willow_41z | The Worst Thing (Reply)

Title: The Worst Thing
Fandom: Leverage
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: The plots and characters of Leverage do not belong to me.
Warnings: Reference to canon violence
Summary: After the Big Bang Job, Eliot broods about his past and future. Gen.
Notes: Spoilers for 3.15. Inspired by 4.1.

Somehow, after a shower that left him feeling no cleaner, he'd ended up back at the office with the others. Hardison had done his geek stuff, and now he and Nate were out picking up papers for San Lorenzo. Sophie had left making noises about contacts in Europe. Parker had simply vanished. That left the condo gratifyingly empty. He wanted the rest of the team to stay away for a while: with their companionship came the awareness of their ignorance. He needed space. Cooking had no comfort for him tonight, but he made supper anyway.

He took his food and a beer over to the sofa and settled down to brood. He brooded well; he'd had a lot of practice. In the silence of the office, the scene at the warehouse came back with force-- the sharp report of the shots, the feel of aviation lubricant drenching his clothes, the smell of powder and blood. And then the sound and smell and feel of the explosion, his futile attempt to cleanse the earth with fire, to scrub away some of the evidence. To erase what was unerasable.

Then he remembered racing to that hangar, shaking with fury, desperate for revenge on Moreau-- not for what he'd done to the others, not even for Hardison's sake, but for what Moreau had done to him, dragging him back to the man he'd once been. If Nate hadn't stopped him, he would have snapped Moreau's neck. The irony was not lost on him. There was even a certain sort of inevitability to it-- of course Moreau would have been the one to drag him back. Because there were some things you never got away from, no matter how far you ran... and maybe he hadn't run as far as he'd thought.

He wouldn't put it past the bastard to have planned it all that way. The white hat really doesn't suit you. And what color was his hat when he killed thirteen men to save their target? If there was any redemption for him-- he wasn't sure he believed in the concept any more-- not for the worst thing, not for that, but maybe... for some of the rest, then it was bound up in this: in looking after the team, in helping them fix the world. But what happened when saving them meant doing things... there was a line, wasn't there? There's still a line. I didn't kill Atherton. Every one of those men at the warehouse... had innocent blood on their hands.

But what about next time? And the time after that?

He reached for his beer, only to misjudge the distance and knock it off the table. Damn it--

It never hit the floor.

Parker replaced it on the side table with a quiet thunk. He scowled up at her, trying to hide the fact that she'd startled him for the second time in her career. “Thought you were out.”

“I know.”

“Don't want company--”

“I'm sorry for what you had to do today.”

His hand tightened convulsively on the bottle. “Damn it,” he breathed. “How the hell--”

She shrugged. “Nate had his comm on. You told him to get out of there, there were shots, you showed up at the hangar smelling of powder and explosions.”

He couldn't help smelling his hands, and the next minute hated himself for it.

“No, it's gone now,” she reassured him.

It damn well better be, given how hard he'd scrubbed in the shower. He wanted to scream at her for knowing, but he didn't. “The others.”

“Hardison was busy worrying about jumping on a train. And then not blowing up the city. I don't think he knows. Sophie probably heard, but I don't think she's used to...” Parker tilted her head. “Smelling people.”

But nothing. Sophie wasn't stupid... and just like that, his assurance that no one else knew or would know, vanished. Damn it, damn it. He didn't know when the change had come, when he'd started caring what they thought of him, but it had been a long time ago and he was too far gone to change back, now. Their faith in him gave him something to live up to, and he didn't dare lose it. It was like a drug. It was why he would have answered Parker's question, if she'd repeated it-- though, dammit, if she asked him now--

He was getting a crick in his neck from leaning back to look up at her, so he turned away. “Parker. We're done talking--

“It's cute how you think anyone will care.” She slid into the seat at his left.

He growled. “Parker--”

“People change. You know. They do.”

“Parker, I don't--”

“No one's going to care about what you did. They're just going to care... that you were willing to do it for them. Even though you hate it.”

“Did it for Nate,” he growled, settling back into the couch. But-- he would have done the same thing to save any of them, if there hadn't been another option. “It's fine for you to say they won't care. You don't know what it's like.” He shifted. “None of y'all do.”

“Of course they'll care about it did to you. That's not what I meant. But people change,” she said, and the novelty of Parker attempting to have a serious discussion, about morality, was so strong that he shut up and let her talk for a minute. “They do. There's no... limit on it. If you don't like who you are, you can always... you can always change more.” She shrugged. “Or so I've come to believe, anyway.” She tugged on a few strands of her own hair. “Maybe... maybe hope.”

“Parker,” he said after a minute, “that's the most half-assed pep talk I've ever heard.”

“Yeah, I know.” She made a face that tried to be a smile, and failed. “Maybe I'm just telling you what I wish someone had told me.”

He stared.

“Maybe you're not the only one with blood on your hands.”

After a moment, he found his voice. “What--”

“Don't ask me that, Eliot. Because if you ask me... I'll tell you,” she said.

She even had his intonation down, and the part of his brain that usually said, “There's something wrong with you” reared up, but he didn't say anything. Right now he was glad there was something wrong with her, because there was something wrong with him, too. Sometimes it was good not to be alone. Instead he said, “There's some food on the counter.”

She got up and walked towards the kitchen, but he stopped her. “Hey, Parker.”

She turned, and looked at him.

“Look, whatever you did--” Then he fell silent, because what could he say next? There was no way in hell that Parker, little ninety-pound cat burglar Parker, had ever done anything close to what he'd done, even if she did like to play with tasers and knew her way around a gun... But he hated hypocrisy. He couldn't tell her that it was okay and cling to a different truth for himself. The words stuck in his throat.

She smiled her Parker smile. “Yeah,” she said. “I know.”

He nodded once, slowly. “Yeah,” he affirmed.