For the most part, Eliot has left his bad old days behind. His hair is still long, but the suits are a long abandoned and he likes boots better anyway. He works during the day and sleeps at night in willful ignorance. He leaves the scheming to others and hits what he's told.

But occasionally…

Occasionally that damn hand acts up again. The one with the thin line halfway up his forearm, that nobody on the team has noticed. It's weathered out enough that it mostly matches his real skin color, and Eliot's half-convinced the only reason he can tell the difference any more is because he knows there should be one. The difference is never more obvious when it starts getting finicky.

He'll throw a punch meaning to only bruise the guy and instead knocks him out cold.

("Geeze, Eliot," Hardison says, "it's just a damn T-shirt. I'll buy you ten more, chill out, man.")

He'll try to sign in as Ted the delivery guy and have to grit his teeth and move the clipboard with his other hand to make the scrawling illegible.

(The security guard gives him a suspicious stare but lets him through; Eliot emphasizes his good 'ole boy accent and skates by on the dumb hick stereotype of too stupid to sign his own name.)

He'll be chopping onions for dinner, and then he'll feel the tension running up his arm, immobilizing his elbow and making his whole arm shake.

("I thought we were having spaghetti," Parker whines. It's her favorite dish. Eliot growls and tells her to enjoy the soup, because he has to get it out of the freezer before it goes bad.)

It's not ideal. In fact, it's downright inconvenient. He can't use guns, because his hand doesn't like them at all, and it pisses him off most when it keeps him from playing his guitar. Eliot's just glad he's still a bad enough man that he doesn't feel sorry for having it anyway, sentience be damned, and is selfish enough to refuse giving it up. Somebody has to beat down the people Nate's schemes piss off, after all.