Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

"Um, Eliot," Sophie paused, her hand poised by her mouth as her brow furrowed, "You know, you know you won't be able to wear what you normally wear. In fact, I don't even think your typical tux will do for this particular con. No, you'll need a whole new wardrobe."

The twinkle in her eyes was enough to have Eliot crossing his arms in defense. The prospect of Sophie shopping with him was enough to make him want to pull his hair out. She had far too much fun outfitting Parker on their few shopping trips and the last thing Eliot needed was her help with his wardrobe. He could dress himself perfectly fine. 

"I'll be fine."

"Eliot," Sophie's head quirked in disappointment, "You have two tuxedos, one of which is horribly out of date. I mean the lapels alone scream 1999. Please, we should really update your wardrobe."

Eliot glared at the leggy brunette before turning to Nate, "No."

"Eliot, look, you'll be undercover for weeks, okay, we really need to sell this, this persona, you need to look the part," Nate gesticulated toward the hitter, "and no offense, but your typical clothes, well, they scream blue collar, not ya know, rich douchebag."

"See," Sophie stood up and gestured toward him, "if you don't let me…fix this, it could ruin the whole con."

Eliot was not going to let Sophie run his wardrobe. Nope. Not ever going to be a thing. 

"It won't ruin the con," the hitter's voice bit out, "I'll figure it out."

"No offense man," Hardison paused, his hands raised prematurely in defense, "but how you gonna do that, not like many of us are as equipped as Sophie when it comes to wardrobe prep."

"I've got a friend."

***

Friend might have been a stretch. Eliot glanced down at the number dialed on his phone. Friend was definitely a stretch. 

"Quinn."

"Spencer, well this is a surprise. What could I possibly have done to deserve a call from the Eliot Spencer?"

"I need a favor."

"A favor? I believe you owe me one of those, not the other way around."

Eliot ran a hand through his hair, "Call it two favors I owe you now."

"What do you need?"

***

Quinn had never expected something like this. Never, not once, not in a million years. In fact, it was so strange of a request that he found himself trying to suppress a chuckle. Eliot Spencer, the Eliot Spencer, needed Quinn's help creating a wardrobe for a con. A gentleman of leisure's wardrobe. Suits, knitwear, shoes, accessories, the whole works. Spencer had Sophie Devereaux on his team, and he called for Quinn. The woman was a style icon, she knew more about fashion week than most designers, well, she'd probably stolen from most fashion designers so that made sense. Why Spencer had called Quinn he had no idea. 

Well, maybe he did have an idea. 

As much as Sophie had taste she also seemed to have a habit of turning things into her personal style. That last thing Spencer needed was to look like a mini-Devereaux, the man wasn't that hopeless of a dresser that he needed his style eradicated. No, Eliot would need a wardrobe he was still comfortable in, regardless of other peoples' taste. The con could only work if Spencer was comfortable enough in his skin to actually do the work. Eliot was a professional of course, he would make it work, but why make it a chore? 

"Well, well, nice to see you again Spencer."

Quinn smiled as Eliot came into view, the hitter's face had a scowl etched into it. What a surprise. Well, Quinn knew he had his work cut out for him since Eliot first explained the job. Still, Quinn hadn't decided on a new job and he was still healing from his last one. It had been a…brutal…hit. His employer had planned to eliminate Quinn to cover his tracks and well, Quinn just took that personally. He'd managed just fine in the end and doubled his paycheque while keeping his anonymity, however, he also had some stitches he was babying. So, this came as a pleasant interlude to his normal routine. 

"Ready for our first stop?"

"No."

***

Quinn had a friend, a disgraced atelier who had at one point been associated with several… substantial brands. One slight miscommunication over a tailoring appointment, a jealous spouse, and some light insider trading and well…Quinn had a decent and discreet tailor, designer, and informant at his beck and call. 

Today was going to be a long day, a day that neither hitter nor atelier would forget for a long time. 

"Why is the jacket over a thousand dollars? I have this same jacket in my closet and it cost me less than fifty."

Quinn rubbed his temple, the tea sitting on the end table beside was growing cold by the minute, "You don't have the same jacket. You can't have the same jacket. This was handsewn by my dear friend Vincent here, and I assure you, the cost is comparable to the quality."

The day had just begun, they were searching for three suits for starters. Something simple, really. 

"We'll take one in the light grey Sharkskin, one Gabardine in the, no," Quinn waved Vincent away from the darker navy fabric, "not the blue, I want the tan. I think that will compliment him best. And, Vincent, be a dear and fit it with a shawl collar, I want him to be a little modern. I think our last choice, unless Spencer here objects, will be an Italian corduroy suit, maybe the Brunello Cucinelli." 

Eliot looked like a caged animal.

"Relax, Spencer, you're in good hands." Quinn stood up smoothly and circled around the elder hitter as Vincent quietly pinned fabric, "I think we might be on to something here. Really, though, it's the knitwear that will really be your forte. I'm thinking turtlenecks."

Vincent hummed a little, "Not the cardigan? I remember the last guest you brought in was fitted for a cardigan. A particular cashmere blend."

Quinn made a face, "No. No cardigans for Spencer here. We'll take the cashmere feather yarn sweater though, the black one, we'll pair that with the moss green cotton-corduroy pleated trousers. The vintage wool fisherman sweater as well."

"Vous l'habillez comme un sale bête."

Well that was rude. Quinn was dressing him for his comfort level and supposed station. It's not his fault Spencer prefers to get his hands dirty. Either way, that type of rudeness was simply not allowed. Especially when Eliot was Quinn's guest. The younger hitter hazarded a look at the stiff form of Spencer taking in the furrowed brow and said,

"Now, Vincent, that's no way to talk about my good friend here. You know how I appreciate my good friends"

Vincent did indeed know how Monsieur appreciated good friends. There was a reason he was still alive after all. Monsieur had after all saved his life from a very emotional fashion designer with friends in high places. Vincent was also never entirely sure what 'good friend' meant when it came to his elusive client and savior. The man rarely brought others to the small shop, in fact it was rare to see the man outside of his seasonal wardrobe updates. So, whoever this special friend was must truly be special. Vincent had to shrug, he had never taken Monsieur for that type.

"My apologies, Je vous prie de m'excuser pour cette erreur."

Quinn dipped his head in acknowledgement as he sat back down, "All is forgiven. Now, where do you keep your pocket squares and ties?"

Quinn elected to ignore the quiet groan that emanated from Spencer as he was led toward the back of the shop.

Chapter Text

By the time they left Eliot had a new wardrobe, a new dislike for Frenchmen, and the urge to hit something. 

"That wasn't so bad was it?"

Eliot grunted. Maybe he should have gone with Sophie. He hadn't anticipated Quinn having this much input on fashion.

"You still need some house shoes, really this would be easier with more context on the game you're playing," Quinn mused as he pulled the duo toward a cafe, "I can only outfit the basics right now given what you've told me. You'll still need casual trousers, a sport coat, shoes, watches, at least two good belts, etc. Not to mention the shirts. Henleys and T-shirts won't cut it this time."

Eliot debated how much to say. The con was simple: Eliot would play a rich man looking to expand his discreet operations toward the high-end art world to counteract the drain on company resources. He was the bait for the mark to let the crew in on his operation. However, to do that, Eliot had to pose as a rich man. He was the only available man as Hardison was needed to manipulate tech and keep Interpol off their backs and Nate was already set up in the second string of their complicated game. Their mark was misogynistic which relegated Parker and Sophie to playing arm candy on Nate and thief. That left Eliot in his current role, no matter how much he would have liked to trade out. 

Before he could explain any of the context to Quinn, the mark walked through the door. 

***

Quinn sensed rather than saw the shift in Eliot's body language. Whoever had walked through the door was important, and given the situation he had to guess it was someone involved with the con. Well, at least they'd had one suit ready to wear by the time they'd left Vincent's. Quinn kept himself casual, waiting for Spencer's cue.

"Mr. Harrison, what a pleasure," the figure that swept into the hitter's line of sight was surprising.

Quinn was relatively familiar with this area. His tailor was here, several clients worked in the area, not that they knew him. Anonymity was his best friend after all. So when the well dressed, wide-eyed, personal assistant to none other than James Reynolds Esq. stood in front of Eliot ready to shake hands, Quinn had to blink. Reynolds had been a client several times, a nasty piece of work all in all and Quinn was always happy to be done with those jobs. He was the type of man who thrived on the idea that he'd caused some form of cruelty to those he believed slighted him and more often than not hired that cruelty out to those who weren't too squeamish to see it done. Quinn wasn't proud of those jobs. 

"Richard, the pleasure's mine, may I introduce you to my," Eliot paused as he swiveled to Quinn unsure of how to address him.

Quinn's mouth moved before his brain could catch up, "I'm his partner, I'm afraid you've caught us on a bit of a shopping trip. My indulgence, you understand. Still, pleased to meet you."

The younger hitter stood up and reached his hand out in a smooth motion. Both men turned to look at him in surprise. 

"I'm sorry," the personal assistant shook his hand, "I wasn't aware, well, I wasn't under the impression that Mr. Harrison was…I'm sorry I didn't realize you would be here."

"Well, we do like to keep things discreet," Quinn smiled gently before taking his seat again and opening a catalogue nearby, "don't let my presence keep you from catching up."

With that said, Quinn contented himself to feign disinterest in the two players. Eliot had his job and Quinn had his. Well, Quinn had to outfit Eliot for his job, and if that meant he got to hear a little about the Leverage team's newest mark that was an added bonus. The team intrigued him and it was always a…pleasant…time when he joined them. Eliot's skill in the kitchen might have been a part of that. The team meals that he had been allowed to sit in on when he took Eliot's job offer still lingered in his dreams. Quinn had no real cooking skills, outside of making a good cup of tea or coffee courtesy of his undercover gig as a barista years ago. Who knew baristas were an excellent source of information on people's schedules and routines. 

Quinn tuned back into the conversation just as he was being mentioned.

"Will you need a plus one on your reservation? It's a good thing I ran into you today, the invitations were set to be sent out tomorrow. So, I'll have just enough time to add a plus one for your partner."

Quinn had to stifle a laugh at the blank expression Eliot wore, "That would be amazing, I don't get to do much with him these days. You know how it is, work and all. I'm practically married to the job." 

"Excellent, all right. I'll make sure to edit that RSVP card." The man stood awkwardly before continuing, "alright, I guess I'll, I'll see you later." 

Quinn sent a friendly wave his way as he sipped his cappuccino. Eliot simply stood still, a silent nod operating as his farewell. Things just got a lot more interesting, all's well. This meant that he could wear some of his new suits as well. It wasn't just Eliot who got to benefit from Vincent's skills after all.

***

"Why did you say partner," Eliot practically growled as they made their way out of the cafe.

"Because right now we are partners, it's my job to assist you in collecting a new wardrobe," Quinn shrugged a shoulder expressively, "though with the amount of complaining you're doing I should have asked for payment."

"You knew exactly what he would think!"

"Did I?"

"Damn it!"

Eliot pulled out his phone and dialed who Quinn could only assume was one of his teammates. 

"We've got a change of plans, I've got a plus one. No. I don't know, dammit Hardison, I didn't exactly plan for this! No, I'm going to need an ID, some background. Yes. We're headed there now."

"So, I'm your plus one. This means we'll have to coordinate outfits!" 

Quinn ducked as Eliot's hand swung out toward him, a cheeky smile dancing over his lips. Yes, this was going to be fun.

***

"You know," Sophie touched Nate's arm, "when he said friend this was not at all what I expected."

The two leaders looked at the hitter perched on a stool while Eliot crossed his arms and glared at him. Parker and Hardison sat behind them with equally confused expressions decorating their faces. The blond hitter was the last thing they expected when Eliot said he had a friend. Though, now that they were next to each other it almost made sense. During the last job everyone had been too busy to really look at the relationship between the hitters.

"Yeah, yeah, not what's anticipated, but we can work with this," Ford rubbed his hands together, "Alright Quinn, you'll be Alistair Chambers, Edward Harrison's partner. We've got Eliot set up to be a rich heir looking to break into the world of black market art. Once he gets in and we get the information then we can nail our guy. Simple. This could actually work out well, yeah, yeah, if you can buffer for Eliot, fill in the social gaps and, um, yeah."

The team looked between the two hitters. 

The blonde curls and cheeky smile of Quinn looked back at them. When juxtaposed against the dark glare of Eliot two things were clear. One, this would either result in both hitter's deaths or the presence of Quinn becoming more frequent in their jobs, and two, they were a striking duo.

Chapter Text

"So, how involved do we have to be for this to be believable?" Quinn had a cup of tea at this point, "Typically this is sorted out before the job begins, but I'll allow for the wiggle room."

Eliot just glared at him.

"Do you have a separate apartment? Hotel room, are you setting yourself up away from the group? If I'm your partner now," Quinn carefully pushed himself out of arms reach.

The younger hitter had a new line of tension entering his body, disguised in the white knuckled grip on his teacup, as he continued his questioning, "Would it be best if I joined you?"

Eliot's frown somehow increased. It wasn't just him. The whole crew frowned. Clearly this upset in their plan, while not disadvantageous, was outside the normal for them. Quinn decided to ask another question hoping it would give them a point to build off of, but before he could, Ford jumped in.

"Where are you staying currently?"

Quinn paused, "I hadn't actually committed myself to staying anywhere. I was already in the area when Eliot called, it shouldn't take all day to outfit him…I hadn't thought I would be here long enough for anything else."

That wasn't necessarily the truth. Quinn had a safehouse in the area, but it was his safehouse. It was safe and he didn't, couldn't, trust the team enough to let them know that. So, yes, he had housing, but also he didn't want to let them know that. His recovery plan had been to crash at the safehouse with enough groceries for a couple weeks and let his body heal. When Eliot had called he had been surprised to know that the team was this close, as much as Quinn tried to keep up to date on his acquaintances whereabouts Hardison made it difficult to track the team. Regardless, he wanted to get to know the team better, what better way to know them than work another job. A job clearly less emotionally tense than the last one they worked. He really should ask what that had been about…

"Mhh, now that they've seen you together," Sophie furrowed her arched brow, "it would be better to cement the story. They'll be expecting a couple, will you be comfortable with that? Your, um, your private lives being so, well, so public?"

It hit Quinn then that the little slip in word choice hadn't just made the mark believe he and Eliot were a couple. Partners. For some reason Spencer's team seemed to believe that there was more going on between them and that they were more than work friends. Really, this was just going to be a gag, something to tease Spencer about. He had to laugh.

"It'll be fine, won't it Eliot?" humor laced Quinn's voice as he turned to the fuming hitter. 

"Fine." 

"Well then, I guess I'll have to get a key to the hotel room," Quinn stood up, "I'll get my bags."

***

Eliot wasn't sure if he was furious or amused. Quinn was a sarcastic, mercenary, opportunistic son of a bitch. He was having too much fun with this, Eliot was on the job dammit. Partners, and the whole team, really? They were barely friends. He and Quinn had barely caught up over drinks after the last team up. They were professionals, that's it. 

There had been no explaining that to the team though. Sophie had just smiled and patted him on the arm while Nate just shrugged and claimed that the team was entitled to their privacy. Hardison raised a fist and walked away muttering something about 'love is love brother, love is love,' and Parker had just hugged him and told him she was happy that he'd found someone. They all seemed to believe that Quinn and him were partners. Eliot didn't need a partner, he had the team. He had a family, he didn't need someone to fill that position. Certainly not someone like Quinn.

The hotel room was silent, Eliot's comm in his pocket as he glanced over the files on the laptop. Quinn had left soon after the team meeting saying he would retrieve the clothing on his way to the hotel later that evening so now all Eliot had to do was wait. He figured once Quinn showed back up the room wouldn't stay quiet. 

He was wrong.

Quinn showed up around seven p.m. He was quiet, barely filling up the space, despite his calm presence. It was…different. When Eliot shared his space with Hardison it was loud, the hacker was always clacking at the keys of his computer, or filling the silence with chatter about some TV show or new technology. With Parker it was quiet, but the type of quiet that made you think something was about to go wrong. She was unpredictable and ten pounds of crazy in a five pound bag. Sophie was quiet like Nate, like you were a puzzle to solve in silence. 

Eliot didn't mind sharing the space with any of them, in fact, he'd grown to like having them around him. The family he'd been missing since he left the service. It was a good thing for him. Despite all that, none of them were silent the way he was. 

Quinn, however, was silent. He was reading on the couch, his back facing the wall. He looked relaxed, but Eliot could see the casual alertness that only people in their line of work had. Quinn knew everything going on in the room. Eliot could appreciate this type of quiet. 

The companionable silence lasted until Eliot started preparing for bed. That was when the conundrum set in. There was one bed, it was spacious, sure, but hitters and shared spaces like that didn't really mix well. Eliot tolerated Quinn well enough, but he didn't trust him, and he would bet that Quinn didn't trust him either. 

Eliot's bet was confirmed as Quinn said, "I guess we didn't think this through."

"We? This was all you."

"How else were we going to explain what I was doing with you, and shopping bags? Really? It was the most logical story without breaking any cover."

"We could have come up with something."

"Sure Spencer, keep telling yourself that."

Both hitters just stared at the bed. 

***

Quinn had shared plenty of beds before. More often than not out of necessity and the choice had rarely been his. Whether it was a mark, an ally, or a…well, he had learned to sleep with one eye open and his hand on a knife. Trust and sleep were dissociated concepts from each other at this point in his life. 

Still, Eliot was as trustworthy as they came. At least in this job.

That didn't stop the idea of sharing a bed leaving Quinn's skin feeling raw. 

"I'll take the couch."

They both stated at the same time. 

"No, I'll take the couch."

Quinn couldn't believe his big mouth had gotten them here. This was ridiculous. 

"It's your hotel room Spencer, I'll take the couch. Anyways, I'm a light sleeper, it'll work better for me."

"I only need four hours of sleep. I'll take the couch."

That was a surprise, "Four hours? Really?"

"I meditate, active rest helps activate the same part of the brain that sleep does."

"That has got to be a lie." Quinn shook his head. "Look, at least we're agreed we're not sharing the bed, right? So, how about I go get ready and you pick between the two sleeping choices and whatever's left I'll take?"

"Fair enough."

Quinn shook his head as he headed to the bathroom. Spencer was a strange man. 

When he ventured back out the bed was missing half of its pillows and the extra blanket. Eliot was camped out on the couch, his eyes closed and arms crossed. He looked dead to the world, but Quinn knew better. 

"Goodnight Spencer."

"Goodnight Quinn."

Chapter Text

"This is an event," Quinn whistled at the extravagantly decorated ballroom, "what is it, private auction?"

"Yep," Eliot was glancing around the room on alert, "haven't you ever been to one?"

"Not really, normally I'm on the outside shooting in."

That got a sharp glance thrown his way, "Most of the events I attend are masked balls, dinners, etc…Auctions aren't my scene. Remember Edward, I was never a retrieval specialist, I'm just a hitter and a con."

"Why do you…"

"If you're trying to ask why I look more like a grifter than you do, well, I have a different type of clientele than you, and background. What were you again, black ops? Delta force?"

"What were you?"

Quinn slid his arm around Eliot's waist, "Nevermind that now, let's leave the shop talk for the bedroom, hmmm. It seems our host is on his way." 

Eliot didn't have time to be disgruntled as they watched the young man from before, Richard, approach them. He was going at a slightly more rushed pace than was appropriate for the setting. Quinn stifled the urge to smile at the discomfort of the lackey in favor of leaning on Eliot. Might as well take advantage of the opportunities before him.

"Mr. Harrison, Mr. Chambers, I'm so glad to see you here. My employer is eager to meet with you if you'll accompany me."

Quinn turned to his temporary partner to see what Eliot wanted to do. 

"You'll be fine here, darlin', if I go with Richard for a moment, won't you?"

Darling. So that's how they were going to play this.

"Absolutely sugar, I'm sure I can find something to occupy my interest."

Quinn had let a little bit of his natural drawl seep into his voice and he could hear the crew stifling choked noises over the comms. He couldn't help but add, "Maybe I'll find something to decorate our bedroom, it's been a little dull these days. We could use the inspiration, don't you think?"

That was enough to make Eliot go red and stumble out a vague response. Eliot nil, Quinn one.

With Eliot being led to the back Quinn was left to wander through the auction. There were plenty of interesting pieces on display, nothing that truly stood out. Too much avant-garde bullshit. Quinn was partial to the impressionists, something about the fuzzy way they'd seen the world was a relief to the hitter. His job required him to have a crisp view of the world, every detail in focus and every face accounted for, there was no rest. The world of Van Gogh, Monet, Cassatt, and Degas was different though, you could breathe in its simplicity. If the auction had one of those pieces available, well, maybe Quinn would have found it in himself to place a bid, or steal it. Either one worked. 

Still, he had his part to play, the rich side piece, so he might as well buy something. 

***

"You bought a picture of a cat in a ruff collar."

"That is a Vanessa Stockard, thank you very much."

"It's a cat. In a ruff collar."

"It's special."

"That's a word for it."

The two hitters were staring down at a small painting propped up in the hotel room. The small black cat was a frazzled blob splayed out on a seat cushion. Its eyes were comically wide as if seeing the world for the first time. Quinn thought it was kind of cute.

"I had to buy something. What else was I going to do while you were gone?"

Eliot shrugged, "at least it's better than old Nate."

"Anything's better than that. That painting's terrifying. I still don't understand why your team keeps it around."

The comms crackled in their ears, "If you two lovebirds are done insulting my painting, which I'll have you know I slaved over, we need to debrief."

"He's really touchy about that painting isn't he?"

"You have no idea." 

***

Quinn couldn't sleep. This wasn't an unusual occurrence, he often couldn't sleep the night after a good night's sleep. It didn't help that he was in the same room with Eliot Spencer. No matter how buddy-buddy they were right now, Spencer was a hitter. Not just any hitter though, Eliot was the best and Quinn, well, Quinn was easily at his mercy should the older hitter take offense to anything. Overall, his body was just awake though, his body always seemed to be too aware the next day, as if it was trying to tell him something was wrong. The rustling sounds from the couch alerted him to the presence of the other hitter as he shifted. There had been a weird look on Spencer's face during the evening, if Quinn had to guess he'd say that the older hitter had had a question. It was a pleasant sort of weird being around the team, Spencer was soft around his teammates. He'd never seen a hitter get to have what they had.

His musings were interrupted by the gruff voice of his roommate, "You do this often?"

It seemed he wasn't the only one who wasn't sleeping after all.

"Do what?"

"Play this game? This…"

Quinn inferred that Eliot was asking about playing someone's romantic partner rather than the con itself, "When it's convenient." 

"What's that mean?"

"Hmmmm," Quinn propped his arms behind his head before retracting them carefully back at his side with a near silent hiss of pain, "well, you know the jobs. Sometimes you get closer to your target with a little honey. I can't always access my targets through an upfront fight, or a snipers nest, sometimes more tact is required. Doing this surprisingly offers me more anonymity and helps prevent a distinguishable signature. When a job requires a delicate touch, this happens. I find my own mark and settle myself in for a while, or I find the right mask and infiltrate the scene."

"You're a honeypot?"

Eliot's tone was incredulous and Quinn was almost offended, "What? Don't think I can do it?"

"That's not it," Eliot's voice took a different tone, it was almost somber, "I'm just a little surprised. I haven't worked with honeypots in a long time."

"You work with Sophie Devereaux daily." Quinn pointed out with an amused tone, as if explaining something simple.

"She's not a honeypot."

"Really?" It was Quinn's turn to be incredulous.

"No one on the team is."

Quinn pushed himself up, "You somehow manage all those cons, all those games without a honeypot?"

"Well, not, not entirely," Eliot concedes, "There's plenty of love cons, plenty of romance, but it never crosses the line. Sophie made sure to hammer into our heads her personalized consent talk."

"Who knew conmen had their own sexual harassment training."

Eliot let out a low chuckle, "gotta keep the workplace safe."

"Says the hitter."

Silence hovered between them for a moment, then Eliot asked another question, "with this…partnership…I gotta ask, are you…"

"Nope, not gay."

"But you'll play the honeypot regardless of gender?"

Quinn lay back down, that was a question for sure, and he wasn't sure he wanted to answer it. He was already sharing too much with the hitter. He didn't want to delve into his personal life, it wasn't important in the scheme of things and if anything it would likely complicate the curated professional acquaintance the two shared. On the other hand, it wasn't a big deal in and of itself, Eliot wasn't asking why, he was just asking because of the job they'd found themselves in. Quinn hesitated one second longer before answering in what he deemed an appropriately vague manner.

 "If the money's good enough. I don't care one way or the other, it's just a job in the end."

"Just a job…"

Silence settled back over them. This time though, it was less comfortable. 

“What about girls then?”

Quinn sat back up, there was no way he was sleeping, and flipped the light. 

“You trying to find out if I’m single? Why Eliot, I didn’t know you cared about me so much.”

"Just tryin' to get a read on you."

The steady reply had Quinn pause, fair enough, "Well, I wasn't joking when I said I was practically married to the job. It does take up a fair bit of my time. Now what about you? Men, women?"

Eliot was sitting up too now, staring back at the younger hitter, "No time for anyone? Not even casual?"

Quinn didn't miss the way Eliot passed over his own answer. 

"Did you ever do casual?" he snorted, his back tensing and pulling at the stitches, "What's the point, we travel too much, not to mention the realities of the job, to make a relationship worthwhile. Anyhow, I don't see the need for casual, and I don't particularly enjoy lying when it comes to that area of life."

"You are an honest bastard, aren't you?"

"My word's my bond." A shitty salute emphasized the sentiment and Eliot's warm laugh echoed through the room.

"Now tell me," Quinn continued as he moved away from the bed, rolling out his shoulders to relieve the tension as he headed to the small kitchenette the hotel had, "why is it that your crew seems to think our partnership isn't just favor currying and professional courtesy?"

Silence settled over the two men as Quinn made a cup of coffee and Eliot thought. 

"I don't make many connections these days. Between the job, the brew pub, the crew, I have a full life. When I do have connections, friends, partners, whatever you wanna call 'em, it's rare for the team to meet them."

"Okay," Quinn swiveled his hips so he was facing Eliot, "but why does that make me a potential partner?" 

"Well," Eliot broke eye contact, his arms crossed as he leaned away from the conversation, "I might have called you a friend."

Hitters didn't have friends. That was a universal fact. They did have allies, contacts, people they didn't take jobs against, etc. But they didn't have friends. 

"Eliot, you mean to tell me, this is all because you called me a friend when trying to avoid Sophie's attempt to dress you up?"

"Yeah, although," Eliot gestured to the pyjamas Quinn was currently sporting, "I'm not sure why I thought you were the right choice."

The pyjamas in question were a custom linen blend with knives and teacups on them. Quinn didn't actually wear them that often though, usually more content to relax in a pair of drawstring pants when he wasn't on a job. Quinn glared down at the chuckling hitter offended on principle.

"You're lucky I'm even wearing them right now. It's a universal fact that people sleep better in the nude. I'm surprised you're not overheating in that combination." Quinn waved a hand towards Eliot's flannel set. 

"I've built up temperature regulations in my body so I never overheat and I don't get cold."

Eliot's matter of fact statement had Quinn cocking his head, the coffee cup poised halfway to his mouth, "now that has got to be a joke."

"It's a discipline," Eliot shrugged, his arms crossed loosely over his chest, "you never know when you're going to be in an unexpected environment."

Quinn finished bringing the coffee to his lips as he considered the man before him. Eliot had just shared personal information with him. Eliot had called him a friend. Sure, that was mostly to keep Sophie off his back, but that meant something to Quinn regardless and it scared him. Quinn didn't have friends, even before he'd entered this line of work, not that there was much of a before. He'd been a lonely kid, hopping from place to place with the dream of becoming self-sufficient. There had been little time for friends and even less trust in his heart for them. Eliot considered him a friend, or at least a close enough acquaintance to have him be the first call for help as a hitter and a fashion consultant. 

Quinn cleared his throat, "well, I think I'll stick with my methods of temperature regulation."

The silence between them had turned slightly awkward as they stared at the floor. 

It was Eliot who broke the silence next, "hungry?"

"I could eat."

The older hitter smoothly passed Quinn and opened the mini fridge. Quinn just watched as eggs, a bell pepper, cheese, butter, and chives found their way to the small counter top. When Eliot had even gotten those supplies was unknown to the watchful young man.

"Omelettes sound good?"

"Mhhm."

Quinn let the silence settle for a while longer before he asked again, "So, men or women? Or both?"

Eliot stilled and Quinn took three silent steps backward, his body tensed. But the older hitter didn't move and he didn't appear to be angry. Quinn wasn't taking any chances though, Eliot had always been an unpredictably brutal opponent and he had just asked an invasive question, albeit one that the older hitter had asked him earlier.

"Don't know," Eliot finally said, his voice even and controlled, "women have always been what I gravitated to. Hell, I was engaged to a woman once."

Quinn stilled. 

"She was a spitfire too, woulda kicked my ass to see what I got into after I joined the force."

Quinn couldn't keep his mouth shut, "why are you telling me that?"

Eliot's sharp blue eyes met the younger hitter's gaze, "you asked, don't see the need to lie about anything. It was a long time ago anyhow."

"Does this make us friends then, a sleepover, girl talk, late night snacks?"

Eliot chuckled, "I don't know, do hitters have friends?"

No. No they didn't. Quinn just let himself laugh along, ignoring the stabbing ache that entered his chest. It was probably just his stitches anyway.

Chapter Text

Morning was early. 

Quinn was rolled off the bed before Eliot stirred from the couch. His feet silent as he padded to the bathroom. The door was locked and the shower and fan turned on before Quinn stripped out of the pyjamas. His wounds needed dressing again. There were stitches along his back from where shrapnel had torn through his clothes. It had been a sloppy attempt to eliminate him on his client's end. A rigged vehicle transport and collection of cheap mercenaries had been meant to kill him when he made his own target. The client had wanted Quinn to kill an owner in his company, to clear the way for some corporate plans. Quinn had been in the process of completing the job when he noted the additional men and vehicles. His own Multistrada had been lost in the explosion. That was a bike he was never getting back.

Burns rippled over and around the stitches and Quinn suppressed the flinch that ran across his body as the cold air hit his skin. 

He hated burns, out of all the injuries he’d had in his lifetime, burns always ranked the worst. Quinn had been shot, stabbed, electrocuted, water boarded, punched, a lot, and been blown up once or twice. His body was littered with scars, which thankfully didn’t interfere with most jobs as he was either never spotted or the people he bedded found them sympathetic or sexy and rarely asked a question he couldn’t wiggle out of answering. It helped that most of them were the smooth, shiny variety that faded after a couple years. The keloid scars were a little harder to brush off.  Burns though, they were the sort of obnoxious scars that itched and healed slowly. 

Closing his eyes, Quinn pushed himself away from the sink. There was no point glaring at the wounds, they still had too much healing time before he could begin to worry about what they would look like. 

The water was soft against his skin and Quinn was grateful that Eliot’s team hadn’t been tightfisted when selecting his lodgings. The water pressure was phenomenal as were the stocked toiletries. Seriously, they smelled like sandalwood and black orchids, Quinn was going to have to find out what supplier they had. He was always looking for new products to supply his safehouses with. Luxury was something he craved, something he'd always craved. Although it had often been combined with this need for independence. Quinn would never be dependent on another person, never.

A thump at the door caused him to tense under the warm spray, "You almost done?"

Eliot's voice was grumpy and Quinn couldn't help the small smile that snuck onto his face at the realization that the hitter was not a morning person. It seemed, despite his insistence otherwise, that Eliot did need more than four hours of sleep. Quinn didn't respond right away, instead he turned the water off and wrapped a towel around his waist as he moved to the door. His curls flopped into his eyes as he tilted his head to stick out the door.

"Give me five minutes, then it's all yours huckleberry."

Eliot's hard stare seemed to do some complicated motion that Quinn didn't bother to stick around for as he closed the cracked door once more. He needed to get dressed, and dry his hair, and well, redress his wounds. The hitter robotically went through the motions of getting ready making sure that everything was tucked away and professional looking before he sauntered out the door for the last time. The smell of sandalwood followed him and his curls bounced backward as he made his way to the coffee pot. The bathroom door clicked shut behind him and Quinn deviated quickly to the bed. The knife he had tucked under the mattress was quickly removed and slid into the small holster hidden in his trouser leg. It wasn't that he didn't trust Eliot, it was just that he didn't trust Eliot. Quinn firmly believed in always having an additional weapon on his body. Sometimes his fists just didn't cut it. Not that the knife was really helping that much either. Quinn felt a little out of control without his guns. There was something methodical and soothing about the way the weight of a gun settled in his palm. The fact that they also meant that he could eliminate threats before they got close to him was a perk as well. Quinn never let people get close, not when they could hurt him. Still, the knife was better than nothing and Quinn did his best to keep it on him whenever he could.

With the knife tucked safely away Quinn went back to the coffee pot and started brewing enough for both of them. 

It took far less time for Eliot to remove himself from the bathroom than it had Quinn. When he emerged Quinn hummed appreciatively. The older hitter was dressed in one of the rich wool sweaters they'd found during the shopping trip and a wide legged pleated trouser that fell in a neat line against the strong Italian leather work boots. The sweater sleeves were pushed up revealing the David Yurman silver Cuban link ID bracelet Quinn had found for him. All in all, it was a successful and flattering outfit that would look acceptable in any of the private homes in this area. More importantly, Eliot was moving comfortably and not as if the clothing impeded his range of movement of spatial awareness at all. Quinn was satisfied with his work.

"Coffee's brewing if you want it."

"Thanks."

Silence settled around them as Quinn sipped from his cup. It was nice. Quinn could get used to this type of slow morning. It was honestly the most fun he'd had in a long time, there weren't a lot of times that Quinn was able to have downtime around people he could call friendly acquaintances and so he was more than happy to keep this going.

"So," he glanced up at Eliot, "What's the plan today? Are you meeting with the crew or heading out to play buddy-buddy with the mark?"

"Both, I have to brief the team on what happened during the auction," Eliot paused for his own sip of coffee, "then I'm meeting with Richard and James."

Quinn let his lips twist into a scowl at the name of James Reynolds. 

"What? You know the guy?"

"I may have taken a job or two for him at one point," Quinn shrugged, "I don't particularly like his style."

"Dammit Quinn, you didn't think to mention that sooner?"

"You didn't ask! Also, how was I supposed to know that was your real mark? It's not like I've been informed of the nitty gritty details of this particular job. I'm just here to make you look good."

Eliot scrubbed a hand over his face, "what type of style does he have. Should we be adjusting our plan?"

Quinn actually paused, he hadn't considered that his opinion would actually be consulted on that matter. Not to mention the fact that the Leverage team was relatively proficient in their own research, although the fact they had picked up on the fact Quinn had worked for their mark at one point was concerning. Then again, Quinn was a ghost, so maybe that just spoke to his well kept level of anonymity. 

"Reynolds, well, the man likes to keep his hands clean. He outsources the more violent aspects of his overseas business to men like me and you. More often than not this includes silencing dissenting business partners, removing stubborn delegates, and threatening government officials in order to keep his line of revenue and product shipment open. He doesn't often clean house, but when he does there's a level of efficiency that would rival Moreau's if Reynolds had more sway and assets to protect. It's a good thing his sights are set lower. Hmmm, and he doesn't tip well."

Quinn's blasé summary left Eliot with a pensive look on his face. 

"When you say he would," Eliot's mouth worked a little as if trying to find the right words, "rival Moreau what do you mean?"

"Reynolds doesn't just have individuals silenced. He'll take out the families, anyone who poses a threat, anyone who knows how his operation works is at risk if he decides to hire out."

"And if he doesn't hire out?"

Quinn shrugged, "I don't know."

Another beat of silence.

"Not to involve myself any more than I already did, but is there anything I can help with or do you just want me to keep playing partner?"

Eliot glared at him, "I didn't want you playing partner to begin with."

Quinn cocked his head with a grin, "well next time we run into a situation like this, I'll be sure to have a more plausible reason for going shopping with you ready."

"Just, stay close for now," muttered Eliot as he set the coffee cup down, "we're going to meet the team down in the city in about 15 minutes."

Chapter Text

The city center was quiet, the fall settled over the remote area like a blanket and Quinn took a deep breath of the crisp air. He found himself trailing behind Spencer and observing the vantage points around him. There were few places that would make an ideal sniper's nest in this town, that was part of the reason he chose to put a safehouse here in the first place. His turf would play to his advantage and so he'd put a lease out in the only building that had an ideal vantage point. Other advantages of this town were the seasonal traffic and the elite who called it home. They were the type of people who valued their solitude and privacy, which often meant that people like Quinn slipped under the radar entirely. That is, unless the elite in need of a special skill set knew his reputation and not his face, then people like Quinn were called on more frequently. 

"Ah! There you two are," Sophie gestured from a small theater's side entrance, "Come, come, we were just discussing things."

The two hitters dipped into the side entrance and Quinn observed as Sophie graced Eliot with a soft smile and a gentle squeeze on the arm. Bundled into his coat, Quinn felt his skin burn as he watched the gentle way the team interacted. He couldn't remember the last time he'd received a positive touch, something that didn't hurt. He didn't even have the comfort of the casual brush of a crowd, his instincts too on fire to allow him that much.

"Sophie, pleasure as always," Quinn stretched a smile onto his face as he followed Eliot past her.

"Quinn," her greeting was less smooth even though she kept an even tone and sent him a smile of her own.

The rest of the team was gathered on the stage of the theater, the projector screen behind them lit up with files and images of their mark. It seemed the team had been quite busy. The arrival of the two hitters caused their heads to turn and Quinn found himself sliding off to the side as the team examined Eliot. 

“Nah, man, you’ve been holding out on us! Did you pick that outfit?” Hardison’s exclamation garnered a glare from Eliot, “c’mon, do a title twirl for us!”

“Dammit Harrison, I’m not twirling!”

“Now, c’mon, don’t you wanna twirl? Just a little bit?” Hardison’s shit eating grin had Parker joining in. 

"Hardison!"

Sophie sidled up to Quinn's side and said, "You did well with him, I don't think I've ever seen him wear something comfortably that didn't come from a Carhartt rack. I suppose it does help when the man is comfortable shopping with you. Eliot and I, ahem, haven't always seen eye to eye in that past."

"Well, trust goes both ways. I haven't found myself as comfortable with another person in a long time."

Sophie gave him an appraising glance that he met with a steady smile before she slipped off toward Nate. The grifter gave his arm a gentle squeeze as she moved and Quinn was left to ponder his words. The fire on his arm from her touch only emphasized the feelings going through his mind. It was with some discomfort that he realized he hadn't lied. Eliot was one of the few people that Quinn did feel comfortable around. In fact, he was probably the only person in the last fifteen years that Quinn did not mind voluntarily working with. Something about the hitter was honest, and honesty was a valuable trait. Beyond that, Quinn knew he had loose ethics, but Eliot? Eliot stood his ground on his values and Quinn respected that. Quinn had done his research on the man, and while most of his past was a series of redacted lines in old government files Quinn had found a surprising change around 2008. The hitter had become a protector instead of a killer. Quinn couldn't reconcile the change, but he also wasn't going to question it. Eliot was the closest a hitter could be to a good man and if he would allow Quinn to trail along some of the team's shenanigans then he would take the opportunity. 

Just because Quinn was not a good man didn't mean he couldn't help good things to happen. 

And if that resulted in him gaining a favor from Eliot, well, no one could ever claim Quinn was altruistic. 

***

"Look, I'm just sayin' if we use Eliot's cover to its full extent we can do more than just access Reynolds bank accounts and vault, we could topple his little sphere of friends as well. Y'all know what they're doing? Nasty stuff, NASTY," Hardison waved his finger around the room, "y'all are lucky you don't have to be lookin' through this stuff, I swear, I, I need bleach, or something, for my eyes."

Nate nodded his head, "I mean, that's true, that's true, but what if they smell a rat huh? No, no, we get in, we get the information, ruin him a little, and then we deliver it to the client. No more than that, it's not worth the risk."

"But isn't the risk there anyway," Parker chimed in, "and these friends of Reynolds, they're doing bad things too. We could at least try to stop them a little, and we have Quinn now. He'll want to  keep Eliot safe."

Quinn's head cocked to the side at that statement. The older hitter was beside him and they glanced at each other with furrowed brows. 'He'll want to keep Eliot safe?' Why would they think he'd want that?

"Yeah, yeah, see Parker's got a point, we've got a new addition for the con and," Hardison gestured toward them, "they've got incentive to stay safer this time round."

Were they implying..? For a bunch of grifters and cons, they really weren't picking up on the dynamic here. Eliot opened his mouth, but before he could say anything Quinn smacked him. He wanted to see where this was going.

"We could ask them," Sophie huffed, "they are the ones out there with the mark after all."

Five pairs of eyes swiveled over to Quinn.

"Why are you looking at me? This is your con." Quinn huffed, "I was in the wrong place at the right time."

"You don't want to keep Eliot safe?" Parker's voice rang with suspicion. 

Quinn looked at Eliot, the hitter's face was curious with a hint of exasperation, and found himself saying, "No, I would rather nothing bad happen to our favorite hitter here. However, I don't really understand why you need me to complicate the plan. If I remember correctly you all have done far more complex scams than this with fewer members."

"See, Nate, man, we can do this. Eliot's got Quinn, and we have time and a better cover now."

"Yeah, Eliot's got Quinn!" Parker's cheerful voice chimed in as they both overlooked Quinn's whole point.

"Yes," he was pinching the bridge of his nose now, "I am here, however, why do you need me to be a part of the con. I can sit back and be a stylist just fine."

"Is there a reason you don't want to participate?" Nate asked the question and somewhere in the tone was a question deeper than mere participation.

Quinn stared down at them. His shoulders were tense under the sculpted shoulders of his suit. He didn't want to let them know he was still recovering from his last job, that was a vulnerability better left for the silence of his own safehouse. However, without that reason there wasn't really much holding him back either.

"Am I getting paid?" 

"Really, that's your question?" 

That was the first time that Eliot had spoken during this fiasco and the bite in his question stung. Quinn shifted, keeping his face and emotions as smooth as butter, in his seat as he turned to Eliot. 

"Some of us do have costs to cover," more like an extensive retirement plan, but that was practically the same thing, "I don't do pro-bono."

"My favor ain't enough?"

"I don't know, what does that favor cover?"

"What do you need?"

Quinn was smiling now, "well, that might change between now and when I decide to call it in. I guess I'll just have to keep you posted."

The hitters completely missed the surreptitious winks that were passed between the other members of the group. 

"Well then," Sophie broke their banter, "can we count on you?"

Quinn figured the scam would go to plan and that he could stay the watchful arm candy of Spencer's alias so he responded, "why not, just tell me the plan."

***

"You ever seen Eliot like that?" 

"Flirting?"

"Nah, Parker, that wasn't flirting," Hardison paused, "was it? Ey, Sophie, were they flirting?"

"I'd say so, although, now that it's public," she gestured to where the two had been sitting, "it only makes sense to make things a little more obvious."

The hitters in question had long since left the small theater, Quinn mentioning that they had been invited to tea with one of the socialites who had been at the auction before dragging Eliot with him.

“Huh, imagine that.”

Chapter Text

“Tea? Why are we going to tea?”

“I thought you’d like this, Mr. Brewpub,” Quinn gave an articulate shrug, “while you were busy dealing behind the curtain last night I was busy socializing. You’d be surprised what you learn from the wives of rich men.”

Eliot shot him a softer look, Quinn wasn’t wrong, Eliot did actually like high teas. The delicate use of flavors and garnishes was often a good source of inspiration for his own menus. Still, he wasn't sure how high tea was going to help with the con and voiced as much.

"Hmm, rich men leave their wives alone, the wives snoop," Quinn flicked a hand between them, "we are not their rich men. We can snoop."

"Are you saying 'cause we're partners they'll tell us more?"

"We're one of the girls now Eliot," Quinn brushed a fleck of dust off his shoulder, "anyhow, this means you can actually utilize the wardrobe we just got you. Don't tell me you were hoping to avoid the suits?"

"I wasn't going to avoid them," Eliot huffed, "just save them for the right occasion."

"The con is the occasion."

***

Tea was…Informative to say the least. 

Quinn was impressed by how much information they were able to glean from the wives. That and how well Eliot was able to entertain them. Quinn of course had no problem socializing with the women, his charm was carefully honed through years of experience and they found him attentive and engaging. The food was excellent too, the watercress sandwiches were surprisingly delightful. 

That being said, the information was a little less delightful. Their host, a Mrs. Dmitri Montague,  was more than happy to show off her art acquisitions and home décor. Pieces that would have been better fit in regional and international museums stood out against the wood paneled walls and ecru drapes. From the topic of interior decoration spurred the topic of valuable additions, and so on and so on. Soon enough, Eliot had the host giggling like a girl about to get caught with her hand in the cookie jar as she led them to her husband's study.

"You can't tell him I showed you this," her hand rested against the brass doorknob, "really, I'm not supposed to know, it's an anniversary present."

"Cross our hearts," Eliot leaned forward with a wink, "and hope to die."

Quinn rolled his eyes, "it might even give Romeo here some ideas, our anniversary isn't that far off."

A conspiratorial smile made its way around the group before they were ushered into the richly decorated office. The two men followed the petit figure to the desk where she blocked their view and fiddled with what could only be a small safe. Quinn watched in his periphery as Eliot dipped his head and muttered something into his comm. No doubt Parker was being informed of the safe's placement. He didn't have any more time to consider the team as Mrs. Montague pulled out the hidden object.

Well then, Quinn blinked at the small object before him. That was mildly unexpected. 

A small golden egg, pulled by a dainty and mischievous cherub, winked up at them. The soft glow of the gold coated their host's hands and Quinn found himself sucking in a breath at the sight. It was beautiful, the craftsmanship visible in every minute detail carved into the surface.

"And look, the clock even works," Mrs. Montague's fingers unlatched a small surface revealing a beautiful timepiece hidden within the egg. 

"It's beautiful, you're a lucky woman," Quinn lightly elbowed Eliot, "see that dear, I'm expecting great things."

Mrs. Montague laughed at the disgruntled look Eliot shot Quinn while she put the egg back in the safe.

"Now, my Philip couldn't have done this for me without the help of Mr. Reynolds, he always knows where to find the best things. I swear most of our house has been decorated with help from his auction house and researchers. I wouldn't know what to do without him. I'm sure I could get Philip to put in a good word for you if you wanted help looking for a gift?"

"Why, thank you ma'am, I think I'd appreciate that."

***

"That was a Faberge egg."

Eliot tapped the steering wheel, his brow furrowed, "Yeah."

"One of the missing Faberge eggs."

"Uh huh."

"Parker's going to collect it, right?"

"That's the plan."

"Where are you going to sell it?"

Eliot shot him a look, "we probably won't."

"What are you going to do with it then?"

Eliot shrugged, "I don't know. Keep it? Give it back to the Russian government? That's not the problem right now."

"A Faberge egg and that isn't the problem?"

"Yeah, we've got a job, and it's not just retrieving stolen art."

"Seriously? You don't even get paid. I know your work is important, hell, I've been on a job, but really?"

"The job you were on was a…off job."

"Hmmmmm."

"What's it matter to you? I know your rates, you've got a good gig going, why you so concerned with what we do with that egg?"

Quinn wanted to say that money was fleeting and no matter how much you stored, you could never guarantee it would last. That want was something he'd never let himself feel again and that his body wouldn't be able to go one forever. Quinn knew this job wouldn't last, his body would fail, or someone would kill him. He wanted enough money to let him live before he died. Money was a resource and watching something so valuable be given away, well, Quinn knew what it was like to be a wasted resource. 

What he said instead was, "Can you ever have enough?"

Eliot shot him a piercing stare, "It's not about the money, Quinn. Never was."

"Not for you. However, some of us do take our job seriously enough to require payment regularly. Not to mention, our wardrobes require a different level of expense which encourages me a little more than I imagine it does you."

Eliot snorted, "You got that right."

***

The con continued according to plan from there. Eliot's alias was making friends with Reynolds' client list each day and Quinn's presence equally disarmed and distracted them from some of Eliot's more pointed questions as they gathered information. Between social events, backroom meetings, and official dinners the two men were spread across town while the other team members pulled reconnaissance, research, and assets from the players in the scam.

Quinn thought they made a pretty damn good team. 

By the end of the first week Eliot and Quinn had compiled a list of James Reynolds top clients. They were still working on sourcing the shipping channels and foreign executives he was in contact with when Quinn noted things were starting to get complicated. By complicated he meant the living arrangements and basic daily functions.

***

Quinn's eyes were wide open. The small knife under his pillow brought no comfort to him as he tried to fall asleep. He could hear Eliot's breaths across the room. Even. In for three, out for four. That's all he could hear. Quinn's skin crawled and he threw the comforter across the bed as he slid through the room to the bathroom. The golden glow of the vanity lights washed away the dark circles under Quinn's eyes and he stared at his reflection. 

If he didn't think it would destabilize the con, he'd move back to his safehouse. Except, typically Eliot's breathing was soothing, the breath count a gentle reminder for Quinn to breathe. The week they'd been sharing the room had been both hellish and heavenly. On one hand, Quinn actually had company, quiet, funny company. On the other hand, Quinn had to accommodate himself to another's schedule. Not to mention the team being constantly in his ear. How Eliot managed their voices, Quinn wasn't sure he'd ever figure out. The constant chatter, the weird conversations, the camaraderie…it was foreign. 

Quinn turned the shower on. 

It would wake Eliot up, but like clockwork, Eliot had been waking up around this time anyhow. His four hours, and he hadn't been joking about that, were always complete at the ungodly hour of the morning that Quinn now found himself awake at. 

The door was locked and Quinn slid the chair underneath the doorknob as he stripped and stepped into the shower. 

The warm spray was a boon to his tense shoulders and Quinn let his eyes close. This was the only time he ever really relaxed. He'd read somewhere once that lonely people tended to shower more. The warm water was apparently a substitute for the physical contact that was supposed to be present in the everyday lives of these people. That study didn't apply to Quinn. He didn't need physical contact. His skin burned at the thought, a slow itch making its way across his body. He was more than comfortable in his lifestyle. 

"Hurry up in there!"

Quinn blinked. The water was cold. How long had it been?

He reached out and shut off the water before stepping out of the shower. His towel was quickly draped around him and he moved to unbarricade the door. His clothes were tucked away in the main room which was inconvenient but he hadn't really thought too much about that when he'd started his shower. He'd just needed to burn the itch off his skin.

"All yours," Quinn sailed past a glaring Spencer. 

The older hitter closed the door to the bathroom a few seconds after Quinn exited and he released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Dressing was a fast process. The pleated cream corduroy pants sat just a tad too loose on his hips. A reminder that the last job had been rough and that he needed to tend to his nutrition plan. Quinn buttoned a navy blue cotton shirt up. Brown belt, brown ankle boots, and a double breasted leather jacket later Quinn was standing next to the coffee pot. For once the persona he'd crafted didn't sit right on his shoulders. Quinn wanted to curl back up in the bed and sleep. He wanted to let himself breathe.

"You used all the hot water." Eliot's voice was a low grumble. 

"Mhmm, sorry 'bout that," Quinn handed him a cup of coffee before leaning back against the counter.

"What were you doin' in there for so long anyways?"

"Do you really want to know?" Quinn let a wicked smile curve his lips, better to let Eliot think anything so long as he didn't have to face the reality that he'd just lost time. Quinn hadn't lost time in years. 

Eliot's hard stare wasn't unnerving. The older hitter seemed like he was trying to sort out a puzzle. He doubted the older hitter believed his insinuation, but he didn't have to. 

"What's on the docket today?"

"Well, now that you ask," Eliot spun around, "we've got two different tasks. I'm meeting the team to go over some of the recent transactions they've tracked down through some of Reynolds contacts."

"And me?" Quinn cocked his head, "what do you have me doin'?"

"You are gonna help us plant the idea that I have some purchasin' needs, as well as some items that need to be liquidated."

"Ah, persuade the sweet citizens of these mansions that they should help you and your little assets find a home?"

"Pretty much."

Quinn gave a nod, a close-lipped smile decorating his face. This he could do.

Chapter Text

The separation from the team was honestly beneficial. Quinn felt his mind clear for the first time in days. There was no heady buzz that he couldn't completely identify and no lingering worry that something would go wrong that he couldn't anticipate the cause of. No jealousy to tamp down at the close behavior of the team. No need to guard himself beyond what he normally did. There were no worries, or dreams, when he was by himself. There were no blue eyes staring into his soul. 

No, it was just Quinn, just like it always was and always had been. 

***

He might have been a bit overzealous in his sales pitch. 

Not that that should be a problem, right? Quinn was very good at his job. Well, really, he was good at any job he put his mind to. Eliot said persuade the people, Quinn persuaded the people. The seed was planted that the dear 'Mr. Harrison' had several hot items that needed to be removed from his possession. The dear ladies were so eager to help that Quinn had been given about three different phone numbers who he could contact. He was assured that they were very discreet and that 'our husbands use them all the time, Mr. Reynolds gave us the number.' He'd even had one of the sweeter wives offer to find some cash and purchase something if they were desperate. So yes, he might have overstated how much of a hotspot they were in. Who knew that saying you had accidentally purchased a rare Van Gogh, that you of course thought was a print at the time, and then realizing it was the real thing, would get you so much…sympathy? Rich people were a different breed. 

While the support was nice, all but one of the phone numbers were already known from the team's reconnaissance. Quinn had tucked that number in his breast pocket for the team. It shouldn't have been surprising, how deeply entwined Reynolds was in the community. He had an investment in every business, every up and coming member of society's life, and the local educational and medical institutions. Hell, there was a whole wing of the local hospital that had his name. That wouldn't last long if Eliot's team had anything to say about it though.

Quinn was making his way to the last of his afternoon tea visits, when the back of his neck prickled. This last target was special. She was the most predatory of the rich people here. He'd met her at the auction, all long legs and lowered lashes. Mrs. Baring was a force to be reckoned with. Unlike Mrs. Montague, or any of the socialite wives, Mrs. Baring ran her own investments. She was just as involved in society as Reynolds was, although Quinn hadn't ever heard of her outsourcing any dirty work. For all he knew she just kept tight security on what she deemed hers. That assumption came when Quinn had noted her personal guard. She was one of the few individuals who did have an arsenal with them at the auction. Two thugs lingering around corners and sitting a few tables behind her during the event. He figured that those thugs were following him now. They hadn't had many tells, no giveaway haircuts, no accents. That told him enough to be wary of them. Anyone who worked to avoid recognizable physical characteristics didn't require a second warning for him to know that they were a threat. Quinn didn't need anything more than that. A threat was a threat. Their movements would tell him more about their fighting style than their accent would anyways. 

Anyhow, Quinn didn't think he was in trouble, at least, as he rounded the block to approach the townhouses door, not yet. Two thugs weren't that bad anyhow. Anyone could take down two thugs.

***

"Mrs. Baring," Quinn reached out to kiss her hand, "how are you?"

"All the better for your visit. I hear you've been a busy boy around society?"

"I've had my rounds to make, of course saving the best for last," Quinn let himself be led to a small parlor.

The prickling on his neck didn't subside as he heard a door shut behind them and two more sets of steps echo through the house. So he had been right, the two thugs following him were Mrs. Baring's guards. This could be unpleasant. The unpleasantness continued as Quinn caught a glimpse of a painting he'd only seen once before. He knew the blood behind that frame. Mrs. Baring was playing a game, a game that required guards and Quinn had just walked right into her arena. 

The smile never left his face. 

"I hear you've been looking to liquidate some assets? Are you looking to make new investments or simply tired of your current line of investment?"

"Straight to business," Quinn accepted a cup of tea, the saucer gingerly held in his fingers, "the other ladies warned me you were sharp. I can't really say much of anything, I suppose."

Quinn let a breathy laugh out as he sipped the tea, "I'm not really in charge of our investments after all, Edward does most of that. I believe he was looking to liquidate though, something about a new line of investment."

Mrs. Baring raised her arched brow in a sleek movement, "new investments, around these parts? Well, that is a surprise. I haven't been informed of anything new in the market. Is it a startup? Maybe a new entrepreneur on the scene?"

Quinn felt the tingle return, this wasn't the same interest the other ladies had had. Baring was fishing for information. Information Quinn didn't necessarily have. He wasn't entirely sure how to proceed, on one hand he could keep selling the idea that they needed help, but on the other hand Mrs. Baring could see it as a threat to her own system of investments and local control and Quinn didn't know how that would change the game. 

He hesitated a second too long.

"Perhaps the entrepreneur is not public yet?" Baring's finger traced around the rim of her cup, the red nail polish reflected like blood against the tea.

The meaning wasn't lost on Quinn, perhaps the entrepreneur is outside the confines of the law, "I'm afraid I really don't know. Although Edward tells me he's been communicating with Mr. Reynolds and his assistant. I can only assume that whatever methods of investment Edward's been involving himself in have been approved by Mr. Reynolds, after all, he is the authority on business dealings in this town."

"Indeed," the considering look on her face grew angry for a split second before smoothing.

All talks of business were done after that. Quinn spent the remainder of their tea time on the edge of his seat. His gut was telling him that there was something going on with Baring that the crew hadn't factored. Whatever it was had something to do with Reynolds and the illicit trade deals that went on in the gilt backrooms of the mansion studded hills, Quinn would bet on it. Still, there wasn't anything he could do about it. He'd tell Eliot about the strange reaction Baring had, but the team would have to do their own research. From his limited understanding of Baring's business deals, she had worked independently from her husband in the banking industry and then invested in schools. Her wealth was centered around assets and offshore accounts but her name was never linked to anything. Quinn was going to look into that. He was going to look into that painting.

The wind pushed his curls across Quinn's face as he walked back to the hotel. It didn't help to brush the concerns out of his mind, but it eased his spirit all the same. He made sure to take a circuitous route, just to make it difficult for the hired guns Baring had. Quinn was positive that they were going to be a problem sooner rather than later and he wanted to preserve what little security their hotel room had while he could. 

***

The coffee pot went on again. The warm smell of the tahitian coffee beans filled the room as Quinn pulled out his laptop. Eliot still wasn't back. Whatever debrief the crew was working through was intensive apparently. No matter, Quinn had his own work to do. His fingers flashed across the keyboard as he began tracking Baring's finances, companies, and recent personal acquisitions. 

No stone unturned.

***

It took two more days before anything changed. Eliot had another debrief with his team, something about high stakes art sales that seemed legitimate to cover other illegal dealings. More news from Reynolds. At this point Quinn wasn't sure if they were ruining the man, usurping his operations, or trying to bed him. Regardless of team plans, Quinn was left alone in the hotel room. He'd pretended to have a cold to avoid any more tea with the socialite circles, it also helped him research Baring more. He hadn't found anything concrete yet, if his gut was accurate this meant that Baring was more discreet than Reynolds. That was an uncomfortable thought. Quinn had reached a flow state in his research when he got a text from Eliot. The hitter was on his way back to the hotel.

That was Quinn's cue to shower. He'd rather be freshly composed when the hitter arrived than have to juggle the shared bathroom with the other man. The shared space was tight enough already, he didn't want to risk getting lost in time again with the man here. Bad enough that it happened once. It wouldn't happen again. Quinn didn't strip until the bathroom was filled with steam. The water beat down in a relaxing spray as he shook his curls out. It was a brief moment of peace before the job had to come into focus. His findings on Baring were finally getting somewhere and he'd try and address them with Eliot after he arrived.

By the time the water started growing cold Quinn heard the faint sound of the outside door start to open. He turned the shower off and wrapped a towel around his waist as he removed the chair from under the bathroom door handle. His back turned for a split second as he said, "About time you got back here, I think I've got something you should see…"

He never finished the sentence.

Chapter Text

Eliot's eyes swept over the hotel room. Two bodies were splayed across the floor and chaise. Beyond them was Quinn. Eliot didn't spare much more than a glance toward him before assessing the room. The hitter seemed to be composed against the wardrobe, his frame squared off and his head tilted at an angle as he looked down at the bodies. There was something in his face, something that Eliot couldn't quite identify. Quinn almost looked…tired? Exhaustion was a better word. The thought process was overshadowed by the reality that the two men were dead. Two men were dead, they were made on the con and Quinn just complicated everything. 

The aforementioned hitter met his eyes and said, "Now you show up."

"You killed them." Eliot's voice was harsh to his own ears as he bent down over the bodies.

"That is what I do."

"Dammit Quinn!"

"Hey, at least you can rest easy that your cover is still in place," Quinn retorted sharply, "they would have sent more mercs if they knew who we are."

"Yeah? And how are we going to explain these bodies, huh, you think of that!" 

There was no question behind the words and Eliot pulled his phone out to update the team. The room was silent outside of the background noise over the phone as it rang. Neither hitter looked at each other. Quinn's head faced down, his eyes distant while Eliot glared out the window.

"Hardison, we've got a problem. Clean up at the hotel, yeah," a sigh punctuated the stilted conversation and Quinn suppressed a flinch at the sudden noise, "bodies, two of them. No, no, how soon can you be here? Yeah? Okay, see you then."

"We've got a cover coming for the bodies. The team's already on the way, we figured Reynolds was on to us and that he'd try something. Figured since you were here, we'd regroup in case he tried something."

Quinn didn't respond, instead he sluggishly peeled himself off the wardrobe and headed into the bathroom. Eliot glanced up at him with a frown. They hadn't talked about this aspect of their work this time, he figured that Quinn would remember the rules of engagement from their last job. No killing. He was capable of disarming and disabling the mercenaries, so why hadn't he?

Eliot glanced down at the bodies, then up at the bathroom door. They weren't going anywhere, his partner on the other hand seemed to be disappearing. With quiet steps Eliot crossed the room and paused outside the door, he hadn't been able to tell if Quinn had been hurt before he eliminated the men. If he had been hurt, well, that could explain the almost recalcitrant attitude he had had since Eliot came into the hotel room. 

"Quinn?" 

Silence on the other side of the door.

"Quinn," Eliot's voice was insistent, "let me in."

Silence still. 

Eliot didn't bother to ask again. As he rammed into the door the scratched detailing of the lock caught his eye. The bathroom door had been jimmied open. Too late to stop his momentum, the door flew open so fast that Eliot had to take an extra step forward to keep himself from falling. The sight before him left Eliot feeling just as unstable as if the momentum was still pushing him forward. 

Quinn was slouched in the bathtub. His back against the flat expanse of the tile and his eyes staring straight ahead to the spout. The hitter had a white knuckle grip on his forearms as he held his knees close to his chest. Eliot took a hesitant step forward only to take an immediate step back when Quinn threw a bar of soap at him. The aim had been vicious and Eliot barely managed to dodge in time. He had no doubt that if Quinn had been closer to a knife it would have been that sailing through the air instead of the soap. 

"Quinn," Eliot lowered his voice, "hey, can you look at me?" 

The younger hitter didn't seem to acknowledge Eliot at all. Standing in the doorway, Eliot took the time to really observe the man before him. The first thing that stood out was that Quinn's hair was still wet, actually his whole body seemed damp. That paired with the towel wrapped tightly around his waist gave the impression that Quinn had been in the process of showering when the two assailants approached the room. This was the first time he'd seen any vulnerability in the hitter and he wasn't sure how to progress. The second thing Eliot noticed was the pink burns that snaked around the hitters sides and shoulders. 

"Dammit Quinn," Eliot muttered, "you didn't think it'd be a good idea to tell us you were hurt?"

The question was rhetorical, Eliot wouldn't have told a strange team he was hurt either if he was in Quinn's position. From this distance it was difficult to judge what other wounds the hitter might be hiding. Hell, he hadn't been able to tell Quinn had been hurt this whole time. Eliot took a step back out of the bathroom, positioning himself so he could see Quinn with you being in the younger hitters line of sight.

“Hardison?”

“Yeah man, we’re almost there.”

“Do you have the med kit I stashed a while back in the car?”

“Uh, hey Nate you wanna look around… no it’s not gonna be on that side, seriously, hold up Eliot,” the hacker's voice echoed over the phone as he yelled instructions, “okay, yeah we got it man. You hurt?”

“No, but I think Quinn might be.”

Eliot kept Quinn in his periphery as he reexamined the dead mercenaries. The distinctive stripes, knives and teacups of Quinn’s pyjama pants were wrapped around the throat of one man and the matching shirt was bloodied and knotted around the hands of the second mercenary. It wasn't completely clear what had ended their lives, although judging by the toothbrush placement on the second mercenary that might have something to do with his demise. The first…well, pyjama pants, rope, whatever works in a pinch. The picture Eliot was getting from the scene wasn’t pretty or enjoyable. There wasn’t any noise from the bathroom as he waited. The hotel suite was disconcerting in its silence. 

By the time Hardison and the others arrived Eliot was ready to hit something. 

“Hey man, so what’s the, oooooh mh, that’s two very dead men.” Hardison stopped halfway through the room and put his fist by his mouth, “you didn’t tell me they was dead bodies, mmhmm, you know how I get!”

“I did tell you!”

“I didn’t think they were actually dead!”

“Dammit Hardison!”

"What was I supposed to expect? We don't typically have dead bodies Eliot!"

Eliot snatched the medkit off the hacker and marched to the bathroom. This time he knocked, whatever had thrown Quinn off was not something he wanted to exacerbate. There was no noise from the other side of the door. Eliot knocked again.

"Quinn, I'm going to come in now," Eliot's voice was soft as he gently nudged the door open. 

He didn't step across the threshold until the door was fully open and Quinn would be able to see Eliot completely. Even then, he waited until there was some sign of recognition on the younger man's face. The slight flicker of Quinn's eyes toward Eliot was all he needed to step into the bathroom and close the door behind him. He doubted Quinn wanted Nate and Hardison to see him in this state. Not that Eliot knew what this state was. 

Once the bathroom door was shut Eliot set the medkit on the bathroom counter and held his hands up. 

"I don't have anything else on me, " he twisted around to give the silent bathtub occupant a chance to confirm his claim, "mind if I come over there and see what we can do about those burns, maybe see what else is going on?"

Quinn was still silent, his arms were no longer chaining his legs toward his chest, but the posture was still more defensive and closed off than Eliot had ever seen the hitter exhibit. Eliot didn't move. The two hitters stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity before Quinn opened his mouth.

"You gonna play nurse now?"

"If you let me."

Quinn's head twisted back toward the wall and he shrugged. His mouth kept moving, and were it not for his ability to read lips Eliot would have never been able to catch what he was saying.

"Don't think I'm getting much choice at the moment."

Eliot didn't know what to say. He did know that Quinn needed someone to look after whatever was going on with him and so he took that as permission and made his way over to the bathtub's edge propping the medkit between them.  

"You say the word and I back off, got it?"

Quinn shrugged again; the action was too elegant, too distant, given the circumstances and Eliot wished he would just snark back. 

As Eliot assessed the hitter's wounds he started talking, "Wanna tell me what happened out there?"

Quinn stayed silent although he twisted to provide better access for Eliot as he started applying burn gel and antibiotic cream to the wounded areas. Eliot noted the rounded posture, the stiff limbs, and the downward gaze of the younger man's eyes. He tried again.

"How 'bout I tell you what I think happened, huh?"

Silence.

"See, I think that you were surprised. Me and the team, we'd heard the news about the hit being called in, knew the con turned sour, but you weren't with us. You were here."

Eliot examined the wounds before putting on a clean pad of gauze on one of the weeping sets of stitches and taping it down.

"From the look of things, you were showering and didn't expect anyone but me to be coming back here. So when the door got jimmied open it was a surprise and you let instinct take over. Now, we've got two dead thugs and a problem. So, tell me, I get it right? Or am I missing something here?"

The burns and stitches weren't the only damage. There was a sickly yellow and green bruise that stretched across the left side of Quinn's ribs up to his shoulder blade. Those weren't the only marks decorating the hitters torso, but Eliot chose not to focus on them as he started packing up the medkit. His fingers stilled when Quinn turned around. 

There was a tinge of red on the towel near Quinn's waist. It had been hidden by the tight placement of the hitter's hands and arm and Eliot hadn't caught a glimpse from his vantage point. The younger hitter's knuckles were split and there was a small cut near his hairline that had been hidden by the soaked curls. Eliot began unpacking the medkit again.

"You about covered it."

Quinn's voice echoed in the room and it took Eliot a moment to realize what was wrong. He sounded robotic, the typical humor infused in the hitter's voice was missing. Well, less that it was missing and more that it was falling flat. Quinn was trying to come back to a normal range, trying to compose himself, but the pieces weren't connecting quite yet. 

"Just about? What'd I miss?"

"I heard them come into the hotel room. I figured it was you, couldn't hear the two sets of steps until they reached the bathroom door. By the time they got in the room I," Quinn paused and waved his hand toward the main room.

"Now, what I don't understand," Eliot gestured to Quinn's hip in a silent request as he pulled out butterfly bandages, "is why you killed them. I know, and you know, that you're more than capable of disarming them."

Quinn did not move forward.

Eliot looked up and met Quinn's eyes.

"I didn't have my weapons."

Eliot kept his gaze.

Quinn gestured for the butterfly bandages. Eliot kept them in his hand. Something complicated crossed the younger hitter's face.

"They surprised me."

"Yeah, but that's not an answer."

"I don't have to answer you."

"You just jeopardized the con, you either answer to me or you answer to Nate."

Quinn smiled then. His mouth held in a tight and controlled grin, eyes brighter than they'd been before. Eliot held out the bandages before Quinn could decide to do anything else. 

"We don't kill people. Not if we can avoid it."

The continual emphasis on their standards seemed to be the final straw.

"I didn't mean to kill them."

Now that was a surprise. Eliot just gestured for Quinn to go on as he pulled out more antibacterial cream and bandages. He was careful to keep his face clear of emotion as Quinn continued.

"They were in the bathroom," a frustrated sigh punctuated the explanation, "I don't know if you've noticed, but I tend to keep the bathroom a private area."

Eliot had noticed. Their shared bathroom door was always locked and when he jiggled the handle it more often than not felt like it was additionally barricaded from within. He tried not to think about that too much.

"Eliot, you don't like guns. I can respect that. I can respect your team's insistence on not killing people. Morals, or whatever you want to call it. I wasn't going to kill anyone on your watch, your con, your rules. But…" Quinn's eyes bored holes through Eliot's hands as he carefully applied the bandages and cream to the long but shallow cut that decorated the younger man's hip, "they surprised me."

"Are you telling me it was instinct that made that," Eliot gesture behind him, "happen."

"Yes." 

Honest to God, Quinn pouted. His lips pursed in a manner that told Eliot that the younger man didn't expect to be believed and was ready to argue further.

"Why?"

"Why what?" Quinn's exasperation was running through his body and not just his voice as Eliot felt the muscles tense under his fingers.

"Why does it matter that you don't have your weapons? You have a knife, I've seen it around. Why don't you count that? Why don't you have your weapons?"

"You don't like guns."

Eliot paused, glancing up at the stoic face of Quinn, and wondered just what type of man was the kid. Eliot, back before the team, would have never taken another's preference into consideration like that. Eliot took his weapons everywhere, until he didn't. Quinn was a professional, guns, knives, whatever was available he used, but Eliot had done his research. Quinn was a sniper, a hitter of a certain caliber that required extreme precision. Something that was dissimilar to his hand to hand style. Quinn was a wild card in hand to hand combat, something the two bodies and Eliot could verify. 

"Why does it matter that you don't have them?"

"If I have them," Quinn grimaced and Eliot figured it had nothing to do with the wounds being pulled tight, "I have control."

Oh. 

The bathroom. Control. Locking the doors and barricading the way in. Control. The bruises blooming over Quinn's hips near the cut and towel. Eliot really didn't like the picture it was painting. 

"I didn't mean to kill them."

It was quieter this time, Quinn's voice as close to an apology as anyone in their profession ever gave and younger than it had ever sounded. Eliot finished closing the cut and slowly made to grab Quinn's hand. The hitter let himself be touched and Eliot spread the antibacterial cream over the raw splits on the knuckles. 

"Why don't you get dressed and we'll fix this mess, how's that sound?"

Quinn seemed to relax for a split second before,

"They ruined my pyjamas."

"Dammit Quinn," Eliot scrubbed a hand over his face, "wait here, I'll grab something."

The hitter walked out of the bathroom, carefully shutting the door behind him. Hardison was in the kitchenette breathing heavily over the sink while Nate just raised an eyebrow at Eliot. A silent conversation passed between them and Nate just nodded and sat down in a chair. Eliot meanwhile pulled a duffel from under the bed and rooted around until he found what he was looking for. A worn henley, a little too big for Eliot, and a pair of sweatpants followed. They would have to work. Eliot didn't know where Quinn stashed his own clothes and the last thing he wanted to deal with right now was a scavenger hunt. 

Moving quickly, Eliot made his way back to the bathroom and knocked on the door. This time Quinn opened it, just a crack, but that was all Eliot needed. The clothes were handed off and the door shut again.

Chapter Text

Quinn felt sick. His body was shaking and he couldn't quite seem to hold a breath long enough to actually fill his lungs. It wasn't that he'd killed the two men, that was his job. It was that he couldn't remember the fight. The whole fight had been a blacked out blur. From the moment he realized someone was tampering with the bathroom door he'd been like a livewire. It had been instinctual. The fight itself had lasted maybe two minutes, two minutes of hell. Quinn was on vacation, at least what he called vacation, and his cover was not the type of man who could do this. Well, actually his alias was too vague a character to tell if he could do this. 

Now though? Now Quinn felt like a child again, a scared, vulnerable teen who was too used to his privacy belonging to someone else. The sound of the doorknob echoing in his ears as he grasped the towel wrapped around his waist. He needed to get a grip. 

Worse than the actual fight and the memories threatening to overwhelm him was realizing that he had just broken the cardinal rule of the leverage team. They didn't kill. Quinn did kill. He'd been killing longer than he'd probably care to think about. It was instinctual, the fight for survival was the only fight left in him. Hitters were living weapons, that was a known fact. They took the punishment and moved on. Eliot Spencer was the blueprint of the ideal hitter. Trained in military tactics, a blend of precision, control, expertise, and loyalty. Quinn, well, he was a mutt raised on dogfights and betting. There was no loyalty, there was no precision, there was tenacity, but that was about all. He didn't have the same control, not like this. While Eliot was the perfect clinical blade, Quinn was a grenade.

Quinn knew he had been stupid. He'd seen the team and hoped that maybe, if he weaseled his way in, then maybe they'd need another hitter. He'd been so stupid. No team needs two hitters, not when the first one is Eliot fucking Spencer. Quinn had traded his rules, the safety net he constructed for the world he lived in, for the hope that he could con a place for himself into existence. The only person he'd conned was himself. 

The spiral was broken by a knock on the door. 

Quinn cracked the door and watched as the older hitter shoved a soft bundle toward him.

These weren't his clothes. 

Quinn held them for a moment. It wouldn't do to waste time. The soft sweatpants were hitched at his waist, the drawstrings pulled tighter than the original knot was. The henley was next. It sat against his skin softer than his linen pyjamas had. They didn't smell like blood, disinfectant, or antibacterial cream. They smelled like Eliot.

Quinn opened the door, sliding into the main room like a ghost as he observed the new occupants. Ford and Hardison were in the kitchenette talking in low tones while Eliot stood next to them, halfway between the main room and the bathroom. Quinn rolled his shoulders backward and straightened, his hand reaching for a pocket that didn't exist before falling to his side. Despite the internal instability racing through his body, Quinn projected the collected persona he'd built. 

"They're Russian."

"Mhhmmm, and how do you figure that?" Quinn's hand drifted toward a pocket that didn't exist and he forced himself to still.

"The shoes, those are KGB deadstock, most Russian or Russia based mercenaries utilize those shoes. How do you not know that?"

Quinn raised his eyebrow, "my training didn't exactly have a detailed course on enemy identification. It focused more on deterring the enemy."

"Yeah? What else did your training have?"

The question wasn't subtle in its direction and Quinn didn't have the energy to deal with it.

"How do we want to dispose of them? I have my methods, but I'm sure you have your own ideas."

"We need to wipe evidence away, blood, fingerprints, identifiable features, then we can dump them somewhere."

As Quinn stared down at the faces of the two assailants some clarity dawned on him.

"Hmmm, we might have a problem."

Eliot looked up, the exasperated look on his face softening incrementally at the younger hitter, "how much more of a problem could we have?"

"Those men, they just happen to be Mrs. Baring's men. So maybe it wasn't Reynolds who's protecting their investments and contacts."

That brought the other men in the room to attention. Ford and Hardison made their way to the two hitters and Quinn forced himself to meet their eyes. The calm demeanor of the controlled hitter back in place as his body loosened under their scrutiny. He was a professional damn it, it was time to start acting like one. 

"You're saying these are Baring's men?"

"Yes, they followed me a while back during a house call to her place." Quinn circled around the bodies, "at that point they were noted, but due to circumstances were not deemed an immediate threat. What is it that you were coming to update me on?"

Eliot stared sharply at him, "You telling me they already acted threateningly and you didn't mention it?"

"No, Spencer," Quinn calmly responded, "they didn't act threateningly, they acted like they were doing their job. Baring is a rich woman, and one with plenty of secrets to protect. The men she hired did their job of watching and reporting on any potential threats. I don't know why she deemed us a threat, unless it's her operation you're looking to bust. There was nothing out of the blue except.."

Quinn had loosely gestured to the dead men as he finished his statement. 

"Speaking of Baring," the blond hitter backed away from the group to where his laptop had been stashed on the desk, "I've been running her through my systems. Something about her didn't sit right at my last visit."

With his mind back on the job, Quinn's shoulders fully straightened and his voice sharpened. The bodies were forgotten as he sifted through the various files he had been pulling. There. The one file that had validated his gut feeling. The hazel eyes stared straight at Spencer as Quinn handed the laptop over.

"I remember Baring had an adverse reaction to hearing that a 'new entrepreneur' might be colluding with Reynolds. My guess," Quinn shrugged, "Baring is the real brains behind the operation and keeps Reynolds at the front. He takes any heat that comes their way, and she gets to keep her profit nice and clean."

"That fits in with what I've pulled, man," Hardison nodded as he glanced through the laptop's content when Eliot handed it over. 

"Yeah, yeah, I'd been tracking an anonymous partner in a couple of Reynolds heavier transactions, real heavy stuff ya know," the hacker continued to sift through the files, "I hadn't been able to find a name yet, but this checks out. I guess you must have spooked her during the con, if she thinks Eliot's out to take her place with Reynolds then no wonder she tried to take a hit out on you Quinn. I mean that's the best bet to try and get Eliot to back off."

Quinn stood with his arms crossed, his hands tucked tight against his torso. This was not ideal. This wasn't worth a favor from Eliot. It was Ford clapping his hands together that broke the silence. The sharp noise reverberated through the room and Quinn felt himself wince at the sound. He was so tired. His body ached and he could feel Eliot's eyes on him. 

"Okay, Eliot, Quinn I trust you can take care of this, um, mess?" Ford turned to Hardison, "You follow the trail on Baring, and I'll, um, I'll steal an auction house."

The two men left the hotel room swiftly. Hardison awkwardly waved goodbye, one hand pressed against his mouth as he glanced down at the bodies. Right, the bodies. Quinn looked down at the two men and the ruined remnants of his old pyjamas. His hand subconsciously rubbed the softer fabric of Eliot's henley between his fingers as silence descended. 

"So."

The two hitters looked at each. Then down at the bodies. Then back at each other.

"How do you want to dispose of them?" Quinn kept his voice nonchalant.

"How would you do it?"

"Me? Well, given the fact they'll be missed, my disposal methods depend on how much I would want their employer to figure out. If we want Baring to think we have our own heavy hitters then a more casual disposal would be fine. If we want her to think we paid the hitters off and they hightailed it, well, that would require more work than I care to think about right now."

Eliot shrugged, his face impassive, “We can make her sweat a bit. You good with playing victim with the socialites?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“She thinks she has the upper hand, the way I see it, if you show back up with a story about how you’re so lucky your partner hired a bodyguard because two thugs attacked you.” Eliot paused as he pulled some trash bags out of the kitchen area. 

Quinn picked up the train of thought, “then she’ll think we don’t know who sent them and either she’ll try again, which we can pin on her, or…”

“She’ll go to Reynolds to hammer him about a trade partner and we can get both of them,” Eliot finished. 

“It’s a risky play, no guarantees she’ll go for it.”

“Well,” Eliot glared down at the bodies, “given circumstances it’s the best plan we’ve got.”

Chapter Text

Quinn did in fact manage to play victim just fine. In fact, he barely had to act. 

The blond hitter reemerged in the social scene with a pitiful limp, tidy bandages, and a weak cough. Truly a pathetic sight for the sympathetic faces of high society to fawn over. And fawn they did. Quinn had them eating out of his hand with his sob story of how two thugs had broken into him and his partner's hotel suite and threatened him. 

"You poor dear! How did you manage?"

"I was so lucky," Quinn leaned back against the sofa, "Edward was worried about me, I had been receiving some threats for a while now, and he hired a bodyguard. Without him I may have never survived the attack."

"What did they want?"

Quinn hesitated, his brow furrowed with the type of panic that confusion causes. He didn't want to say the wrong thing, or oversell the issue. However, silence would work just as well in this situation. He let his eyes grow wet as he looked out toward the window. A quiet huff of breath and his fingers swiping under his lashes and the room was sold on the story. The socialites whispered amongst themselves and a soft hand rested on his arm. Quinn didn't have to fake the tremor that ran through his hands. 

Eliot collected him afterwards. The two hitters drove in silence to the team's meeting place. Things hadn't been the same after the hotel fiasco. They changed locations, something smaller, something that had less space to hide from one another. Spencer had spent less time talking, instead the older hitter seemed to observe Quinn more. They had been awake since the attack, trying to control damage to con and disposing of the bodies. There had been no time to rest, which Quinn was honestly thankful for. He didn't want to deal with the inevitable issues sleep would bring, especially not in their new housing. He should have just moved to his damned safehouse. Quinn did not want to deal with the way Eliot's eyes were always drawn tight in some contemplative emotion that Quinn struggled to identify. 

The blond hitter had also determined to change his habits. 

Quinn would not let himself fall into the false hope of finding something better for himself. He would see this mess through and he would disappear. There was no sense lingering after it had ended. 

The team was somber as they debriefed. Turns out Baring had been working behind Reynolds to mastermind the majority of the smuggling business. She was brilliant and ruthless. Reynolds might have called for the execution of things, but she was the one who put it all together. Between the files Quinn had hunted down and the paper trail Hardison pieced together they had a solid case against her. There were just a few more tricks in the con, just a few more tricks to play. Eliot had set the last pieces in motion as Edward and Quinn's job was more or less done. Now he was effectively bait. Lovely. 

He'd been worse.

Quinn couldn't even resent his role. He deserved it after throwing off their plan. Killing had consequences. 

***

"So," Quinn dropped his duffel, "this is the new place. Gotta say, it's a bit of a downgrade."

"Well we wouldn'ta had to move if someone coulda kept their shit together."

Now that hurt.

"How about this," Quinn kept his stance casual but couldn't avoid a clipped tone, "next time you're showering someone breaks down the door, holds you at gunpoint, and…"

Not bothering to finish his sentence Quinn pivoted to the fraction of the room that held a pathetic coffee pot and immediately began fiddling with it. It didn't matter anyhow. He was steadfastly ignoring the older hitter. They didn't need to talk and they didn't need to pay attention to each other. Not now, not until they were out on the job. Quinn was tired. Not physically, not yet. He shook his shoulders out and inhaled the stale scent of expired coffee as the percolator huffed and puffed on the counter. 

This was already a downgrade from their last place.

A door clicked behind him and Quinn's hand drifted to the hidden knife stowed behind his jacket. 

"I'm gonna shower. Watch the door." Eliot's voice sounded from the far corner of the room and Quinn let his hand drift back to his side.

When the door clicked closed he turned around. Observing the room was a sad thing. There was little ornamentation to offset the drab colors. There was little anything to offset the legitimate eyesore that was the space. The smell of burnt coffee brought him back to the present and he turned around and poured a cup. The acrid burn on his tongue kept him grounded as he observed the next thing about the room.

There was one bed.

Shit.  

This was not happening. Quinn looked at the front door, then the bathroom door, then the front door again. He could just leave. He could walk out and get a different room. Quinn could go to his safe house and just leave, he didn't need to be there. The team could bullshit some story about Alistair leaving because of the attack.

But, Quinn glanced back at the bathroom door. Eliot was here, and he'd asked Quinn to watch the door. The blond sunk against the wall and let his chin thump against his chest. The bullshit he gets himself into. 

The door clicked open and Eliot marched out, his silent steps a contrast to the noisy expression he wore. 

Quinn brought his cup to his lips as he asked, "what's the plan with the bed?"

***

Eliot froze.

The bed. 

One bed.

Dammit Hardison!

The team had booked the room, Nate insisting it was offgrid as best as possible and Parker helping find something with good vantage and tactical points. This was a shitty hotel, but it was safe. He'd just forgotten one crucial point. The team thought they were a couple. 

Eliot glanced over at Quinn. The other hitter was casually leaning against the wall with a cup of coffee. He'd been worrying Eliot since the incident. There had been a change in his behavior, Quinn had become more withdrawn and stoic. Maybe it was unfounded, it had been less than 48 hours since the change and they hadn't slept yet. Which brings him back to the bed…

"Um,"

"You didn't think about it did you?"

Eliot dragged a hand across his face. The fact was, hitters don't usually share beds. Not with other hitters at least, no matter how friendly they are. Now, Eliot didn't mind sharing a bed. He usually had Parker, or Hardison, laying across him one way or another. It had become normal for the team to drape over the hitter, lean against him, or offer some form of physical affection. He'd grown used to it over the years, but Quinn? Quinn was a solitary man, most hitters were. Eliot had to admit that he'd become an anomaly. 

"No." Eliot paused, "You got any thoughts?"

"I'll take the floor. Or we sleep in shifts."

Shifts worked. Anyhow, Baring might send more men, the news had to have reached her by now and it was a bit of a waiting game. Eliot voiced as much before asking,

"Who takes first shift?"

The two hitters looked at each other. Eliot saw the dark circles, the barely there twitch of the hand, and the distant look in Quinn's sharp eyes and volunteered. He'd run on less sleep and been fine before. Not that he doubted Quinn had as well, but he wasn't the one who had gone silent and locked himself in the bathroom after killing two men. Not to mention Eliot was the one that was currently hurt. 

"I will, you take the bed first."

Quinn just shrugged, elegant and bored, before sauntering to the bathroom with his duffel bag. Eliot moved to the coffee pot. The stale brew tasted like shit but it was better than nothing. 

He was mildly surprised when Quinn exited the bathroom wearing the same Henley and sweatpants that Eliot had handed him earlier. His mouth opened to say something about it, and then it shut just as quickly. No sense in starting a conversation now.

Eliot watched out of the corner of his eye as Quinn slumped onto the bed. The younger hitter's back was against the wall and his hand was curled under the pillow in a way that masked the outline of the knife Eliot had clocked earlier that day. The hitter may not have had his guns, but it didn't mean he was completely unarmed. Hell, Eliot had a knife, or two, hidden on his person or bags at all times too. 

The shift went slow. The basic foot traffic outside the door was fully in line with the general occupancy of the hotel and Hardison had hacked the hallway feed and set an alert on his phone in case of suspicious activity. So, Eliot settled himself down into a meditative pose and prepared to wait through the watch.

Chapter Text

Falling asleep was no easy task. With Eliot watching the room, watching Quinn, the addition of a new environment, and the lingering turmoil from the hotel fiasco, sleep was a wishful thought. Not that Quinn wouldn’t be able to fall asleep, he would, it would just be harder than normal. With great effort he fell into the bed and closed his eyes. He could feel his eyelid twitch as he forced himself to relax. Quinn needed as much rest as possible, he would need to be on his A game in the following days. So with conscious thought he breathed through his body and into each muscle group slowly relaxing each one. Working through the facial tension was the hardest step as he tried to release his jaw. When he finally accomplished all the steps he felt the empty embrace of sleep creep over him.

It wasn’t the welcome release from consciousness that he hoped it would be.

Quinn found himself in a hazy dreamscape instead. He felt like he was floating as he examined the world around him, half aware of the fact he was dreaming and half willing to lose himself in the unconsciousness of the strange reality. 

He didn't dream much these days. He rarely wanted to, there was too much blood in his mind. Too much blood on his hands to craft a dreamscape worthy of the escape dreams were meant to be. But he was here now, and Quinn doubted he'd be able to make his way out of the haze unless it ran its course in his mind. The dream kept Quinn moving forward and through a familiar house. The walls were covered with paintings in gilt frames, curtains draped over lace in the windows, it smelled like money or hate. Quinn could never tell which was which. He knew this place, but why? The answer was sitting on the tip of his tongue.

The tall man strode through the halls, the suit he found himself dressed in was pressed neatly against his frame as he searched through each room. Quinn knew he was looking for something, something important. Or was it someone? A startled noise from the second story caught his ears and he ran, the halls blurring around him.

There was a boy. 

A little blond boy.

And he was crouching over red.

The red splash formed into a more coherent shape as he focused on the color, it was a body, a beautiful body with beautiful blond curls. She was broken on the ground. 

Quinn felt his hand weave through his own curls as he stared in horror. But there was no time to identify the woman as anything other than a tragedy as a sound caused both boy and man to turn around. A new figure, brutal and towering, loomed over them both. Quinn couldn’t move, his mouth was dry as he stared at the hooded interloper. What was this? Why couldn’t he move? 

He knew, he didn’t know how he knew, but he knew the man was here for the boy. Quinn tried to yell, to tell the boy to run as he struggled to move. There was no sound. Silence echoed as he watched the events unfold before him. The boy ran, the blond hair matted red as his hands gripped the bathroom door and yanked it open. He was trying to hide, to outrun the monster behind him. It wasn't enough, Quinn knew it wasn't enough. He watched, his mouth dropped into a scream as the door was ripped off its hinge. The blond boy was a small speck now, he seemed so far away as Quinn watched. He stood, impossibly still, as the man ripped the child away from the bathroom, away from the red of his mother, and out the door away from Quinn's sight.

Mother.

The walls closed in, leaning over the now solitary man. Mother…screams echoed in the stark white walls that had morphed from the torturous scene of before. They mingled and harmonized, the wails of a little boy and a dying mother. Quinn gripped his curls tighter, bending from the weight of the scene, the weight of his inability to do anything. 

Then the walls shifted to cloying blackness, it was reaching for him, grabbing him, sinking into his skin and tearing. Quinn tried to run, to scream.

Everything was swallowed by the night.

***

Eliot was alerted to something wrong by a rough, keening noise coming from the direction of the bed. His eyes narrowed as he stood up. It was a quiet noise. Barely noticeable among the regular creaking of the room he waited to see if it would sound again. 

There.

The hitter moved silently across the room and towards the bed. There was only one person who could make a noise like that from inside the room. Quinn was caught in what looked like a nightmare. Hitters were no stranger to those. Except maybe the most detached. Eliot had gone through a period of time when he didn’t dream. That had been the worst time of his life. He’d welcome the dreams so long as they meant he still had his humanity. 

Eliot had wondered if Quinn would have trouble after the hotel room incident. He'd seemed shaken enough in the immediate aftermath, especially when paired with the distance and shift in behavioral patterns he'd been demonstrating. This answered the unspoken question. Now the problem was how to break him out of his dream. Eliot observed the sleeping figure. Quinn's fingers were gripping his hair so tight the whites of his knuckles were visible. The blond's mouth moved in a silent chorus of the same word over and over again. Eliot couldn't quite make out the word, his ability to read lips proved useless when the lips he was trying to read were smushed into a pillow. 

When Eliot had nightmares around the team he'd built a protocol with each of them. Nate wasn't allowed to touch him, the faint smell of alcohol that always chased the older man was liable to trigger Eliot depending on the memory. Instead, the team leader talked. Nate had a specific flair for direct and commanding speech that more often than note could redirect Eliot's subconscious. Sophie was different, the trust they'd built was hard won, but Eliot wasn't always comfortable with her trying to wake him up. She usually got Nate and they tagteamed. Hardison and Parker knew what to do best. They had listened when Eliot explained his tested methods of waking and had adapted their own flair. Hardison would play music, soft and gentle. The noise was nothing like the warzones, assassinations, or casual violence that filled Eliot's everyday. The contrasting sounds often jerked him from his dreams and into better realities. Parker was the only one who really dared to touch him when he was dreaming. Her reflexes more than capable of delivering her from Eliot's waking attack should he respond poorly. He hadn't yet, some part of him hoped he never would, another part of him knew it was just a matter of time. 

Eliot realized as he reflected on all the choices before him that being a hitter was a lonely occupation. He was lucky enough to have a team who would support and help him, to learn how to accommodate the pain that had ingrained itself in the very psyche of their hitter. Quinn though? Eliot would bet that he couldn't boast the same. 

The knife was out of the hitter's grasp at least. Eliot crouched down to gently slide it out from under the pillow and out of reach. His breath tight in his chest as he executed the maneuver. With the weapon out of the equation, Eliot risked reaching out to grab the hands of the sleeping hitter.

The result was instantaneous. 

Quinn thrashed around on the bed. His arms jerked hard in an attempt to break free from Eliot's hold. Eliot wasn't sure how long it would take before the hitter woke up fully. 

The struggle brought them upright. Quinn pushed back against the wall, his eyes wide but unseeing, and his lanky form spread out as if to get as far away from Eliot as possible. The older hitter had to follow Quinn up onto the bed to try and keep the struggle contained. It was a strange reaction, Eliot had anticipated a fight, for Quinn to attack him. Not whatever this was. A mindless stream of words began to pour out of Eliot's mouth. The type of nonsense he'd say to the young recruits after their first sign of war, or Hardison after he woke up from nightmares about Moreau's pool, or the constant stream of traumatized victims the Leverage team dealt with on the daily. 

Everything was going to be okay, you're safe now, I've got you, you are not in any danger now. 

Eliot wasn't sure when the shift happened between them, when Quinn's form started leaning into him, until the blond head was nestled into the crook of his neck. 

What now?

Chapter Text

Quinn wasn't quite sure when the darkness had ended. 

He just knew that all of a sudden the darkness had turned into something kinder. He hadn't even questioned it, nope, Quinn had just let himself sink into the kinder embrace. He knew better than to do it, really, you don't stay alive by trusting kindness. But, the dream, the woman…it was so disorienting.

Quinn couldn't afford kindness.

He supposed, vaguely, that he should stop shaking. His whole body felt like a leaf in the wind. There was a detached sense of amusement at the way this one dream had thrown his whole being out of self. He was no longer Quinn, the strong mercenary and hitter for hire with an unwavering moral compass pointed north to survival. No, this one dream had turned him into a different person. He was now something he'd worked hard to forget. 

The blond shoved his head deeper into whatever hold he'd found himself in and told himself that when he woke up things would be different. When he woke up. He wasn't still asleep was he? He wasn't by himself either. 

Spencer!

Shit. Quinn froze. The kinder darkness began to take shape and he realized with growing horror, so different from the horror of the dream, that he was in fact nestled against Spencer's neck. Shit. He also realized that the older hitter had a firm grip on his wrists. Shit. Quinn decided at that moment that his last employer should have tried harder to blow him up. There were two lines of action from here. He could pretend to still be asleep, although he doubted Spencer would believe the act, but if he were nice they could both pretend to ignore reality that way. Or, and this was really the less ideal option, Quinn could simply try and extract himself from the hold and face the music like a man. 

Quinn kept his eyes closed and tried to relax his body again. 

Eliot hadn't pushed him away, or said anything, so that was…unexpected? The two hitters just stayed in the awkward embrace for what felt like forever. Quinn worked to carefully observe the state of the man holding him up. Spencer's breathing was shallow, like he was scared to disturb the blond hitter. It seems they were both uncomfortable with the situation. Quinn could fix that. He didn't want to. Eliot was a hitter, a ruthless machine, and Quinn had just pissed off his team, but right now, being supported, whether willingly or unwillingly, by the man was the safest the blond had felt since…

"Not that this isn't in line with our cover," Quinn stated, his voice muffled by the soft knit of Eliot's shirt, "but we don't exactly have an audience to appreciate it right now."

"You're the dumb ass who decided to fall on top of me. Not like I asked to hold your dead weight." 

The rumble of Eliot's chest as he spoke twisted something in Quinn's heart. He was confronted by the fact that outside of the con, the violence of his job, and the inherently cruel nature of touch that came with it, this was one of the few times in the last decade, at least, that he'd actually been held. His skin didn't hurt like it normally did when he was touched either. The burn that accompanied even the most casual brush of skin was nonexistent now. 

Neither hitter moved to separate. 

"Wanna tell me what you were dreamin'?"

Quinn did not. Quinn didn't want to remember his dream at all. Pity it was ingrained in his mind now. The red, the walls, the bathroom door lying broken on the floor.  

"Did I say anything?"

A pause.

"No. Nothin' I could pick out anyways."

Quinn closed his eyes again. Exhaustion seeped into his bones and breath. This was not ideal. 

Eliot shifted underneath him and Quinn leaned back. The cold of the room seeped in immediately leaving Quinn fighting off a shiver as he tried to put himself back together. The reflection of his blond curls caught his attention in the hotel mirror. Quinn froze again. They were the same curls, but now there was no red. 

Mother.

Abruptly Quinn shoved himself off the bed. The movement unseated Eliot and the older hitter turned a confused gaze toward the blond. Quinn's hands moved up unconsciously to fist in his hair again as he stared in the mirror. This wasn't good. The con was depending on him now, his role as bait was important. He needed to pull himself together, whatever it was that he was on the verge of remembering could go to hell. 

"Hey, huckleberry," Eliot's voice echoed around the room, "ya gotta talk to me. What's going through that pretty head of yours, huh?"

The other hitter circled around, keeping himself in Quinn's line of sight as he approached. The calloused fingers slowly reached up to untangle Quinn's from his hair. The mirror was blocked by the solid mass that made up Eliot Spencer and Quinn felt his eyes focus on the man. 

"Nothing."

Eliot's brows creased, "I doubt that, come on, talk to me. We can't do this if we don't communicate. Was the nightmare about Baring's men?"

"If it's the con you're worried about, I can guarantee I'll be fine." Quinn sneered.

"Dammit Quinn! It's not just the con," Eliot stabbed a finger into his chest, "you matter too."

The words were stilted, as if they were foreign coming out of Eliot's mouth and Quinn just huffed a laugh and pushed the older man away. 

"Sure, I matter in the job, however, you want to paint it. It'll be fine, just give me an hour to get things together again and you won't know the difference. I am a professional."

Quinn attempted to make his way to the bathroom but was stopped by Eliot's next words.

"I called you 'cause you're my friend. We both know how hard those are to come by in this line of business. I don't know about you, but I help my friends."

"You got lots of friends." Quinn parroted the paraphrased Tombstone quote.

"You don't."

Quinn could hear the gentle footsteps as Eliot walked up to him. He didn't have many friends. Didn't have any actually. Eliot was the first person to call him friend in his living memory. He’d been hesitant to return the sentiment, calling the offer of friendship just a favor, and then another favor, it always helped to have an ally. But, actual friendship? Quinn didn’t think he knew what to do with that. He registered a sort of keening noise that escaped his body before he had the sense to catch his breath. 

“I’m gonna ask you again,” Eliot’s voice was strong, “talk to me, what was the nightmare about?”

“I don’t want to remember,” Quinn’s voice had lost its general cocky edge even as it remained even, “please, don’t ask me to remember.”

The older hitter hummed a considering noise and the next thing Quinn knew Eliot had enveloped him in a hug. Quinn didn’t have the vocabulary to describe the type of hug it was. There was nothing in his past experience to prepare him for that sort of physical expression. 

It was solid. Warm too. Eliot smelled like a spice cupboard, wood, and something else that Quinn recognized from the borrowed pyjamas. The arms weren’t too tight, they didn’t grip or restrain, they just held. 

Slowly, Quinn let himself relax. With each breath he fell closer to Eliot, the space they’d built in public with the con allowing the further intimacy growing now. Quinn still couldn’t believe the kindness, it’d hurt too much later when he left. But Eliot didn’t kill these days, and he was offering something Quinn had always wanted. 

Quinn liked hugs. 

***

Eliot wasn’t entirely sure what possessed him to hug the other hitter. Maybe it was the fact Quinn had said please. Maybe it was the fact that there was something pulling him closer to the younger man. They played good partners, Quinn’s cocky charm was engaging and balanced Eliot’s more rugged, solid approach to the con. When you broke it down, Quinn was the yin to Eliot’s yang. 

Worse, Eliot knew a little bit of what Quinn was going through. 

There was a type of memory you didn’t want to revisit. A horror of things unspoken that no one could truly understand. Eliot didn’t know exactly what Quinn had been dreaming, but he figured it didn’t really matter right now. 

Comfort was different for each person. 

Eliot had taken a bet that Quinn would appreciate the hug, although he hadn’t anticipated how stiff it would be received at first. He had the sinking suspicion that Quinn didn’t get many hugs. Then again, what hitter did. Eliot remembered when Parker hugged him the first time. She’d been on happy pills during a con. He’d thought she was attacking him at first, the memory usually evoked a chuckle these days. Since then, Eliot had grown to love the consistent affection presented through the team. 

“You need more rest.”

“It’s your turn. I need to take the watch.”

Eliot considered that statement. He did need rest. So did Quinn. The few hours of sleep weren't enough for what had happened. There was a solution. Quinn wasn't going to like it. Eliot was surprised to find that he didn't really mind the idea he was forming.

With simple movements, Eliot pushed themselves toward the bed until Quinn was forced to sit down. The bed frame knocked the back of his legs buckling them down into a sitting position. Ignoring the muffled protests of the blond hitter, Eliot pulled his phone out and rang up Hardison.

"Hey, can you and Parker watch the hotel?"

"Yeah, yeah, man what's good? Everything okay?"

Eliot paused and looked down at the blond, his hand nestled in the curls bringing the hitter's head to rest against his torso, "yeah, everything's good. We're gonna rest now." 

***

Eliot manhandled Quinn into the bed, pushing his body against the wall before sliding into the bed himself. He used to do this with Parker or Hardison after hard jobs. Eliot would rest beside them, a nighttime guard against the monsters only sleep could bring. Now he would do it for Quinn. A sentinel for the silent soldier. 

"You don't have to do this." 

The stiff figure beside him radiated a tension that Eliot had forgotten existed. There was an air of uncertainty in the controlled voice, something Eliot knew used to exist in his voice. The team had eradicated it over time, giving him a home and family. Eliot knew what it was like to be in between the world of the wanted and the world of the dead. Quinn didn't need to stay there. He'd seen the way the blond had thrived on the 'last dam' job. Not to mention the way he enjoyed helping Eliot, sure it was just for another favor, but Eliot knew better than to believe the solitary reasoning Quinn gave. Inside the hitter was a man who wanted to do something good. 

Eliot was going to make sure that Quinn had the option to take the path towards that desire.

"I know."

The mattress shifted, "then why are you doing it?"

"You need it. We're partners, I want the bed too," Eliot shrugged, "take your pick."

Quinn was silent for a beat, "does this mean I'm Doc Holliday?"

"What? And make me Wyatt?" Eliot scoffed.

"The lawful hand of the west? Working with and against the law to bring justice to the world?" Quinn's voice had the controlled amusement of their old banter as he continued, "yeah, doesn't sound like you at all."

Eliot shoved his body against the form beside him, "shut up."

"Sure cowboy," but Quinn's accompanying chuckle was a welcome sound and Eliot took the moment to swing his arm over the space between them and grab Quinn's wrist.

The older hitter forced himself to ignore the younger man's flinch as he settled on Quinn's pulse point. 

"Relax," Eliot allowed his eyes to close, "nothin's gonna happen now."

Chapter Text

Quinn couldn’t help the flinch that ran through him. When Eliot’s arm swung across the small gap between them he’d anticipated a strike. Sue him, reflexes like those kept him alive. Eliot didn’t hit him though, he just grabbed his wrist. It took Quinn a minute to realize that Eliot’s fingers had found his pulse point and were gently resting over the veins in a soft grip.

Oh. 

Quinn forced himself to breathe again as Eliot's calloused thumb began rubbing a circle into the flesh. The blond dared a glance at the older man. His eyes were closed and his breathing even, to the average observer it appeared as if this was just another day for Spencer. 

"Relax, nothin's gonna happen now."

The words had a calming effect that Quinn didn't bother to analyze. There was time for that later he promised himself. Now it was time to breathe. Quinn let his body sink into the space between the wall and Eliot, his chest rising and falling in time with the older hitter's. The physical presence was enough to distract Quinn's senses from the lingering red haze of his dream and he found that the adjacent human warmth was…nice. 

Little by little the rhythm of their breathing relaxed both hitters to a state of almost sleep. The muddled phase of consciousness that lingers in between the body's will to stay alert and the mind's need to rest opened the door to intimacy between the two men. Eliot's hand had slowly drifted to the side as drowsiness weighed down his limbs while Quinn's hand had followed. The effect was that their hands were now on top of each other, sunk between their bodies in the space neither knew how to breach.

If Quinn were more conscious he would have realized that this wasn't just friendship. This was true understanding. Eliot was offering something more than just the typical form of friendship consisting of anecdotes, commonalities, and respect. He was offering connection, meaning, and a shared experience that ignited an almost Aristotelian mirror of self between the two. Eliot was a reflection of what Quinn could be. Or maybe, Eliot was the missing piece to Quinn's understanding of the world, his missing true north in the moral compass that had been long abandoned for the sake of survival. 

But Quinn wasn't that conscious.

There was no need to perceive his mirrored self, no need to question what virtues he had lost and found in the nights spent participating in the altruistic efforts of the strange criminals that made up Eliot's complex family. Quinn was sunk in the blissful daze of finding himself safe, despite all probability, and rolled closer to the source. 

***

Eliot wasn't quite as asleep as he might have led Quinn to believe from his breathing and relaxed physical state. Not that he wasn't drowsy, he was, but he was also still very much aware of the man next to him. He had determined to let Quinn set the pace once settled. What the younger hitter needed Eliot was prepared to work with. When their hands had fallen he hadn't anticipated Quinn curling towards him and away from the wall. They weren't exactly touching, but Quinn was situated so that his breath came out in small puffs against Eliot's neck. Carefully, Eliot lifted his hand and arm and nestled them underneath Quinn's neck. The movement shifted the blond hitter just enough that he rolled into Eliot's side and dammit if he didn't just fit like a missing piece. 

Eliot had always known himself. Or known the shadow of the man he'd become after he'd lost his soul in Moreau's grasp. He'd been missing something, the team had healed part of himself. Each job, each victim that found justice, had mirrored the man Eliot had once been until the skeleton of his character had fleshed itself back to the man he remembered. There were some things he'd never get back. Some part of the man he'd been that had been permanently sacrificed in the journey to what he was now. There were people who knew a boy that died in wars that never made it on paper. Eliot hadn't seen those people since he was eighteen. In some ways the boy he'd been was forever preserved and alive in the haunted memories of those people back home. In other ways, that boy was dead with no hope of growing old, not unless Eliot saw himself once again in their eyes. 

Quinn was something else though. The hitter knew Eliot in a way that no one on the team did. The violence, fear, and anger that thrummed through the very veins of men who knew the color of blood better than the color of the eyes that stared back at them from the mirror was something that Quinn and Eliot shared. Their resumes mirrored a part of themselves that the world could never comprehend; and in that brutal commonality there was the chance for something like acceptance. 

Eliot couldn't 'fix' Quinn. He didn't want to. But Quinn deserved to see a reality where he was more than the violence he committed. Eliot had been given a reality like that. A reality where the harm of actions brought about a more just, if not kinder, world. Eliot saw in Quinn the potential that Nate, Sophie, Hardison, and Parker had seen in him. He'd be damned if he let that potential die from neglect. 

With his mind made up, Eliot pulled Quinn closer. 

The team would keep them safe and Eliot would keep Quinn's nightmares at bay. 

It wasn't ideal, they weren't true partners, and the con still had to go on, but this instant of calm was the beginning of something that Eliot knew would change the dynamic of the team. 

***

"They're restin'" Hardison swiveled in his chair to face the team, "Took 'em long enough, I swear, those two act like we don't know they're partners."

"Quinn's ours now, isn't he?" Parker's sharp eyes focused on Nate and Sophie. 

"I think, more accurately, he's Eliot's," Sophie murmured with an amused tilt to her lips.

The real question lingered in the air, 'would Quinn become a part of their team?' There wasn't a straight answer, it seemed as if the very world was tipping on its axis as they observed the way Quinn had changed the very foundation of their dynamic. Eliot was changing, becoming some kinder version of himself than even they had been able to unlock. 

"I think," Nate's voice echoed, "that we are witnessing a metamorphosis. Mr. Quinn may just be on his way to finding himself becoming a white knight."

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."

Chapter Text

Quinn puzzled over Eliot's words the rest of the way to the team's meeting place. Eliot had kept an eye out for him. Well, it's not like Quinn hadn't done the same. Ever since Sterling contracted him for the hit against the legend that was Eliot Spencer, he'd been intrigued by the team. There was something very satisfying about the work they did and Quinn may have sent a desperate individual or two toward them before for help. It wasn't like Quinn could help them after all, he had a reputation to maintain. Quinn didn't do pro-bono work. He also couldn't risk becoming too public of a figure, his work was best done from the shadows usually. Or under one of the handful of aliases he'd developed over the years. When you've been in the game as long as he has it only makes sense to have developed the odd identity or two, or two dozen. However, despite his own interest, Quinn had failed to reason that the team might keep on eye on the other players they associated with. Quinn didn't even operate in the same circles as then usually. He kept himself around the European circuit, not stateside. European and anonymous. Just the way he liked it.

So, Eliot looked for him.

Quinn couldn't stop the small smile that crept across his face at the thought. 

"Whatchu smilin' about now?"

"Nothing," Even Quinn knew his tone was unconvincing, "I just think it's funny. The team has you on coffee orders? Really, is it because you cook or just because it's convenient?"

The response was a cover. They both knew it. They both ignored it.

Eliot's voice came out with a huff of amusement, "call it convenience, this time at least."

"I guess you love them a latte."

Quinn kept his face as straight as possible as the joke entered the space between them. Somehow the sleep, safety, and uncertainty of the situation had gotten to him. He hadn't cracked corny jokes in years. 

Eliot turned to look at him, his brow furrowed in what could only be called the physical expression of deep consternation. 

"I'm not gonna dignify that with a response."

Quinn couldn't stop the laugh that bubbled out. 

***

Eliot watched the man in front of him. The blond brute of the Los Angeles hanger was long gone. Quinn was an elegant, attractive, interesting man, someone Eliot didn't mind waking up around, waking up to. A hitter of a high caliber with a mysterious past that rivaled the blacked out lines of Eliot's own history. A hitter with a corny sense of humor.

The little joke Quinn made clearly amused the younger man intensely. Eliot could see the little hint of a smile he was trying to hide. There was mischief in the soft eyes that stared down at him and Eliot had to fight off his own smile as he replied. For better or for worse he'd decided to invest in a lethal mercenary who had the sense of humor of a twelve year old. This was ridiculous. Hell, the moment Quinn let a joke like that out around the team life was going to be insufferable. That was the exact type of joke Eliot had been trying to get Hardison to abandon. No more stupid, gummy frog, bad play on words jokes. The stoic hitter's inner monologue cut short before he could continue to deter Quinn's attempt at humor with the introduction of a new sound.

Quinn's laughter filled the air and Eliot knew he was a goner. 

He'd met his match.

***

The coffee was still warm when the duo arrived at the team HQ. The four heads that jerked up to watch them enter caught a different type of warmth in the wind. Secret smiles passed between the more romantically inclined teammates while the other two traded knowing glances. There was a brief pause as the drinks were handed out before the debrief began. 

"Okay, we've set the bait." Ford glanced at Quinn, "You're back on the scene, Baring knows you're alive and that her hit didn't work. She also knows that you've got a 'bodyguard' watching you so she's expecting countersurveillance. So, all of this has effectively told her that the business Eliot's alias is trying to set up is a serious threat to her operations."

The blond hitter was sitting next to Eliot, their shoulders brushing against each other, as the plan unfolded. Little by little the plan to trap Baring came to exist. Little by little the team watched as the two hitters orbited each other. Tiny touches, brushes of the knuckles, shoulder bumps when they pointed things out to each other in the plan. All the small harmonies of people finding their footing with each other flowed in an unconscious symphony between the two men.

Sophie was the next to address the group, "You both are in more danger now. Baring will be searching for a way to dispose of you both, however, your efforts in cementing yourself in society will work in your favor. You're both too public of figures to outright murder,"

"Oh, wonderful," Quinn's sarcastic sentiment broke up Sophie's dialogue.

"But it won't stop her from trying to remove you from public circles. Watch out for private invitations, meetings, or small groups where she might be able to isolate you from witnesses."

"On top of that," Hardison broke in, "I've been going through her shared financials with Reynolds, and some other online paper trails between their less than legal business, and it seems she's got ties to some pretty shady characters. Your old friend, Eliot, the Butcher happens to be one of the contacts she's reached out to, via Reynolds specifically, before. We think that he's the most likely contact she'll reach out to to take care of her," 

An expressive wiggle of fingers toward the two hitters punctuated Hardison's statement, "unexpected business complications."

"You've got to be kidding me."

All eyes turned to Quinn. 

The blond was leaning back against his chair, his expression exasperated and lips puckered into a small frown. 

"You have, um, you have something to share?" Ford's voice echoed.

"The Butcher? She's got him on call?" 

The tone employed by Quinn was heavy with annoyance. Eliot's brow furrowed as he nudged the younger hitter, he had picked up on the smidge of familiarity hidden beneath the annoyance. It was better to know how Quinn was familiar with the Butcher before jumping to assumptions. If his relationship with the crime lord was anything like Eliot's, they were looking at double the vendetta.

"I mean," Hardison glanced between the screen and the hitter, "It looks like it? I've been tracking the past slush fund payments and contracted hits on their past business rivals and he's been in at least two related cases. I mean, it's all hidden between the private accounts, offshore finances, and a half dozen other financial ventures,  I don't know if ya'll are gonna be a relevant enough issue to call him in, but…"

"I thought you killed him with an appetizer?" Parker interrupted.

It was Quinn's turn to be quiet as all heads swiveled to Eliot. 

The hitter shifted awkwardly in his seat, "um, I mean I didn't check if he was dead when we cleared out. The lemon juice wasn't that strong."

"You almost killed him with an appetizer?"

Quinn stared at Eliot with morbid appreciation. 

"Maybe."

"I wish you'd succeeded."

Eliot swiveled to stare at Quinn, "You got a personal beef with the Butcher or somethin'?"

"Something," Quinn shrugged, the movement was languid and betrayed little, "I'm not particularly fond of the fellow."

"Any reason?"

"You asked what type of training I'd had before?" the rhetorical question fell out of Quinn's mouth as he nodded toward the screen, "he was my training."