good enough that you don't need to wait for them over there.” He nodded his head at the EMS techs.

Hardison hesitated for a fraction of a second – the basement was finally no longer dark, and he knew that he could leave any time but his nerves were still itchy with the remnants of his earlier panic – but shook his head. “Not without him,” he said with a gesture towards Eliot or rather the parts of him he could see.

The firefighter just shrugged his shoulders, folding thick arms over a broad chest. “Suit yourself,” he said. “He your friend?”

“Yes.” The answer seemed unsatisfactory, insufficient to describe the relationship between Eliot and him. Co-workers, friends, brothers … All of that did and did not entirely fit for what Eliot and he were. But he was barely able to puzzle it out for himself, so he was not about to explain that to a stranger after being rescued from being buried under a collapsed building, with Eliot injured and Parker right there. So he left it with the curt answer, and the firefighter shrugged again, seemingly getting the message that he wasn't in a chatty mood.

“He'll be fine,” the man assured him and then turned away. “Gonna get things ready,” he told him as a good-bye and went back to his machine.

Hardison just nodded and turned his gaze back to the huddle around Eliot. Oh, how he hoped the man was right … He told himself that it was Eliot, and Eliot was always fine. He had seen the hitter beat-up and bloody more times than he could count, and he had always got back to his feet. But usually, it wasn't a whole building that fell on him.

*

Maybe fifteen minutes later, some of the longest fifteen minutes in Hardison's life, they finally emerged from the collapsed building into open air. Hardison blinked in the harsh light that stung in his eyes. It was strange that the day wasn't over, even though it had felt like hours, ages, that they had been stuck in the dark, and he had been convinced that it had to be night by now.

He looked back to where Eliot was carefully guided from the rubble by the paramedics, carried in a rescue basket by the firemen. Parker was at his side, holding his hand, and Hardison ached to join them – not sure whose hand he actually wanted to hold.

Parker noticed him looking and waved him over with a smile.

He went, like he always did whatever she wanted him to do. He'd long given up the illusion of being the dominant part in their relationship.

Reaching her, he pulled her into his arms and for a moment, he just held her and breathed, for what felt for the first time in a long, long while. When he finally pulled back, he pressed a short kiss to her forehead. “Thank you for coming for us,” he told her.

“Of course!” she replied, indignant. Then she turned and tugged him with her after the men who had started loading Eliot in the back of an ambulance. “Come on, he needs us,” she said, “and you'll need to get checked out, too.”

“I'm fine, babe,” he protested but followed willingly. One of the medics looked like he wanted to protest when he saw both of them arriving at the ambulance but Parker just gave him a hard look, shoved Hardison into the ambulance and clambered up behind him.

Hardison fell heavily on the bench next to the stretcher and before the medic could actually protest, he simply pulled Parker onto his lap so that they took up as little space as possible. Then he turned his attention to Eliot. Their hitter was lying still on the stretcher, out cold. For the most part, he did not look that bad, if very pale under the dirt and dust, but there was still that piece of rebar sticking out of his belly, now somewhat shorter and secured in place by a multitude of bandages. Hardison swallowed and took Eliot's hand. “Hold on, man,” he whispered. “Just hold on.”

*

In the hospital, Eliot was whisked away behind the doors of an OR pretty quickly, and then Hardison had to sit and stoically suffer the ministrations of a nurse who found every scrape and scratch with an almost uncanny precision, cleaned, washed and dressed all of them. Parker was sitting with him but she kept bouncing her leg, eyes flitting to and fro, her hold on his hand just on the side of too tight to be uncomfortable. He wished he could comfort her but his fear for Eliot was buzzing underneath his skin, too. He knew the hitter was in good hands and was strong but still, what if something in his stomach had been messed up beyond repair? Or if it had been too long, and he had lost too much blood? Or what if the rusty metal had leaked poison into his body, and he'd develop an infection and …

“Stop this!” he told himself, and only when the nurse stopped and looked at him with consternation did he notice that he had spoken aloud. “Not you,” Hardison said, shamefaced, and gestured for her to carry on. “I was just telling myself to stop overthinking stuff.”

Parker looked at him, her eyes shining. “He'll be okay,” she said, and he wasn't sure who she was trying to reassure, him or herself. “He's Eliot.”

“He's Eliot,” he echoed her, and with a sigh, he leaned his head against her shoulder. Eliot had never let them down. Hardison had to believe that he wouldn't start now.

*

It took another couple hours until they were finally allowed to see Eliot. To Hardison's great relief, it was not the ICU but a normal ward they were taken to. And he breathed another sigh of relief once he could lay eyes on Eliot again.

He was not looking great but better than Hardison had expected. Still pale but he imagined that his skin had regained at least a little bit of colour. No tube in this throat, no mask covering his face, only an IV stand with a couple of bags – saline and blood, if he was not mistaken. He'd definitely seen him look worse. He didn't know what was beneath the hospital gown and blankets covering his stomach, and right now he didn't really want to know. All that counted was that he had gone through surgery and had come out the other side. Everything else they would see later.

Parker tugged at his hand, pulling him over to two plastic chairs placed next to the bed, and dropped into one of the chairs. With her free hand, she reached for Eliot's, and Hardison saw how a good part of her nervous energy dissipated at once. She sagged forward and rested her cheek against Eliot's chest.

He sat down, too, and took Eliot's other hand so they were forming a triangle. “Hey man,” he murmured, giving Eliot's hand a squeeze. “Glad to know you've made it this far. Now hurry up and wake up. I wanna hear you bitch at me about being in the hospital.”

He stopped abruptly. Had the hand in his just twitched? He carefully gave it another light squeeze. And this time, he was sure that he did not imagine the slight pressure in return.

Suddenly hopeful, Hardison looked up – and met Eliot's eyes. They were mere slits and slightly clouded, yes, but they were open, and as he watched, the hitter's gaze swept left and right, then flickered down to Parker's head resting on his chest, and finally back up.

Eliot opened his mouth, wet dry lips with his tongue and finally said, in a tone of utmost resignation: “Dammit, Hardison.”

[jesperr-fahey]

[ID: watercolour fanart of Cowboy Bebop showing Spike, Faye, Jet, Ed, and Ein. They are walking down a path that is canopied by flowering trees, with pink and purple blossoms overhead. Spike, Faye, and Jet walk beside each other, while Ed sits on Jet's shoulders with her arms spread wide and her face turned to the sun. Ein walks beside Jet, looking up at Ed on his shoulders. At the top of the painting is written "24th Anniversary". The artist's signature reads @ d2071art. End ID.]

Today is Cowboy Bebop's birthday! Woohoo!

[our-flag-means-death-ao3feed]

full of flowers and heart shaped boxes

by tragicallynerdy

“We should go on a date.”

Oluwande looked up from his phone and squinted at Jim, who lay sprawled across the other end of the sofa, legs taking up the space between them. “… you feelin’ alright there? Could’ve sworn I heard you say we should go on a date.”

Jim scowled and kicked lightly at his side, the scowl only deepening when Oluwande caught their ankle in one hand. “I’m serious.”

After 8 months of dating, Jim and Oluwande go on their first date. They wanted someplace easy, affordable, and most of all – low key. Which absolutely did not fucking explain why they ended up agreeing to go to Blackbeard’s Bar and Grill (and Gift Shop) - the restaurant they both worked at - for their first fucking date.

Words: 10269, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Our Flag Means Death (TV)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: Other

Characters: Jim Jimenez, Oluwande Boodhari, Crew of the Revenge (Our Flag Means Death)

Relationships: Oluwande Boodhari/Jim Jimenez

Additional Tags: Romance, Comedy, Romantic Comedy, Modern Era, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Blackbeard's Bar & Grill & Other Delicacies & Delights & Fishing Equipment (Our Flag Means Death), First Dates, Established Relationship, Jim-centric, Oluwande Boodhari-centric

source https://archiveofourown.org/works/40334430

[thetragicallynerdy]

I have TWO ficlet offerings for @ofmdrareships ' SMUT DAY - both of which are chapters in "let our hearts, like doors, open wide"

First - Chapter 2, a bloody little Jim/Zheng, a follow-up to my kinda feral attack dog/master smut fic

Second - Chapter 3, Jim/Archie, getting hot and heavy in the ball room

Neither of these are long (both under 500 words), or particularly smutty (more like heavy M rating than full E rating) but I hope y'all enjoy them anyway!!

[thetragicallynerdy]

“Eliot, why does Parker think that you’re going to die?”

Eliot scowled. Parker being afraid was unavoidable. He didn’t need to make it worse for Hardison, too. “She doesn’t. She’s just worried about us.”

Static crackled in his ear. Parker and Sophie’s words were incomprehensible, and the sound sent a spike of pain through his head. He grimaced, but tried to ignore it.  

“Yeah, how about you tell me the truth this time.” Hardison’s jaw tightened. “And while you’re at it, why don’t you tell me how bad crush syndrome actually is?”

More static, forming briefly into words. Sophie, whispering for Parker to calm down, and not to blow her cover. Parker, hissing something back, then calling his name.

 “Eliot … to god, … I ha…. come dow… …nd get you… ..ll. If …. n’t –“

Christ. The words were so broken up that he was having a hard time making out anything, let alone understanding exactly what she meant. But it sounded like she wanted to come down and find them, again, which wasn’t a good idea at all. We’ve been over this.

“Parker.” He but a bit of an edge into his voice, just enough to get her to be quiet and listen. He wasn’t the praying sort, but he prayed that the message would get through anyway. At least enough for her and Sophie to understand. “If you tell the rescue team, then they can treat for it. You coming down here won’t solve a damn thing. You hear? Tell them I have crush syndrome.”

“Oh so it’s something they can treat for?” Hardison’s voice was intentionally light, fooling absolutely no one. “Do say more.”

Eliot glared at him, swallowing down the growing ringing in his head as static and broken speech kept buzzing through his ear. “Can you just wait one goddamn minute while I talk to Parker?”

The grip on his hand tightened, Hardison glaring back. “No, I can’t. Man, I am freaking out over here, and everything you’re sayin’ just makes it worse –“

Continue reading on Ao3!

--

Sorry y’all, I’m just posting the first bit here from now on, it’s just easier for me with formatting etc. But the next chapter is up on ao3!!

Tagging @dannosteve223 and @mzchemdah!

Leverage Writing Prompt #1

The team is inside a building while running a con. Due to the building being already unstable, a bomb, or writer’s preference, it collapses. Nate, Sophie, and Parker escape while Hardison and Eliot are trapped under the rubble. Hardison receives minor injuries but is panicking due to his experience in The Grave Danger Job. Eliot is severely injured and Hardison has to work through his panic to assist Eliot/keep him awake while the team above works to rescue their buried comrades.

[conformityvictim]

“[Clayton] eventually found Matthew on the back porch, scrubbing at clothing in a washtub. Clayton watched him for a minute through the screen door, admiring the shift of his shoulders as he worked.”

In Which Mr. Sharpe is in Need of a Rescue - tragicallynerdy

[thetragicallynerdy]

[ID: a partial screenshot of an email inbox showing an update email from Ao3 reading: [AO3] tragicallynerdy posted Yippee-Ki-Yay, Motherfuckers. End ID.]

Ahhhhh YAY!!! I hope you enjoy it so much!!!

@thetragicallynerdy the scream I just scrumped

[nevershootamockingbird]

#9 and #30 for the ask game :)

Thanks friend! :)

9. what calms you down? Honestly, a lot of different things can calm me down, it depends on my mood! But what always calms me down are: rain, the ocean (or ocean sounds), studio ghibli music, a comfort movie, a good book, and friends talking to me

30. what reminds you of home? That is...a very good question. Comfortable silences with my friends, in person or on call. A favorite trope in a fanfic or book. Holding something warm (soup, a hot drink) between my hands. Hugging a friend. Hugging my dad. Sitting in the dark with christmas lights. Seeing pictures of my friends smiling. Sending my friends presents. A lot of things do!

[thetragicallynerdy]

Hello loves - today I sat down and actually wrote a gentlebeard focused fic for the first time ever! (Well, not quite, but the first finished one.)

Stede, post-divorce, builds elaborate sandcastles, thinks about the impermanence of life, and falls in love with Ed a little. Largely a character study, with a bit of romance. Rated G, 3K

[thetragicallynerdy]

Crossposted from Ao3! Tagging @dannosteve223 and @mzchemdah who’d asked to be tagged :)

--

“Yeah, Parker,” he rasped. “I’m here.”

“Thank go… sound like shit.”

Relief seeped through him at the sound of Parker’s voice. Knowing she was okay and hearing it were two different things. It was also a welcome reminder that although they were stuck down here, they were far from alone.

He snorted. “Yeah, I know. What’s happening up top?”

“There’s … escue dog that’s looking … confirm your location. … teams prepping to … but … moving too slowly.”

Of course she would think they were moving too slowly. Eliot suspected that none of the team had been in a situation like this before, and probably didn’t realize just how long it could take to rescue someone from a collapsed building. If it happened in under ten hours, he’d be impressed.  

“How long has it been? Since it collapsed?”

“Four hours.”

Longer than he’d thought, but still so damn short. Six more hours to go, then, at minimum.

He didn’t even know if that was an accurate number, he’d just heard so many stories about how long it could take to rescue trapped people from a collapsed building, or from an earthquake. Rescue operations moved slowly. They had to, to ensure the safety of everyone involved.

Parker was still speaking, her voice that fast-paced clip that said she was worried. “… too slow, Eliot, … if – I’m small …ster, I … come get you … you first aid –“

His heart picked up. “What?”

“I could come … you.”

“Parker, no.” He couldn’t keep the bite out of his tone, the flash of panic over the idea of yet another one of his people trapped down here. Or worse, the building collapsing on her head as she tried to move through the building. “No. Don’t you dare try and come down here. Don’t come, okay? It’s too dangerous.”

Hardison squeezed his hand so hard it hurt.

“But –“

“No. I mean it, Parker.” He took a breath, switched tactics. “These people are trained. You’re not. You could bring the building down on our heads. And we’re okay. We can wait.”

“… I’m worried.”

There it was. “Yeah. Yeah, I know you are. But we’re alright, Parker. We are.”

“Promise … be okay?”

It was the second time in all of this that he was being asked to make a promise that he might not be able to keep. He wasn’t the sort to make promises lightly, especially to Parker. She held promises to a high regard, believed in them with a fierceness that he admired, even if she was also realistic enough to know that they could be broken on a whim. But he wanted her to trust him, to know that when he made a promise, he would keep it.

He focused on the press of cold concrete against his skin, the beat of his heart in his chest. “I’ll do my best.”

Hardison made a soft noise, almost like he knew what Eliot was avoiding saying.

“…’d better.”

“I will. Sophie?”

“I’m here, …iot.”

Good. “Don’t let her come into the damn building, okay?”

A soft laugh came over the earbud, along with a crackly grumble from Parker.

“I’ll … my best. You … stay put, alright? … coming for you.”

“Don’t worry, we ain’t goin’ anywhere. Here, talk to Hardison.”

“You can keep talking, man, that’s alright –“

Eliot was already prying his hand from Hardison’s grasp and fumbling for the earbud. His ribs pinched with the shift in weight, and his shoulder and collarbone ached. He’d been lying in one spot for too damn long. Not that he had any other option, pinned as he was.

He gave Hardison a grin, and tried to pretend his head wasn’t hurting so bad that it made keeping up the conversation difficult. “’S your turn.”

Hardison accepted the earbud with a look of mild exasperation. “Hey, ladies. Yeah, I’m good. Is Nate there too?”

  --

  He listened as Hardison talked with Parker and Sophie and Nate, then relayed what they were saying back to him. Parker was hiding in the van, using Hardison’s gadgets to listen in on the conversations of the various rescue teams around them. She couldn’t get a read on their location with GPS, although she’d been trying. Probably because the damn signal was too weak, Hardison said. Eliot privately thought that the rescue teams would have better luck with nailing down their exact location with all their various gadgets and the rescue dog, especially now that they had a general idea of where in the building they were. But trying to find them gave Parker something to do in a situation where the ways in which she could help were extremely limited, so he kept his thoughts to himself.

Sophie, on the other hand, had left the scene, going to help Nate finish the job. The mark, a middle-aged housing tycoon who had a tendency to cut corners when building new apartments, leaving them unsafe in any number of ways, was liquidating his funds. They were sure he was about to skip town, and were determined to bring him down before he did.

It was his building they were trapped underneath, a shoddy new apartment building that looked good but had the stability of a house of cards. Eliot had loose memories of coming here to look for files, or something. They’d known the building was unsafe, but hadn’t ever imagined that it would be this unstable.

And then it had fallen on their heads. They were lucky, and it had been empty but for them – tenants weren’t set to move in until next week. But now it was personal, and they had no intention of letting him go free.

Eliot secretly wondered if the man had brought the building down intentionally, to cash in on insurance. Or to kill them, if he’d known they were snooping. Neither were encouraging thoughts.   

“Tell them to be careful,” he rasped to Hardison as he was talking. “Tell Sophie not to let Nate get in any fights, and not to let herself get caught. They don’t have someone there to protect them.”

If the mark was willing to bring down a building on top of them, who knew what he would try and do to get away. And without himself there to protect them…

Hardison rolled his eyes, but dutifully relayed the message, adding in “we don’t need more of us out of commission.”

Isn’t that the truth.

Through it all, Hardison held his hand. Even when he rolled onto his back, grumbling about his shoulders, he still held Eliot’s hand, careful to keep that small line of connection.  

It was… odd, but in a good way. His hands felt bigger than they seemed from afar – all long fingers and wide palms, warm and remarkably strong. A musician’s hands, designed for the violin, the piano. A technician’s hands, with plenty of nicks and callouses, and so goddamn fast when he tapped at his tech.

He’d noticed Hardison’s hands before. It was hard not to – they were so expressive. Just as expressive as the rest of Hardison, really. They were beautiful hands, on a beautiful man, and he’d be lying if he didn’t admit that he’d been admiring them for years.

But in all his admiring, he’d never really imagined how well their hands would fit together.

The small part of him that wasn’t sure what to do with it all whispered that he just liked holding Hardison’s hand because it was so damn warm. That he was cold, and it was only natural to seek whatever heat he could find. The rest of him knew that the small whispering voice was a damn liar, and that he knew exactly why he liked it so much.

That ain’t important. Not now, at least.

Shoving the thought into the back of his mind, he tried to focus back on whatever Hardison was saying.

“Yeah, go do your thing. Tell me when you’re back, okay mama?”

“She goin’ to swindle the rescue teams?”

Hardison chuckled. “Something like that. The damn static makes it hard to make out.”

Eliot grunted in affirmation.

“I gotta see if I can make them stronger, so that they can take a hit better,” Hardison mused. “We’re lucky this hasn’t happened before, what with how often you get hit in the head.”

“How would you do that?”

Hardison looked over at him and raised an eyebrow. “You actually wanna know?”

Eliot started to shrug, then aborted the motion before his shoulders could do more than twinge. “Sure.”

“… yeah, alright. Well, first I’d…”

He closed his eyes, and let the sound of Hardison’s voice wash over him.

  --

  “Don’t fall asleep, man.”

Eliot hummed to show that he was still awake. “I won’t.”

It wasn’t the first time Hardison had said it. It had been half an hour, an hour at most, since they’d last heard from Parker. Hardison had been talking about tech for most of it, the panic in his voice waxing and waning as time went on. Talking through it seemed to help, so Eliot let him talk on.

He was tired. Had been the whole time, and with each passing hour it got harder and harder to pay attention, and harder and harder to stay awake.

But he was still holding on, and so was Hardison.

The light had stayed on the whole time, too. Eliot wasn’t sure if Hardison remembered that they had limited battery, or if he cared. But he wanted Hardison to have as many options to talk with someone as he could, if and when Eliot finally passed out.  

“Hardison?”

Hardison’s head rolled towards him. “Yeah?”

“Do you still need the phone light on?” Hardison frowned, so he continued. “It might be better to have the screen light up, save the battery. It’s been on a while.”

Hardison looked away. He was quiet for a long moment, then sighed. “Yeah. Yeah. Okay.”

“You don’t have to. If it’ll make things worse.”

Hardison shook his head, then rolled back towards Eliot and fumbled for the phone. “It’ll make it worse not having any light at all. I’d rather have it dark and know I’ve got a phone than not.”

Eliot nodded, ear and cheek scraping against the concrete. “Thought you might.”

The light from the flashlight disappeared. Hardison took a breath, then exhaled. He set the phone between them face-up, the thin light from the display screen throwing his face into shadows.

“What now?” he asked Eliot, voice quieter than it had been before.

Eliot wished he had a better answer. But there wasn’t one. “I guess we keep waiting.”

  --

  Waiting was painful, both literally and figuratively. The more time that passed, the more his body ached, forced to hold a position on cold, hard concrete that it didn’t want to be in. Even if he hadn’t had any injuries, he knew this would be uncomfortable, and that he’d be coming out with bruised and aching limbs. But with already bruised ribs, an aching head and neck, whatever was wrong with his shoulder and arm, and his goddamn leg – it was excruciating. Even as body parts grew numb, he could still feel the pain lying under everything.

The cold didn’t make it any easier. He was sure that if he wasn’t holding Hardison’s hand, he wouldn’t have been able to feel his fingertips. And it made him tired, and made staying awake that much harder.

But he managed. He listened to Hardison talk, and answered, and listened for the bark of a rescue dog, the yell of a rescue team. He let Hardison guide the conversation, keeping it light, trying to keep his mind off the anxiety and panic that he was sure was always there, underneath it all.

Which led them to now.

“If we ever get out of here, I’m never going anywhere without a proper flashlight. One of those wind up kinds, or – or one with extra batteries.”

Eliot yawned. “If we ever get out of here, I’m never going anywhere without a water bottle. ‘M damn thirsty.”

“Preachin’ to the choir, my man. If we ever get out of here, I’m never lying on the floor again. Only the finest of mattresses for me.”

“If we ever get out of here, I’m never sleeping on my front again.” Eliot tried to roll his shoulders, only to give up at the spike of pain it brought. He didn’t even bother trying to move the rest of his body – from the crushing pain on his hip and leg, he knew it wouldn’t be a good idea. “Why’d we come down here again?”

Hardison snorted. “Hey, I’m not the one who thought it was a good idea.”

“Well, it’s the last time I’ll be going into a rickety old building.”

It was a lie, and they both knew it. If a job required it, and if it meant keeping his team or a client safe, he’d do it again.

“It’s not even old,” Hardison pointed out.

“Rickety new buildings, then.”

Hardison paused for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was quieter, nervous. “How long do you think it’ll be?”

“Hopefully not long.” Eliot feigned nonchalance. “They’ll be here before you know it.”

Hardison sighed, then squirmed in place. “I hope you’re right.”

“You could always ask Parker for an update.”

Hardison sighed. “Nah. She’s working. Said she was talking to the cops, or the firemen, I can’t remember.”

“She won’t mind.”

“Yeah, I know, but…” he paused, and Eliot waited for him to gather his thoughts. “I’d rather her focus on that, right now, then answering my questions.”

“Alright. But if that changes…”

He could practically hear Hardison’s smile in the darkness. “Don’t worry. I’ll ask her.”

“Good.” Eliot re-adjusted his hold on Hardison’s hand. “When we get out of here, I’m eating the biggest cheeseburger I can find.”

Hardison’s stomach grumbled loudly. “Man, why’d you have to go and say that? Now I’m hungry, too.”

Eliot just laughed.

  --

  “Hardison.”

“Hmm?”

Eliot wet his lips. He’d hit the stage of perpetual dry mouth, which made talking less than comfortable.  It also boded poorly for the level of dehydration he was reaching, and was sure Hardison was reaching too. “Can you ask Parker if the rescue teams know that I’m stuck under rubble?”

Hardison frowned at him. “I can, but you sure you don’t wanna talk to her yourself?”

Oh. Right. I could do that.

“Yeah, okay.”

Hardison pressed the tiny earpiece into his hand. Eliot put it in his ear, then closed his eyes. They ached from the strain of the shitty light, throbbing in time with his headache.

Goddamn concussion.

“Parker? Sophie?”

The response was slow, and quiet when it came. “Yeah …n’t talk mu… …t go ahead.”

Sophie didn’t answer. She must be around people. Hopefully that’s a good sign.

“Do the rescue teams know that I’m stuck under rubble?”

“Do t… rescue tea… what?”

Goddamn shitty broken earbud.

“Do they know that I’m stuck under rubble. That I’m trapped.” He found himself speaking louder, slower, enunciating more. He knew well enough that it probably wouldn’t make a difference, but couldn’t help himself.

“Oh. …n’t think … W… told them that …s two peop... that … can’t reach you.”

Shit. Fuck.

The connection was getting worse.

Eliot exhaled. “You need to have Sophie tell them. Tell them that I’m trapped, that my leg is crushed. Hear that? That my leg is crushed.”

“Okay, leg …shed.”

 “Say I managed to call her and tell her, then the connection broke. But tell them, Parker. It’s important.”

“Why?”

He hadn’t really wanted to talk about this with either of them. Not while Hardison was trapped, and Parker was up there alone with no one to help her deal with the emotions of the whole thing. But eventually it would be unavoidable, and he’d rather the rescue teams know so they could prepare accordingly.

He wasn’t an expert, but he knew the odds, and he knew enough about treatment to know that they’d need to start it here, under the rubble.

“They need to know they’re dealing with crush syndrome.”

“Crush syndrome? What?”

“What’s that?”

The question came from both the earpiece and Hardison at the same time, each with alarm ringing through their voices. Eliot craned open his eye and peered at Hardison, trying to keep his expression reassuring.

“It’s what happens when you get crushed under something for a long time. It’s not a big deal, it just requires special medical care before they get you out.”

Hardison squinted at him. “I feel like you’re lying. Why do I feel like you’re lying?”

Probably because I am.

“Look, it’s fine. They just need to know, okay?”

The earbud crackled again, making him wince. Parker’s voice was panicked and angry, worry threading through every broken word. “Wh… fuck, Eliot. Google… can DIE. Crush syn… kill you.”

“Parker…”

“You promised.”

It came through clear as day. He couldn’t help but wince, guilt flooding through his chest.

This is what he wanted to avoid. This is why he hadn’t said yes, hadn’t given her something concrete.

Don’t break your promises, Spencer. Don’t do it. Not to her, not to him. Not to them.

He took as deep a breath as he could. “I’m not going to die. I’ll do my best to stay alive. But that’s why you need to tell the rescue team. Okay? Tell them, Parker.”

“Oka… Fuck. I’ll … them. …t Jesus Christ, El… better be … you. ”

Eliot frowned. “What’s that? Parker, you’re breakin’ up real bad.”

Hardison’s thumb tapped at his hand, drawing his attention away from Parker, and the soft sounds of Sophie’s crackling voice as it started to filter through the earbud. When Eliot looked at him, his face was serious, leaving no space for anything but the truth.

“Eliot, why does Parker think that you’re going to die?”

Leverage Writing Prompt #1

The team is inside a building while running a con. Due to the building being already unstable, a bomb, or writer’s preference, it collapses. Nate, Sophie, and Parker escape while Hardison and Eliot are trapped under the rubble. Hardison receives minor injuries but is panicking due to his experience in The Grave Danger Job. Eliot is severely injured and Hardison has to work through his panic to assist Eliot/keep him awake while the team above works to rescue their buried comrades.