Work Text:
“Is that a gun in your pants, or are you just happy to see me?”
“That’s the gun in your pants, Quinn, and I can barely see shit.”
“Oh. Well. That makes more sense.”
Of course it makes more sense. Not just because Eliot doesn’t like using guns, ever, but also because Quinn is slung half-limp and bleeding all over Eliot’s back while they (read: Eliot) trudge through the woods in the middle of fucking nowhere, trying to avoid getting shot at more than they already have. Nothing about this situation is sexy. Not the broken ribs he has, not the bloody nose or the dislocated arm, and definitely not Quinn’s bleeding head wound and two broken legs.
Goddamn it.
Quinn’s still talking, head resting against Eliot’s, breath warm on Eliot’s ear. “You know, I always wondered, why not branch out? It’s just the three of you and a lot of work between all that —”
“And you.”
“— and me, sometimes, but I’m a freelancer! You could make Leverage a proper thing, you know. I was thinking: Leverage International. We could start the first branch in South Korea. I know a guy who knows a guy, who knows another guy named Roy Ryu who’s in our line of work —”
It’s not that Eliot’s not listening to Quinn, but he has to keep an ear out for anything around them. At minimum one of them has to be on guard and aware, and since he’s the only one right now with working legs, he figures he’s their best shot. At least the armed guards earlier hadn’t bothered to bring out the sniffer dogs; with the blood trail they’re leaving behind, it’d be all too easy to find them. Like a glowing, neon arrow in the near pitch-dark of these woods leading right up their ass.
( As much as Eliot hates to say it, maybe Hardison has a point, and he ought to maybe stay near home ground or at least in civilization from now on. He’d been excited at first, a job away from masses of people or big fancy estates, something more straightforward with a warehouse in the woods with just more guards that he was happy to work out some energy by knocking them out while Parker snuck in and stole the documents they needed. It’d be a piece of cake, and a nice breath of fresh air to boot. Plus it gave him an excuse to invite Quinn onto the job; an extra set of muscles for all the guards they were going to have fun knocking to the ground, and a nice dinner after.
That was then, though. Before the alarm tripped, before the armed guards turned out more armed than expected, before they’d shoved Quinn off the stairs and shattered both his legs below the knee. Hours ago feeling like a lifetime away. Now they’re out in the middle of fucking nowhere after being busted halfway through the con, battered and bloodied and bruised, trying to find their way back to the rendezvous point without dying first. )
“... and so I think I could get like, 20% of the profits, you know. In exchange for my great idea.”
“Like hell you are,” Eliot growls, “And we’re not doing that idea. Operations get bigger, things get more complicated. We don’t want any internal politics fucking up everything we’re working for.”
Quinn laughs, and Eliot doesn’t realize how much he’d been tense until the sound of it makes him relax, just a little. “Oh, so you were listening. Glad to see our spark hasn’t fizzled out yet. Watch out for that root.”
Eliot looks down in time to see the tree root Quinn’s talking about, and steps over it carefully, wincing in guilt at the pained hiss Quinn gives out. His own… everything, really, hurts like a bitch every time he moves, and his legs and back are killing him, especially with Quinn being dead weight on his back but he can’t stop now, he can’t. If he rests for even a second, he won’t be able to start up again. The black at the edges of his vision threaten to overtake the rest of it.
Eliot keeps moving.
“You know, when I pictured a romantic jaunt through the woods with you, this wasn’t quite what I imagined,” Quinn says, resting his cheek on Eliot’s shoulder, “I was thinking more picnic baskets, some cheesecake, feet in a creek. You with long flowing locks and an unbuttoned shirt. Maybe horseback riding.”
Eliot manages a shaky smile, even as guilt shoots up into his heart. “What are you, a middle aged housewife? I ain’t dressing like one of those penny romance covers.”
“Oh, I know. Maybe we can skip the shirt entirely.” Quinn chuckles, and then sighs. “This isn’t too bad either. Haven’t seen you in awhile. Could do without the broken legs, but I suppose this isn’t the worst.”
And that’s the thing, isn’t it. “... ‘m sorry.”
“Mm? For what?”
For getting you into this mess. For being caught off guard. For letting you take the fall so Parker could get to her escape route when it should’ve been me, should’ve been my job, my responsibility. “This being a pretty shit date.”
“Darlin’, this isn’t even the worst date I’ve been on. You’re doing fine, comparatively.”
Eliot cocks a brow, even though he knows Quinn won’t see it. “What could be worse than this?”
“Well…”
Eliot lets Quinn launch into a story. Something involving a sports bar in Alabama, a pool cue, a boat race of tequila and a hockey puck. Eliot doesn’t focus too much on the details — he’s listening, but he’s also focusing on his feet. Putting one in front of the other. Keeping an eye out for the sound of clicks that’s supposed to be the sign of the rendezvous spot that Hardison (thankfully) insisted they have in case they got separated somehow. He lets Quinn’s voice fill in the space in his ears where their comms should’ve been before they got knocked out, lets Quinn’s cadence guide the rhythm that Eliot walks to instead of the burning in his legs, his back, the soreness of his spine and the tunnelling of his vision.
The thing dripping down Eliot’s neck isn’t just his own sweat. Quinn’s weakening voice is not just a coincidence. He has to keep moving. He can’t stop.
“Quinn?” he asks, when he feels Quinn pause for a little too long in the middle of his story, palms sweaty and cold and tacky with drying blood, body on his back a little too limp. His pulse races. “Quinn?”
“I hear you, Spencer,” Quinn, thankfully, responds. He knows as well as Eliot that he has to keep awake, keep talking. But his voice is getting fainter. Eliot tries to walk a little faster. “Shock and blood loss is one hell of a drug, huh? Better than any sleeping pill I’ve ever taken.”
“Trust me, I’ve got better ways of tiring you out to sleep that don’t involve all of this.” Eliot responds, grunting as he climbs over rock and feels pain shooting up his side, sweat soaking his shirt, “You just gotta stay awake long enough to see it.”
Quinn’s laugh is so, so welcome. “Are you propositioning me, pal?”
“How about we make a deal instead,” Eliot says, “You stay awake long enough for us to get out of here, and I’ll do it. The picnic, the cheesecake, the whole nine yards. Fuckin’ — flowing hair and horse and whatever.”
Silence.
Eliot feels his sweat grow cold. “Quinn? Talk to me, man, you can’t —”
Then he feels it; shaking lips, pressed to the nape of his sweating neck. A huff of warm breath, and the reassuring squeeze of Quinn’s arms around his shoulders. “I want a basque burnt cheesecake. With strawberries. You have to feed it to me.”
Eliot finds himself grinning without even thinking about it. “I can live with that.”