‘Everybody having a good time at the dance? Anyone wonder if Eliot made it out?’
You bite your lip to stifle a laugh at that loudly grouchy comment over comms, especially when there’s a grunt of effort that means someone else just got punched on the way out of the building.
‘Does anybody wonder if Eliot’s alive? Hello?’
Fighting the urge to giggle now, you roll forward so you’re right outside the entrance to Dubertech and grin broadly when Eliot almost does an outright double-take at the sight of you through the open front window.
‘Need a ride?’
‘How’d you get into my damn truck?’ he exclaims, stopping short and spreading his arms wide in confusion.
‘Parker lifted your keys ages ago,’ you reply with a shrug. Not like it’s surprising, and she’s done it with the entire team. ‘I just badgered her into giving me her copies earlier.’
He visibly works through outrage through irritation and finally to annoyed resignation, before apparently choosing to redirect the excess ire.
‘Why’d you want my-‘
‘So I could come get you while everyone else is off pretending to do prom and being insufferably tedious,’ you shoot back. ‘Are you getting in, or do you want to walk back?’
‘It’s my damn truck…’ but he does get into the passenger seat, still grumbling and grouching under his breath, popping his comm out when you do and then folding his arms with a scowl at the dashboard as you drive off. Of course it doesn’t take long before he spots the route you’re taking and motions to get your attention. ‘Four nine five’ll be quicker.’
‘We’re not going back to Boston, it’s arse o’clock in the evening and I’m not driving this crate all night down the highway,’ you say firmly. ‘Spotted a motel a ways down and I want to check you over; from the sound of it you were taking as many punches as you were throwing back there.’
‘I’m fine, and I’ll drive-‘
‘Shut up.’ You glance at him at the lights and smile, seeing the utter befuddlement on his face. ‘Indulge me, okay? It was a lot of thump-crunch noises and I worried.’
That gets another little disconsolate grunt out of him but he does subside, fixing a mild glare on the road in front of the hood as the truck eats up the miles. You’re a little surprised he didn’t fight you more on the idea, and try to battle down the butterflies in your stomach that thought provokes. He’s tired, and probably sore – even if he won’t admit it – and just isn’t putting on his usual cranky don’t-need-nobody show because he doesn’t feel the urge without Hardison in immediate earshot. That’s all it is.
When the cheery female proprietor of the Little Nook motel informs you that it’s lucky timing because she only has a lone double room left for the night, you ignore the urge to bang your head on the counter and just book in anyway. Grabbing the first aid kit you know lives under the side seat of the truck, you head in after Eliot once he opens the door and gives you a nod, apparently satisfied that the room isn’t full of would-be assassins or other assailants or whatever it is he always checks for in these situations.
You find the usual smattering of take-out pamphlets and order something from a local place that hopefully won’t be too dire while he ducks into the bathroom. Garlic knots and a large pepperoni from somewhere called Little Zoe’s in a kitschy motel room with Eliot where there’s only one damn bed is hardly how you’d planned this evening post-job, insofar as you’d planned anything other than a vague urge to go get him and check up on him, but you try to keep your manner brisk as he comes out.
‘Sit.’ You motion to the end of the bed and pull a chair over so you can perch in front of him as he tugs off his gloves and the leather jacket, which immediately makes you cluck your tongue and take hold of his hands, which have several split knuckles despite the extra layer of protection. ‘How hard did you hit those guys?’
‘Hard enough to make ‘em stay down,’ he replies, smirking slightly as you go to work with a wipe and some ice you got from the machine on the way from the front desk. ‘Just a couple of cracks, no big deal.’
‘I thought we agreed in the truck that you were going to indulge me?’
‘I’m sitting here, ain’t I?’ A note of playfulness comes into his voice as you clean his hands, and when you look up he’s actually giving you a funny little lopsided smile, which makes those damn butterflies explode again in a distinctly unhelpful manner. ‘Or are you pissed nobody asked you to the dance so you’re taking it out on me? ‘Cause there’s probably enough space in here if we get some music goin-‘
‘I’ve got zero interest in recreating high school theatrics,’ you inform him, trying to keep your tone dry. ‘Now lose those layers so I can check you properly, don’t think I missed the sound of glass breaking back there.’
That gets a chuckle out of him, god help you, although he does move to shrug off the jacket and hoodie before stripping the flannel, leaving him in just the red Henley he had underneath.
‘Hey, if it’s just about an excuse to get me undressed you didn’t need to wait for a job to-‘
‘Shut up and hold still,’ you snap, a little more harshly than you meant to, and get up to perch behind him on the bed instead so you can check him for glass. Sure enough there’s a bit still in his hair and a few bloody scratches that’ll need something against infection, since Duberman’s retro room probably didn’t have the most stringent housekeeping associated with it.
To Eliot’s credit he does hold still, barely even registering a wince as you dab all the spots you can see and then use tweezers to extract a few nasty little shards that somehow got past the impromptu shield of the hoodie and into the back of his neck.
‘You know I’d’ve done this myself with a mirror when I got back,’ he says suddenly as you brush his hair out of the way to dab iodine on one of the tiny gashes. ‘I ain’t in the habit of just sitting around with glass in me.’
‘Easier if someone else does it,’ you murmur, too intent on what you’re doing to say much else, and wipe away the last little bead of blood – an unpleasantly bold and bright red against his honey-tanned skin – before running your fingers carefully along his neck and down through his hair from the crown of his head to be sure you haven’t missed anything.
The small sigh he gives when you smooth the last strands back into place makes you pause and frown, hurriedly scanning his shoulders for any kind of damage you’ve missed.
‘What is it? Something hurting? Lower down? I can’t see anyth-‘
‘No, nothing like that.’ A hint of warmth creeps into his voice. ‘Just felt… nice.’ Then he chuckles, almost instantly back to his usual more irreverent self. ‘Don’t s’pose I could get a massage while you’re back there, huh?’
‘Jerk,’ you say, but can’t put much venom into it. Truth be told, all you want to do right now is throw your arms around him and tell him just how much you do worry for him, all too hyper-aware of how mild his injuries are tonight compared with what’s so often ordinary for his role in the team. Except of course you’ve spent months keeping your feelings so tightly under wraps that it feels positively taboo to allow yourself to dwell on anything more than the allowed leniency to professionalism when it comes to concern for a teammate.
Thankfully there’s a knock at the door then as dinner arrives, surprisingly tasty in the way random off-the-beaten-track take-out can sometimes be, and you’re just finishing up when Hardison texts both of you that the reunion has wound down, but given the hour and the punch the others are going to find somewhere local to crash.
‘Hopefully not anywhere near Make Out Point,’ Eliot quips with a waggle of his eyebrows as he returns from taking the boxes and detritus from the first aid kit to the outside trash. ‘Not that it’d be off-brand right now.’
That makes you chuckle as you text back an acknowledgement to Hardison, but for some reason looking up at him afterwards makes something unexpectedly tight clench in your chest because this job wound up going up against Iranian government goons and the stakes are surely only going to get higher and more dangerous the closer the team gets to this Moreau guy you’re hunting down, and Eliot will always be first in the line of fire…
You’re up and hugging him tightly before conscious thought can intervene, arms around him and palms splaying across his broad back, turning your head so your cheek is to his chest right above his heart, hearing and feeling the strong, steady beat there. When it noticeably speeds up you’re surprised, but not half as surprised as when he puts his arms around you in turn and gives you a soft squeeze.
‘It’s only a bit of glass, y’know.’
‘I know,’ you mumble, thinking that you should be letting go and backing away but just not wanting to, especially with the way he’s holding you. ‘I just worry about you, so much, maybe more than I should, but with everything going on and the way the jobs are going and-‘ at least you manage to cut off the rest of that bout of verbal overflow, but find yourself biting at your bottom lip awkwardly when he gently chucks you under the chin to make you look up at him.
‘It’s all right. I get it.’ His tone is unexpectedly gentle. ‘I won’t say I like that you get so upset and worried over it all but… I’d be lyin’ if I said I mind that you care.’ His hands suddenly come up to cup your face, thumbs tenderly stroking the skin beside your eyes, and you’re fairly sure your heart is going to just explode out of your chest at this point. ‘Still. It’s my job, and better I’m dealing with it than the rest of the team. Especially you.’
For an instant you actually think you’ve misheard those last two words, they come out so whisper-quiet, but then realisation hits and the softness in his gaze catches up to you, making you feel like you could burst. Without daring to think about it, you let go of him to lift both palms to his cheeks and lean up to kiss him, intending it to be brief but not minding in the slightest when he deepens it instantly, hands sliding down to the small of your back to pull you more tightly against him. When he takes a step you move with him, feeling your legs hit the end of the bed before you both tumble, then he’s actually crawling over you and the sensation of him crowding above and around you as he draws you into another kiss is nearly enough to make you lose your mind altogether.
Still, you battle for cognisance and manage to push at him, pleased when he permits you to flip him over so he’s on his back and you’re now straddling his waist. The tent in his jeans is more than enough evidence of his enthusiasm to throw out any lingering doubts or self-confidence issues, and you press your lips together to stifle a laugh when he cracks a downright wolfish grin as you go straight for his belt buckle.
‘Hell darlin, you should patch me up after jobs more often…’
‘Hmm.’ With the buckle tackled, you catch the bottom of his Henley and inch it upwards until he lifts his arms to let you shuck it off him, letting you run your hands down his chest and lean down to plant a handful of kisses on his bare stomach. ‘I’d pamper you after every part of every damn job if I had a say in it.’
That gets another chuckle out of him as you lick a circle around his belly button while popping the button of his jeans and drawing the zipper down. A flash of lightning goes off in your stomach when you feel his cock in your hands, hard and hot even through the undershorts he’s wearing, but much as you want to just strip you both and ride him into next week you force yourself to keep your movements deliberate, tugging jeans and underwear down his legs while slithering further southwards off the end of the bed to get his boots and socks gone so he’s entirely naked.
He leans up on his elbows with a mild noise of protest when you stay kneeling down there between his knees, and you feel him sit up fully as you lean in to lick a long stripe up the underside of his cock, which seems to make his entire body jerk.
‘Holy – hey-‘ he protests, with a slight waver in his voice that makes your core tremble ‘-c’mon up here, that ain’t-‘
‘Want to,’ you tell him, running your hands up and down his thighs and adjusting to tuck your legs under yourself as you do. ‘Want to make you feel good.’ Another long lick of his cock, this time lingering to circle the throbbing head with the tip of your tongue. ‘Want you to feel just good things… for a change.’
When you start to slowly sink your mouth down on him, inch by tantalising inch, he gives a low groan and tangles both hands down through your hair; not applying pressure, if anything tugging you back slightly, his fingers spasmodically clenching and unclenching as you swallow him down to the root.
‘Oh my god!’
You flick your eyes up and another thrill runs through you at the sight of him, eyes closed and head thrown back, the muscles in his neck and throat working as he gasps and curses and moans just on the edge of audible volume. At this point knowing you’re the one doing this to him, rendering him an incoherent mess compared to his usual self-assured confidence, is turning you on so much that you feel like you might come just from watching and hearing him, even if between your own legs is positively aching right now.
Still you force yourself to keep focus, savouring the musky and salty taste of him as you move up and down, maintaining a steady rhythm while keeping your tongue moving, pulling back after a few moments to trace the tip of it along the vein on the underside of his cock. He actually gives a cry, an inarticulate noise that just punches out of him as his hips jerk up involuntarily, and you swallow him down again with an inward smile of satisfaction.
‘Jeeezus fu – ugh – holy crap…’
He’s outright panting now in between muttered obscenities, so you keep up the pace with your mouth while your hands stroke idle circles on his upper thighs. He’s close now, increasingly breathless, and his cock somehow even harder where it slips between your lips. You start up a low hum at the back of your throat and he curses again, actually thrusting himself forcefully into your mouth deeper still and flooding it with liquid salt as his entire body shakes in the throes of an orgasm.
‘Son of a – oh my god-‘
Once it ebbs he actually collapses backwards when you pull off him, swallowing several times and resisting the urge to smirk to yourself when he claps his hands over his eyes with a deep groan. Getting up on slightly wobbly legs, trying to ignore the pulsing ache between them, you lever yourself onto the bed beside him and fold one arm up under your head to watch his face as he gradually comes down from the high.
Finally he lets his hands fall and turns his head to look at you, a new warmth and almost adoring edge to his gaze.
‘Damn, sweetheart… don’t think I had anything that good in a long while. You didn’t need to-‘
‘Told you, I wanted to make you feel good,’ you insist with a smile. ‘Even if you didn’t get to go to the prom.’
‘Oh, I like this kind o’ dancing much better,’ he replies with a cheeky grin, then turns onto his side and reaches for you with clear intent. ‘Now it’s your turn.’
‘You don’t have to-‘ you begin, then have to stifle a scream when he jams one leg between yours, pushing up to put pressure on your crotch with his thigh; even that through contact your jeans and your underwear nearly takes you clean over the edge ‘-ugh – you’re tired, I don’t mind if-‘
‘I ain’t sleeping on a job half done, sweetheart,’ he purrs. ‘Never mind the fact I’m buck-naked and you still got all your clothes on, which is nowhere near fair when we’re gonna be in the same bed…’
‘We are?’ you squeak – you’d had some kind of half-formed plan to curl up on the tiny couch in the room and chivalry be damned – but then he undoes your jeans and slides his hand inside them and your panties without further ceremony, leaning over to kiss you deeply as his callused fingers deftly go to work on your clit, which makes all attempts at rational thought vanish in favour of the fireworks that almost instantly explode in your belly.
‘God, you’re hot,’ he mutters gruffly into your throat as you’re still undulating beneath his touch. ‘Always thought you would be but… damn…’
You can’t do much more than grind against him and keen under his attentions, even as sparks go off in your head at the idea that Eliot has thought about you that way – at all – before tonight. In fact you outright whine as he pulls back and removes his hand, which gets another wicked grin out of him.
‘Oh, I ain’t done with you yet, darlin, don’t worry.’
Then he kisses you again and starts stripping your clothes with the same ruthless efficiency he’d use to take out a bunch of goons on a job. As he slithers down your body and catches your eye from down between your thighs with a playful arch of his eyebrows and pointed lick of his lips, it occurs to you that maybe some recreated high school theatrics may have side benefits to offer.
That’s definitely the last coherent thought you have for the rest of the night, though.