Story: Hit & Run, a Leverage story

Author: pensandpaper13

Rating: M for mature themes, including sexual assault and violent subject matter

Author's Note:

Dear Reader,

No, you're not experiencing dejavu! This is a revised and edited version of a fic I had previously posted.

I decided it needed some work and instead of editing piece by piece, I thought it would be best to just upload it all fresh and shiny.

Thank you for taking time to read my ramblings and enjoy the story!

- Pens

PROLOGUE

It was just past five on a dark Sunday morning. The chilly Boston air was wet and briny, and the snow was finally starting to melt around the edges of the rain-slicked trail. Eliot was alone as he ran through the Charles River Loop, the only sound the rhythm of his footsteps keeping time with the pounding of his heart. Boom boom, boom boom; a heavy drum inside him, tethering him to the earth.

Chapter 1

"A Problem"

Eliot Spencer was a brawny man in his mid-thirties, with long brown hair in a ponytail and keen blue eyes that surveyed the world with a certain cynical alertness. In plain running clothes, he could have been anyone; just another gym rat out for his morning run. He liked the anonymity. He liked the camouflage of a normal man, and that anyone who saw him wouldn't suspect a thing out of place - if they saw him at all.

Boom-boom, boom-boom. In his mind's eye, a flash of barren desert overlay the snowy grass ahead. Hot and gritty air blew in his face, and he could feel the weight of a rifle in his hands.

Boom-boom, boom-boom. The sound of the gravel under his sneakers mixed with the sickening crunch of broken bones.

Eliot slowed to a stop and bent over, panting. There was a buzzing in his pocket; irritated, he pulled out the small burner phone he kept. It was untraceable, unlisted - so why was he getting a call from a payphone in Mattapan?

Eliot pressed the answer button and put it to his ear. "Go."

"Eliot?" said a rough male voice. Eliot recognized the atrocious Alabama accent immediately.

"Quinn," Eliot said. 'Quinn' was a mercenary whom Eliot once worked with over a year ago. He had also, upon their first meeting, broken several of Eliot's ribs.

Quinn's speech was slurred and wet, barely above a whisper. "I think I need to cash in on that favour you owe me."

Eliot hesitated, listening to Quinn's rattled breathing. It was a very distinctive sound, the breathing of a dying man.

"Where are you?"

Eliot climbed the steps of St. Mary's Church with a foreboding feeling in his gut. The morning fog had dissipated, allowing the buttery sunlight to stream in between the buildings on the garbage-strewn street. Long abandoned, the church's doors had been bolted shut until about a half hour ago. Eliot pushed them open and stepped quietly inside.

It was a familiar setting; stained glass windows, dark wooden pews, and the smell of dusty carpet and burning candles. A statue of the Virgin Mary presided over the scene, watching. Judging, Eliot thought bitterly.

Quinn sat in the very last pew. He was a tall, lean man, roughly thirty years old and handsome, with long blond hair and hazel eyes - usually. He wore a sweatshirt with the hood pulled up, hiding his face in shadows, but when Eliot sat down beside him he could smell the blood. "Look at me," Eliot said, his voice hushed though he didn't know exactly why. Maybe it was the church.

Quinn raised a bloody, twitching hand and pushed his hood down slowly. He moved like everything hurt - and when Eliot saw his face, he knew why. All he could see was blood. It was matted in his hair, dried onto his skin, dripping from his mouth and oozing from his busted cheekbone. One of his eyes was swollen completely shut, while the other was bloodshot and dilated.

"God damn," was all Eliot could think of to say.

He half-carried Quinn to his car. He reeked of sweat, piss, and crank. Eliot put him in the backseat and closed the door, leaning against it as he pulled out his phone and hit a number on speed-dial.

"Nate, it's me..." he glanced over his shoulder at Quinn's bloody face. "I got a problem."

Eliot made it across town in record time, zooming through the streets with smooth expertise. Nate Ford, Eliot's boss, was waiting for him in the parking lot behind McRory's pub. Nate was a thin, drunken man in his forties with graying curly hair and a boyish face, which was now composed into a suspicious expression.

"Do you think this is the right choice?" he asked as Eliot reached into the backseat and dragged Quinn, slinging his arm around his shoulders.

"Mmph," grunted Quinn, "I can walk..." Fresh blood dripped from his lips, and his whole body was stiff and tense - even the smallest movement hurt like a bitch. He could barely put one foot in front of the other.

They rode the elevator in strained silence. Nate sized up Quinn out of the corner of his eye, half pitying and half suspicious. "Clean him up and then we'll talk."

Nate's apartment was a large space with a wall of television screens and a spiral staircase leading to Nate's bedroom and the facilities. The rest of the team was waiting there, their expressions varied between concerned and dubious.

"Oh my god," exclaimed Sophie Devereaux, her beautiful brown eyes widening. "Eliot...what happened to him?"

Eliot ignored her and jerked his chin at Hardison. "Help me get him upstairs."

"We shouldn't be doing this, man," Alec Hardison warned, but he came around reluctantly and threw Quinn's other arm around his neck. He made a face at the smell. "Jeez, where'd you find him? In a dumpster?"

Nate's small bathroom was spectacularly clean, from the sparkling shower stall to the gleaming toilet bowl. They sat Quinn down on the toilet lid and he slumped forward, spitting blood onto the spotless tiles. "Ugh," he coughed.

"Hardison," Eliot said, "Go get the red bag from under the bar downstairs."

As Hardison left, Eliot took off Quinn's sweatshirt and tossed it onto the floor. His bare chest was riddled with burns and shallow cuts, and Eliot could feel several broken ribs as he probed along his torso. The bruises were deep, but there was no permanent damage. There were fresh needle marks on the inside of his arms, confirming what Eliot had suspected - whoever beat him had also doped him.

Eliot turned on the shower and helped Quinn into the stall. He tilted his face into the jet of hot water and exhaled a sigh of relief. He sank to his knees, letting the water stream against his back, circling red down the drain. There were scars on his skin - old scars. Scars from another life.

"I'll be right here," Eliot said, closing the door. He turned around and caught sight of himself in the mirror; his dark hair was sweaty, falling out of its ponytail, and his broad face was speckled with blood. He wet his hands under the tap and washed it off, turning away from the mirror. Focus, he told himself. Focus on what's in front of you.

He didn't know why he was doing this - why he hadn't dumped Quinn at Boston General and called it even. He had enough shit to deal with, he didn't need to take on whatever Quinn had gotten himself into.

Eliot sighed. Here he was trying to think of a way to get out of helping a person in need, when all he'd been doing the last four years was making sure he did help people. Whatever happened to making amends, huh Eliot? he thought.

You're the good guy now, boy.

You don't get to pick and choose the shit you get yourself muddled up in anymore.