A/N: I'm basing my assumptions of Eliot's past on The Tap Out Job, The Order 23 Job and my own crazy imagination. Hope you enjoy! - pj
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The day Eliot was born was more than fifty-seven days too early. He'd come out screamin', his momma always said. Screamin', punchin' and kickin'. Fighting for every breath, determined to be a part of the world, like it or not.
He wasn't expected to make it through the night.
His momma stayed with him that night. Smiling through the glass that separated them in the NICU, singing softly, urging him to fight.
Three weeks later, she took him home.
He grew, as all boys would and he learned by watching, as all children do. Fighting was all he knew.
His daddy was always coming home with some new bruise or cut or sore. The man loved a bar fight or work scuffle more than just about anything. That was okay, it actually put him in a pretty good mood. But after a few drinks all that changed and Eliot spent many nights under his bed, waiting for the fighting to stop. Hoping there wouldn't be blood this time.
When he got old enough for school, Eliot didn't know that fighting was not always an appropriate reaction. If he didn't get his way, or didn't understand, or just plain couldn't get rid of the tighthurtclench feeling in his chest, he would fight. Because it was all he knew to do. All he'd ever seen. All he'd ever known.
He got into a lot of fights, he was always in trouble. Many afternoons were spent walking home in the rain, in the snow, in the sun because there was no one at his house to come get him after being sent to the principals' office.
He fought to defend himself. To defend someone else. Sometimes he fought just to fight.
And he learned quickly to win. Daddy wouldn't tolerate a loser in the house. So he got better. Got quicker, smarter and stronger.
It was one of those times when he was fighting just because he had no reason not to when he realized there was a beast inside him. Something wild and uncontrollable.
Something that scared him.
He was 12 years old and by then, he knew that fighting was sometimes wrong, maybe even most of the time. He tried not to fight without a reason. He was quick to defend a smaller kid being shoved into a locker, or protect a girl from a bully. He knew it was right to fight in those times.
But this time he didn't have a reason. Other than he'd watched his father hit his mother so hard last night and there was nothing he could do, because his arm and face just hurt so much. He hadn't been able to fight for his mother. To protect her from his father who was so much bigger and stronger than he was.
So when he got to school, desperate for control and an release for his pent up rager, he picked a fight with Dean, a big kid with a shock of blonde hair and three inches on Eliot. Dean loved to shove kids in lockers.
But it turned out that it wasn't a very good day for Dean either and he gave as good as he got. He kept egging Eliot on, kept talking, kept teasing. So Eliot kept shoving, kept punching, kept pulling.
And then Dean said something about his momma.
It took two teachers and a gang of Eliot's friends to pull him off the other boy. By the time they did Dean had two swollen eyes and blood was pouring from his nose and in his mouth.
And he was crying.
Eliot stumbled back. He looked down at his hands and saw them bleeding from the knuckles. He couldn't breathe.
He looked up and saw the kids from his class all staring at him, wide eyed and open mouthed. He'd never seen that look on their faces before. The other kids all looked at him different after a fight. Some with admiration, some respect, some disgust and some awe. But no one had ever looked at him like this.
Never with fear. And it made Eliot a little afraid too.
He didn't fight for a long time after that.
He promised himself he would never hurt anyone intentionally again. He didn't want to be like his father, he knew that much.
By the time he got to high school his reputation for being a fighter had worn off but the story of what had happened that day on the playground never really faded. In a small town like his, gossip spread like wildfire and died slow and hard.
And Dean's face was never quite the same.
Eliot had apologized to the boy in front of the whole school and in a letter, and once personally after his community service was up when he met him on the corner near his house. But Dean never looked him in the eye again.
So Eliot got used to being alone, got through most of high school that way. He didn't have any siblings and, well, it's hard to be friends with someone you're scared of. Hard to be friends with someone who's scared of you.
Until his Junior year when the wrestling coach, a new guy from out of town named Jonathan heard about him. He noted the broad set of Eliot's shoulders and short, but powerful legs he'd inherited from his father and tried to recruit him for the team.
At first Eliot said 'no'. He didn't want any part of fighting anymore.
But, he'd found, the uneasytenseheavy feeling that had been so hard to control as a child was just as hard to control as a teen and running just wasn't cutting it anymore. Every now and then he could pluck at some guitar strings and calm it a bit but it was never quite gone. It made him grumpy and irritable, snapping at others when they dared talk to him, only serving to cement his reputation as a dangerous boy.
So one day he decided to stop by the gym during wrestle practice and see what it was all about. He hung out near the door with his back to the wall watching quietly and carefully, not unlike a wounded animal who has been confronted by a seemingly kind hand.
Jonathan saw him and smiled and waved. He convinced him to try out for the team.
Eliot frowned but stepped out onto the mat, circling his opponent, anticipating the movements he unwittingly telegraphed. He pinned the guy in under a minute.
The coach was impressed and chose him to help demonstrate new holds to the rest of the team. Eliot expected the proximity, the feeling of hands and arms constricting him across his chest or around his head. He was not expecting what it made him do.
Jonathan groaned from the flat of his back, his breath momentarily gone and his head spinning. Eliot turned and ran to the locker room, the memory of too many nights at home that he'd rather forget buzzing around in his head.
He never went back.
TBC- if you liked it, and would like to read more, please do tell! :-)