Title : Not Forgotten
Written for leverage500 prompt 'Forgotten' on livejournal
Word Count : approximately 350
Summary : Eliot knows how few things last.
Disclaimer: I don't own Eliot or anything else or one else remotely connected to Leverage and I'm not making any financial gain from this endeavour.
Thanks to ysbail who was happy to procrastinate her way from truly essential work in order to do a super speedy beta for me. *hugs*
Eliot stands at the window, staring out into the should-be-darkness, but there is no darkness outside, just a street brightly lit by neon. He closes his eyes for a moment, slowing his breathing, taking his mind back, back to 'before'.
Eliot hasn't forgotten 'before', before Dubenich, before the team. He hasn't forgotten, he repeats to himself again. He hasn't forgotten the dark, almost abandoned dungeons he had been held in 'before'. He won't ever forget the ferocious battles for freedom, for survival.
He hasn't forgotten that life 'before' was hard.
He's not going soft or coming to rely on this . . . here . . . now. He's not.
His eyes open, staring through the window, he hasn't forgotten emhis/em life before. When it catches up with him and becomes all he's got left, he'll survive. He survived before; he can do it again; he's not soft.
He's Eliot Spencer, retrieval specialist.
He hears movement, feels arms slip round his waist. He breathes deeply, deliberately, schooling his reactions. They don't know, not really, why a move like that with Eliot is a bad one. He breathes again, slower, more deliberate still. His hands twitch with an urge that he can control. He tells himself this is easy, good, no threat.
"Eliot, come back to bed," the voice is soft by his ear, soothing. "Come back to bed, you need your rest." His head turns, eyes meeting dark ones, warm with affection. "Bed." It's a simple instruction, no innuendo, no persuasion. Eliot allows himself to be led back to the bed, he sits when told, swinging his legs up before lying on his side. "Roll over." Another instruction to follow. He feels as the covers are tucked round his back as the body heat withdraws after the fingers run through his hair, curls in tight on himself as he is left alone.
He hasn't forgotten what this is like . . . alone . . . He hasn't forgotten how the pain of 'alone' eats away at your insides. He hasn't forgotten but he wishes he could.