"You sure you don't want some healing oil?" Eve asks as she finishes slathering burn cream on Ezekiel's forearm and grabs a roll of gauze to wrap it up.
"No, I'm fine," Ezekiel asks.
The blonde doesn't answer, but her eyes never leave his face for more than a second as she bandages his arm. The attentive way she watches him lets him know just how much she's worried. Not just because of the burn. The wound isn't that severe. It likely won't leave a noticeable scar. It's the way that Ezekiel's reacting to it. He doesn't seem to want to look at his arm, and he's been uncharacteristically silent ever since they got back. And she notices that he keeps rubbing his free hand against his leg. He's not a fidgety sort of person, but that's what it looks like to her: a nervous tic of sort.
Once she tapes the end of the bandage in place, she puts a hand on his other wrist, stopping his hand. His gaze whips back to her like he's forgotten that she's actually there. "You sure you're okay?" Eve repeats quietly.
He grins at her, but it's brittle around the edges, more like a warning flash of teeth than an expression of warmth or reassurance. "Yeah, I'm alright, no worries." He slides his arm out of her grasp and stands up. He can feel Eve's eyes boring into his back as he walks out the room and heads up to his office, walking a little faster than he usually does.
He flings the door shut and throws himself onto his office chair, taking deep, if slightly shaky, breaths. His arm aches with a dull throb that matches his heartbeat, from wrist to elbow. And his other hand keeps rubbing at his left leg absentmindedly; he can't seem to help it. Even though he can't feel it through the fabric of his jeans, he traces the outline of the scar on his inner thigh, feeling flushed and prickly all over the place, stomach tying itself over in knots. Abruptly, he stands up; he needs to go see Eliot.
Instead of taking the Back Door and giving away his still-secret hideaway, Ezekiel heads outside and hails a cab to take him over the bridge. The hot, prickly feeling gets worse and worse the entire ride, and he feels sick with it. Rolling down the window doesn't help, either, but it helps him breathe a little better. He throws a few bills at the driver, not bothering to look at the numbers on them, and staggers out of the cab. It's an effort not to sprint inside, but he manages it, walking stiffly straight to the back room, thankfully empty.
The idea of even sticking his head into the heat and bustle of the kitchen is enough to make him nauseous, so instead, he texts Eliot. The door thumps open, and the hitter strides in, wearing the dark blue chef's jacket that Ezekiel got him because it matched his eyes. "Hey. What's going on?" he asks, immediately taking in Ezekiel's lack of enthusiastic greeting, the bandage on his arm, the clammy look he's sporting. When Ezekiel doesn't answer, Eliot walks over and sits down on the sofa beside the thief. "Jonesy. Babe."
"Mm?" Ezekiel mumbles. His hand's scrubbing against his thigh again, chafing hard against the denim. Out, out, damned spot.
Eliot's strong, callused hand wraps around Ezekiel's, stilling the fervent motion; he lightly strokes a thumb over the thief's knuckles, over the small, faint scars there. "Zeke," he murmurs softly. "What's wrong, huh?"
"Huh? Oh. Uhm." Ezekiel glances down at his lap, and Eliot gives his hand a gentle squeeze. "Just…a bad day. It's a bad day."
"Mm." Eliot lifts Ezekiel's hand to his lips, then slides his arms around the thief, drawing the younger man into his side; Ezekiel, however, takes it a step further and slithers right on over to sit on his lap, folding himself up so he can fit neatly against Eliot's chest. "How bad we talkin'?" he asks.
The young man thinks on it for a moment, tucking his head beneath Eliot's stubbled chin like a kitten searching for pets. "7," he decides on at last.
Eliot blows out a breath and wraps both arms tighter around him, hugging the slender body closer to him. It's almost like hugging Parker, made up of whipcord muscle and angular bones, except he lacks some of her softer curves; he wonders absentmindedly if perhaps all thieves feel like that, if there's some kind of base model that they're all built from. "Okay. C'mon." He gets to his feet, but instead of getting up, Ezekiel just twines himself around Eliot like a potato vine, clinging tightly. The hitter chortles under his breath, carrying him to the back and up the stairs.
His room is cool, dark, and relatively unused since he rarely ever sleeps, more of a place for him to lay for a moment when he needs to unwind. Eliot sits on the bed and tries to gently pry Ezekiel's arms from around his neck, smiling when the thief clenches both hands on his chef's jacket in protest. "C'mon, babe, I'm not goin' anywhere." He finally ducks his head out from underneath Ezekiel's arms and lets the thief keep the jacket, grabbing a clean shirt from the drawer.
Ezekiel balls up Eliot's jacket and tucks it under his head, eyes half-closed, and Eliot pulls the coverlet over him. "Do you want me to stay here?" he asks, gently rubbing a hand over the thief's thigh, lingering on the scar he knew was there, too.
"Please."
Eliot toes off his boots and slides around to lay at Ezekiel's back, throwing an arm over his waist. "Something bring it on?" he asks, murmuring the words against the nape of the thief's neck.
Without answering, Ezekiel tugs up one sleeve to show white bandages around his forearm, just below the elbow; Eliot can see smears of burn cream around the edges of the bandage. "Fire elementals, Dubai," the younger man says. "Not evil, just…angry-neutral."
"Mm." He reaches down and around to rub a hand against the scar on Ezekiel's thigh, a souvenir from the one and only time that Ezekiel Jones had ever crossed Damien Moreau.
Ezekiel is never taking another job with Chaos. Ever. Ever, ever. That slimy, squirmy, self-absorbed, cocky little fucker. If it weren't for that walking advertisement for abstinence, he never would've heard of this bloody job and he wouldn't have stolen something from Damien fucking Moreau. That's one thing he's never been stupid enough to do, and it's the one little detail that Chaos happened to leave out.
It's also the reason he's currently tied up in a soundproofed cellar being used as a punching bag for one of Moreau's cronies, who had oh-so-politely introduced himself as Otto before he started in with the punching.
"You're a tough one," Otto remarks with his thick, funny accent. It sounds like something German, but German that's been put through a blender. "I believe I might need to resort to other measures."
"I'm terrified, no, really," Ezekiel mumbles around his swollen mouth and the thick taste of blood.
Otto picks up a fire poker that'd been sitting by the hulking, wood-burning furnace. No, not by the furnace. In it. The end of it glows dark, burnished red, glittering in that peculiar way hot metal sometimes does. "Where is Mr. Moreau's merchandise?"
"Bugger yourself with a fish pole," Ezekiel replies. "I already told you I don't know."
"Mr. Moreau says that I cannot kill you." Otto brings the poker close to his face, near enough that he can smell the hot iron, feel the heat of it on his skin. "I can make sure you are not so pretty anymore," he warns, then brings it up slightly, passing a scant inch above Ezekiel's hands, still gripping the ropes white-knuckle tight. "Or make sure you cannot open another lock." The poker drifts back downwards again, until it's being held level with his belt buckle. "Or perhaps something more personal."
Ezekiel can almost feel his pulse in his mouth, and it's hard to get a decent breath in, but he closes his mouth and keeps it closed, glaring up into Otto's dark eyes. Seconds tick by in eternities, neither of them moving or blinking.
The man huffs. "You are tough, for a child," he admits, sounding almost impressed.
The 'child' bit prickles, but Ezekiel doesn't say anything; he never argues if he's winning.
Otto leans back and lowers his arm slightly. And then presses the poker to the inside of Ezekiel's thigh.
Ezekiel sags in his bonds, splayed against the wall, fighting to remain conscious. The entire world is washed in red, and he's in and of the pain all at once, hearing only the thundering rush of his own heart in his ears and smelling his own scorched skin and burnt fabric. From some great distance, he feels a tug as the poker sticks and tears skin when it's twisted and pulled away, then jabbed back into the burn again. Greasy black streamers ooze across his vision, overtaking the red and dragging him under
He comes back around slowly, in waves, consciousness rolling back up on him, then retreating, coming back again.
He's lying on the floor, cut down from the wall. Something soft is folded beneath his head, smelling like gunpowder. Fingers pressed to the side of his neck. An angry voice, not Otto, not Moreau, shouting…
Strong arms curled under him, carrying him. That same voice, not so angry, no longer shouting, but the words are too hard to grasp, sliding away like water off glass…
A bed, a soft one, and someone touching his leg, wrapping his thigh. That smell again, like gunpowder and oil and something sweet, too. Consciousness sticks around this time, everything clearing up in slow degrees. Ezekiel remembers which muscles to use in order to open his eyes.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, taping the ends of the bandage in place, is a man in jeans and black jumper; his dark hair looks like it'd been a military high and tight but is starting to grow out. He's handsome, too, a little rough around the edges, but good-looking. Moreau likes having pretty things around, so it's not all that surprising. "You went into shock. It's a deep burn," the man says, and he's the owner of the voice that Ezekiel remembers. "You'll have a scar."
"You guys suck at torture," Ezekiel mumbles thickly.
The corner of the man's mouth quirks up just a touch. "Amateur hour," he agrees, then looks at Ezekiel directly. And maybe Ezekiel is still a little loopy from whatever drugs he's been given, but the man has very pretty eyes. "I thought Moreau would have done better for Ezekiel Jones."
"M'flattered," he grumbles. "Who's that make you, then?"
"Eliot Spencer."
If he'd felt drowsy before, he isn't now. Ezekiel stares at him, heart rabbiting a little faster; everyone in this line of work knows who Eliot Spencer is.
"Relax, you're fine," Eliot Spencer says, sitting back against the bedpost, arms folded. "If I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn't have patched you up or put you on the good sheets." He reaches down, picks up a black knapsack from the floor, and tosses it lightly on Ezekiel's stomach. "That's yours. As soon as you can walk, you're out of here. I'm talking at least six time zones, understand?"
Ezekiel opens the knapsack and sees his gear inside, along with the paperwork for his alias, everything of his from his hotel room, along with a bit of extra cash. He looks up at Eliot Spencer. "Moreau's letting me go?" That isn't right. It can't be right. Moreau does not let people go. Anyone he gets his hands on either ends up working for him or leaving in pieces, and Ezekiel isn't punching Moreau's time clock and is still mostly in one piece, minus a couple layers of skin.
Eliot Spencer stares at him with a perfect poker face.
"He's not letting me go," Ezekiel corrects himself, understanding. "You are. Why?"
"That's none of your concern. Just go."
Ezekiel props himself up on one elbow, staring at the man who is supposed to be the bogeyman's worst nightmare. "I…thank you," he says at last, not sure of what else to say.
"Go," Eliot Spencer repeats. "Don't come back here."
He cocks his head to the side and flashes his best cocky grin, despite the ache that's starting to throb in his thigh. "It's 'cause you like me, isn't it?"
The other man rolls his eyes and leaves the room.
Eliot strokes Ezekiel's arm. "I'm sorry, darlin'," he murmurs, pressing his lips against the soft skin of the young man's neck, inhaling the vanilla scent of his shampoo.
"It's okay. I got you back, didn't I?" Ezekiel replies with a wry smile.
That's true. Eliot smiles a little, too, remembering the day he showed up on Ezekiel's doorstep, six months after their first meeting.
Someone is banging on his door at three in the fucking morning, and he is going to kill them. If it's Chaos again, then he's really going to kill that weaselly little wanker. No means no, and he does not care what kind of cut he gets.
"Alright, alright, I'm coming! Keep your bloody knickers on, I hear you!"
Ezekiel opens the door.
"Spencer." The name jumps from his mouth in surprise because the last person he would ever have expected to show up on the doorstep of his flat is Eliot fucking Spencer. And right after the shock comes a surge of alarm. Immediately, he glances about for some kind of weapon. It probably would make the same difference as a BB gun being fired at an oncoming freight train, but he'd feel better about himself.
"Relax. M'not here to hurt ya," Eliot says, and his voice sounds…weird. Ezekiel doesn't remember that much of an accent last time. (Not that he's spent way too many nights thinking about that encounter. Nope, not at all.) Looking at him, though, Ezekiel realises that Eliot doesn't just sound rough, he looks rough, as if he's running on fumes and nothing else. His rigid soldier's posture is gone, and he's slouching up against the doorframe like it's the only thing holding him up. There's shadows under his eyes, and he looks sheet-white and clammy.
"What happened to you?" Ezekiel asks.
"M'fine, I jus'…need some help."
Eliot suddenly starts falling forward, and Ezekiel lets out a startled yelp, lurching to catch him. He grunts when the soldier's weight falls against him, staggering back a step. When he wraps both arms around Eliot, trying to hold him upright, he feels the back of the man's shirt is wet, and his hand comes away red when he looks. "Oh, Christ."
Getting the assassin into his flat is no easy task. Eliot Spencer is probably a good 90 kilos of solid muscle. Ezekiel isn't exactly a delicate flower himself, but it still takes some time and effort to get him to the bedroom and onto the bed. By the time he does, he's feels like he's pulled about ten different muscles and maybe dislocated a shoulder. "Holy shite, Spencer, what do you eat? Rocks?" he pants.
The other man only makes a muffled noise that might've been some form of English or just pain.
He fetches the first aid kit he never goes anywhere without—a lesson that he learnt the hard way a few years ago—and sits on the edge of the bed next to Eliot; he's sprawled out on his stomach, eyes closed. Most of the clothes he's wearing are dark, so it's hard to see how much blood there is. Ezekiel lifts up the bottom hem of Eliot's jumper, and it's so wet that it clings to his skin, which is not exactly encouraging. "Oh, fuck." He digs out a pair of fabric scissors and cuts open the back of the jumper; he can buy him another one later.
"Fuck," he repeats with feeling when he sees the damage. Eliot is covered in wounds—bruises, abrasions, burns, lacerations. There's hardly more than a few square inches of unmarked skin to be found.
He starts with the biggest cuts first, the ones that look like they're from a very sharp-edged weapon. Probably a knife. Maybe a sword. Who knows with Moreau, that weird, sadistic bastard. Maybe he made Eliot fight a duel.
"Ow."
Ezekiel looks up from smearing antiseptic on Eliot's hands to see the man's dark blue eyes open, if a bit drowsy. "Hey. What'd you do, mate, fight a lawnmower? How much blood have you lost?"
"Dunno," he mutters back.
"That's what it looks like, I hope you know that. A lawnmower." He tapes the end of the bandage in place; it looks like the entire lower half of Eliot's left arm has been wrapped up for mummifying. The thought doesn't amuse him, however. "What the hell did Moreau have you doing?" he asks. "Ninja fight?"
"I don't work for Moreau anymore."
Ezekiel stares at him. "You don't…?"
"No." He coughs and then winces in pain. Well, since he's Eliot Spencer, perhaps 'wince' is the wrong word. He closes his eyes for a minute and takes a deep breath, then lets it out slowly before opening his eyes again. But coming from him, that's about equal to tears and gross sobbing.
"Is that what all this is from?" Ezekiel asks, grabbing another roll of gauze and reaching for Eliot's other arm. People don't just stop working for Damien Moreau. They just don't. And Moreau is exactly the kind of person who would rather break his own toys than ever let another kid play with them.
"Mm. You should see the other guys."
He'd rather not. If Eliot looks this bad, he imagines that the others look a million times worse. Instead, he asks the question that's been itching at him. "Why'd you come here?"
The corner of Eliot's mouth curves up slightly. "Maybe I like you."
"And you do, don't you?" Ezekiel asks, reaching back to run his fingers through Eliot's thick hair, winding one small braid around his finger and rolling the beads back and forth between his thumb and forefinger.
Eliot chortles and presses a kiss to the nape of Ezekiel's neck. "Yes, you pain in the ass, I do." He lightly squeezes the thief's thigh, a question and a reassurance in and of itself, and the young man twists around until they're face-to-face. Ezekiel slings one leg over Eliot's, sinuously pressing his entire body closer in the process. It's not an invitation for sex, not now, but simply to be close to each other, since they rarely ever let anyone else that near. They're close enough that Eliot can feel Ezekiel's heart beating against his chest. "You hungry?" he asks.
The thief purses his lips, tilting his head in a parody of thinking, but before he answers, his stomach answers for him with a loud rumbling that could probably be heard from downstairs.
Eliot snorts through his nose. "I'm going to take that as a yes. I was thinking of making bibimbap. Parker's nuts for the stuff ever since we did that job in Tongyeong, but my God, you should hear her and Hardison trying to pronounce some of it. Like, have you ever seen a dog try to eat peanut butter? It's like that, but in verbal form."
The thief laughs, rubbing his cheek against Eliot's shirt. "Yeah, that sounds good. You know I love your cooking. Can I take the leftovers?" he asks, as if he doesn't already know that Eliot will insist he take whatever food is left; his hitter frets over him eating as if he doesn't know how to cook for himself. Which is fair, since Ezekiel doesn't know how to cook anything more complex than Hamburger Helper. But he does know how to order in restaurants and takeaway just fine.
"Of course you can." Eliot drags his fingertips up the thief's side, feather-light, and the younger man squirms against him with a laugh. "So…where are we at?" he asks.
Ezekiel ponders it for a moment. "Three. It's mostly just this," he adds, looking at his bandaged arm. "Once it heals up a little more, I'll be okay." His face clouds a little, and he lowers head back down to rest against on Eliot's shoulder. "It's the smell that gets me."
"I know," Eliot agrees. Nobody should know what their own scorched flesh smells like, and it's not something that can be forgotten.
The thief takes a deep breath and lets it out, then tilts his chin up and nips the underside of Eliot's jaw, grinning. "I'd rather smell some food cooking."
"Oh, for God's sake, fine. Get up. C'mon, you pain in the ass, get up," Eliot laughs. He rolls to his feet and grabs Ezekiel by the back of the shirt and the belt of his trousers, lifting him clean off the bed and setting him over one shoulder like a sack of potatoes. "You want something to eat, you're gonna help me make it. And I know you know how to slice vegetables properly because I taught you," he says as he walks downstairs to the sound of the thief's laughter. "So no excuses, punk-ass. We're making dinner."
Ezekiel laughs again, wrapping both arms around Eliot's waist.
He's not fixed. He knows that he probably won't ever be fixed. Some things get broken and can't get put back together the same way. But he's better, and sometimes, that's all anyone can ever ask for. Maybe all his pieces don't line up the same way anymore. But they line up with Eliot's just fine, and honestly, what more could he ever ask for?