Chapter Text
Quinn woke up slowly, the warmth around him was holding him in a drowsy state and he didn’t mind at all. He pushed himself back towards the source letting himself stay in the half-asleep haze that he rarely got to enjoy. Quinn was cognizant enough to realize he was facing the wall, which was a strange reality because he always slept with his back to the wall. He didn't bother to question it too much, he felt safe, so there had to be a reason his highly conditioned senses were telling him everything was fine. With those thoughts laid to rest, Quinn closed his eyes and let himself drift back into oblivion.
Quinn wasn't sure how much time had passed when he was jerked out of his sleep.
It was the sharp briiiiinnnng of a phone that sounded through the hotel room. Quinn's body startled awake, his arm trying to reach for the knife he'd left under the pillow. The reflexes of his life's training trying to keep him alert despite the lingering haze of safety. He had little success in accessing the hidden knife for two reasons, one the knife wasn't there anymore, and two his body was being pulled back flush against a solid form beside him on the bed. Eliot. The older hitter's right arm was a warm anchor against Quinn's torso and the blond had to catch his breath as he was nestled against Eliot's chest.
"Hardison," Eliot's chest rumbled as he answered the phone with his left hand.
Quinn couldn't hear what the conversation was about as he marveled about his situation. He was being held, scratch that, that wasn't even the most important thing, he felt safe in Eliot Spencer's arms. He'd had a full night's sleep next to another person and it wasn't because he was conning them. There was no expectation for something in return. Eliot had just done this, just kept guard through the night right beside him. More importantly, he marveled that the person next to him had chosen to stay there. Eliot had made the choice to, to do this. Well, Quinn didn't know what to think. What would his trainer say now?
The clunk of the phone being dropped from Eliot's grasp shook Quinn out of his thoughts.
He didn't have time to react before he felt a pressure in between his shoulder blades. The sudden movement caused his body to tense up, his breath halting in his throat. Eliot had pressed his face into his back, the older hitter's gentle breathing flowed through the worn fabric of the henley Quinn was wearing and warmed the skin underneath. Quinn slowly let himself relax back into Eliot's hold.
"Team's meeting up again, we've got a plan in the works,"
Quinn could barely focus on the words.
"Hardison found more information, and Parker's itchin' to steal some of Baring's shit as payback."
Quinn was suddenly grateful that he wasn't facing Eliot as his mouth opened but no words came out. Mildly embarrassing for the normally collected hitter. Quinn tried again.
"What time are we supposed to meet them?"
He tried to ignore the way Eliot pressed deeper against his back. He didn't succeed. Quinn had never realized what touch could be. He'd spent his life unconsciously hiding from it. There had been a time as a child, he vaguely remembered, when touch had been a good thing. He'd run toward it, hopeful and happy, then…Quinn learned early on to shy away from the hands that occupied his life. Now, he usually was only touched when he had to commit to a con for a job. Usually the hands that led his body during those occasions took for their own pleasure and left him with the byproduct of false intimacy that he could use to gain the mission objective. He didn't mind it too much. There was no trust in those touches so it never hurt. But this? With Eliot? That was a different story.
Quinn had learned to trust Eliot.
It had grown out of the few interactions they'd had in the past. Spencer had let him live after the hanger fight when Quinn was supposed to detain him. Then Spencer had sought him out for a job with his team. A team that didn't kill. A team that helped people. There was a certain romanticism that called to Quinn's long forgotten ideals. He couldn't remember when the switch had happened, when the childhood ideals had been traded out for a cynical realism. In fact, Quinn couldn't remember most of his childhood, at least almost nothing before he turned 13. He of course realized that wasn't ideal, but it wasn't like he remembered what he was missing enough to try and get it back. There was probably a reason he couldn't remember those years anyhow. Quinn had been operating on survival for so long that now with this intrusive feeling of safety generated from a man who could kill him as easily as breathing he felt the stirring of hope once again.
Quinn was screwed. He knew enough to realize that this was not going to do him favors after the job ended. The values the team held, the values of a little blond child who believed in justice and happiness, were seeping back into Quinn's lonely heart and he wasn't sure he'd be able to break free of them again.
***
"We gotta head out soon," Eliot didn't want to wake up.
He'd been pissed at Hardison's call. This was one of the best night's sleep he'd had in years. Eliot didn't sleep poorly as a whole. He had his regulated four hours daily and never lost cognitive function. But, there was a type of sleep where you felt at ease and not just at rest. This was that type of sleep. The tactile approach had always been good for him. So now, Eliot pushed closer to the sturdy blond man next to him and hummed into his back.
Eliot wasn't oblivious to the way Quinn had reacted to their current situation. The hitter had been tense, his breathing irregular with each change in position. Eliot didn't want to think too hard about it, after all, most hitters reacted poorly to this type of closed contact. Eliot had to chuckle as he imagined Sophie saying something about how 'exposure therapy was good for them, it would help acclimatize them to the hybrid lifestyle' or some other shit.
"We could stop for coffee?"
Quinn's suggestion was a welcome one and Eliot muttered his consent as he started to roll off the bed. He leaned up and over, running a hand across his face. The last little bit of sleep pushed from his body as he felt the bed dip behind him. As Eliot stood up he caught a glimpse of them in the mirror. He looked well rested, hair ruffled and in need of brushing, but what stood out was the man behind him. Quinn looked…different.
It wasn't a big difference. The average person wouldn't have been able to identify the change, but there was a change. It reminded Eliot of when Parker had truly begun to understand passion. The warmth that had glowed under her skin when she understood what food meant to Eliot, what it meant to appreciate something so much that it brought joy to your life. Quinn looked soft. The tall, intimidating, snarky, wall of muscle and energy that made up the younger hitter was diffused by the confusion and hesitancy hidden in his eyes. Eliot glanced in the mirror once more before twisting around to face the man.
The change was immediate.
Quinn's shoulders straightened under the obvious observation, a cocky smile graced his lips and his eyes fell into a flattened stare. He was hiding. Dammit. Eliot sent a smile back at the hitter, a genuine one. He was going to break through to Quinn one way or another. Persistence, that was the key. It had taken Eliot years to trust the team, hopefully, in time, Quinn could trust him.
The walk to the café was quiet. Eliot expected that. He felt more than saw the continual glances Quinn threw in his direction. He didn't mind those. All Eliot needed to do was be a steady presence, he was lucky that that had always come easy to him. During their wait in the café, an order of six drinks this early in the morning was going to take a minute, Eliot decided to break the silence.
"What's goin' on in that mind of yours?"
"Nothin'" Quinn sent him a lazy smile, "I should be asking the same. Something's gotta be going on in your mind, this is the first day you haven't complained about your wardrobe."
Eliot grimaced. That much was true. This morning he was too distracted by Quinn's shift in behavior to think twice about the outfit that had been picked out. Dressed in pressed black slacks and a fitted jewel blue button up Eliot cut a striking figure. The belted leather blazer jacket emphasized his shoulders and nipped his waist in. When paired with the leather motorcycle boots, silver Cuban link ID bracelet, and silver signet ring that Quinn had scrounged up from lord knows where, Eliot had to admit it created an imposing silhouette. Sophie was never getting her hands on his closet again. That would be Quinn's job if Eliot ever needed more help.
"Would it have done me any good?"
"Not by a long shot." Quinn gave him an appraising glance, the first real look he'd given him all day, "You look good. I think we should explore jewel tones more, especially the greens and blues."
"More shoppin'?" Eliot's voice was incredulous.
"Your wardrobe is hardly finished," Quinn raised a brow, "I only got through most of the formal wear before we got pulled into this adventure."
"Pulled in? Pulled in? Dammit Quinn, you practically volunteered!"
Now that was interesting. Eliot saw a tick in Quinn's jaw at the joking accusation. Pieces were starting to move together, Quinn had volunteered. They could have played things so many ways and Quinn immediately leapt for the play that cemented him in the team's game. Eliot relaxed his shoulders and mock glared at the taller man.
"If you wanted to join our team that much you coulda just said," Eliot forced a chuckle into the conversation, trying to keep levity from spooking Quinn, "we could always use another pair of hands. Hell, it'd be nice to not be the punching bag all the time."
"Oh, so you just want to use me for my body? I see how it is." Quinn shot back with a hint of a smile as their order was called.
"I didn't say that," Eliot sent an appraising glance over the tall man, "but it wouldn't hurt my feelins to see you around more often."
"You don't even know what I do in my free time do you?"
"You're a hard man to track. Keepin' tabs on you is like bettin' on horses. A full time job if you want it to be successful."
"You look for me often?"
Eliot stared straight at the man, no sign of joking in his demeanor, "I always keep an eye out for you."