The Juarez Job
Juarez. We heard the team talk about a job there, in the episode The Gone Fishin' Job. Like many of you, I started to wonder about what might have happened. I never did quite manage to come up with a story for Juarez, but I did end up with a clear image in mind of our team coming home. So, this scene is actually a "tag" for that case, taking place right after the team gets home from Juarez, and right before they start on The Gone Fishin' Job. Rated "T" for one instance of coarse language, right at the start (if you think it needs to be 'M' let me know). Features some of the Eliot/Parker sibling relationship that I love to see; possibly some H/C, though I just see it as the team looking out for each other. (9/27: Edited for a minor error that was driving me nuts. Thanks for the reviews, I appreciate it!)
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Leverage Offices, 4:35 a.m.
It was Eliot who broke the whole job down in two words: "Fuckin' Juarez." He dropped his duffle bag onto the floor, punctuating the words.
Hardison eased in through the door around Eliot and the bag, never once looking up from the smart phone in his hands. "Good news is, in about…five minutes…when I get these financials tied up, it'll all be just a nasty little memory."
"Oh, I don't know, it wasn't all bad, was it?" Sophie said. "We had some lovely meals. There was El Herradero's. And that tiny little place…you know the one I mean, only four tables, good tacos...what was it called?"
"I got piñatas!" Parker set an overstuffed travel bag down gently in the corner, a grin on her face.
"Speaking of that, exactly how many did you buy Parker?" Sophie asked.
Nate walked in past them all and into the kitchen, only dimly hearing the rest of the conversation. Truth be told, the job had been a rough one, and a long flight home hadn't helped. His eyes felt like they had sand in them, his mouth like he'd spent the whole time in the air sucking on cotton. The only question now was whether to bother trying to sleep a few hours, or just brew some coffee and forget about it. That scotch was going to fit into the picture somewhere wasn't even an issue. He pulled a bottle from the cupboard, uncapped it, and poured a couple fingers of the amber liquid into a rocks glass. "How we doing, Hardison?"
"Almost got it, Nate. I told you this was going to be tricky." The young man had taken a seat at the desk across the room, had a laptop open, and seemed to be entering data into both it at and the smart phone at the same time. Of course he didn't look tired. Hopped up on orange sodas and the thrill of the conquest, he looked ready to head back out the door on another job as soon as this one was complete. When Nate was a kid, he used to be able to pull all-nighters like that too, and never look the worse for wear. Not anymore.
"Wasted on the youth," Nate muttered. He lifted the glass and took a long swallow, closing his eyes as he felt the familiar warmth begin to seep through him.
"You ought to get some rest, Nate." When Nate opened his eyes, Sophie was standing there on the other side of the counter, a look of gentle concern on her face.
"I will. Just as soon as…" he raised his voice so the others could hear "…everyone clears out of my place and gives me peace."
"Ah, ah, ah." Sophie gave him that sly smile. The one that made him think about doing insane things. Like pulling her across the counter and into his arms. "Our offices, remember? We just let you live here. And speaking of that, if you all will excuse me, I am going to go take a much-needed shower." She shouldered her overnight bag.
"Hey." Eliot came to the counter. "I could actually use a hot shower myself, here."
"I'll make it quick. Promise." Sophie waggled her brows at Eliot and made her way to the bathroom.
Eliot turned a flat-eyed gaze on Nate. "Quick. So, what? Half an hour then?"
"At least. You'd be better off just going home." Nate held up his glass. "Want one before you hit the road?"
The hitter exhaled through his nose. "Yeah. Couple trays of ice, too."
Nate poured him a shot. "Shoulder?" he said, casually. Like he was asking about the weather. You had to be careful, broaching certain things with Eliot. For as often as he complained about how no one appreciated when he took hits for the team, when you did ask him if he was all right, he'd get irritated.
This time the offhand approach worked. Eliot downed the shot, and shrugged. With the good shoulder. "Stiff, you know? Too much time sitting still on the damned plane."
"Oooh." Parker was at the pantry, rooting through the cereal boxes. "Dibs!"
Eliot just shook his head. "Don't ask her, man."
But a fatalistic sort of curiosity had hit Nate. "Dibs on what? The Captain Crunch?"
The lithe blond looked over her shoulder at him. "On putting Eliot's shoulder back into place." She brought up her hands to pantomime. "Wrestle it back into the joint. Rrrrr…Crack! I've always wanted to do that."
Eliot grit his teeth and clenched his fists for a quick moment. "Dammit. No! How many times do I have to tell you, it isn't dislocated, Parker!"
"If you're sure," she said, in a sing-song voice. She selected a cereal box and shook it.
Annoyance was writ large all over Eliot's face, and he seemed revved up to say a lot more, when suddenly his eyes focused in on something. The annoyance abruptly fell away, and he grabbed a bowl from the counter. "Ice," he reminded Nate.
Nate pulled two trays from the freezer. Set them on the counter. They'd been home all of a few minutes, and already the hitter was wiping out his supply of ice cubes.
"Thank you," Eliot said, quietly.
"Welcome."
Nate leaned against his side of the counter to watch. Eliot emptied a tray into the bowl, then passed the bowl to Nate. "Water," Eliot prompted. Nate obliged, filling the bowl the rest of the way from the tap.
"Parker," Eliot said.
The thief raised her brows. "What?"
Eliot pointed at her. Then pointed at the space next to him at the counter.
The expression on Parker's face was somewhere between wary and curious, but she came over to Eliot's side. "What?" she asked again.
Over at the desk, Hardison had stopped working and was watching the scene unfold, his brow furrowed.
"Give me your hand," Eliot said.
Parker set down the box of cereal, and glanced down at her hands. Nate looked, too, and that was when he saw for the first time the livid bruising around the knuckles of her right hand, the scrapes, the swelling.
"What happened?" Nate asked. How had he missed that before?
The thief smiled proudly. "The guard at the gate. I had to hit him on the way out. Wham, put him on the ground."
Eliot took Parker's wrist between his thumb and forefinger with far more gentleness than one might expect from a man like him, and lifted her hand up. "Flex," he murmured, and watched carefully while she made a fist and released it.
"Parker. Are you all right?" Hardison asked, starting to stand up.
"Focus," Nate told him.
Hardison eased back into his chair, but didn't look happy about it. He didn't look like he was getting back to work, either.
"Wiggle your fingers," Eliot said, ignoring the others. He ran his thumb over her knuckles and the top of her hand with a light touch.
Parker winced sharply.
"Yeah, I know," he said softly, glancing up at her. "Doesn't look like anything broken, though. This week, we start working on how to hit with your elbows." Without waiting for a reply, he guided her hand to the bowl of ice water, and submerged it.
"If you'd let me keep the taser," she began.
Eliot stared at her. "We are not discussing this again."
"But…"
The irritation was creeping back into his voice. "No. Now soak your hand. Ten minutes in the water, ten out, ten in."
Parker gave Eliot a small smile. Which he pretended to ignore.
"Nate?" Hardison interrupted.
"What is it?"
"It's done," the hacker said, simply, coming to his feet. "Tracks covered, money where it's supposed to be. Well. At least, where we want it to be."
"Good job." Nate emptied the other ice tray into a plastic bag, sealed it, and threw the bag at Eliot. Eliot snagged it out of the air with his right hand and pressed it to his shoulder. There was a faint hitch in his breath as he did so, and he closed his eyes briefly.
"You okay?" Nate asked him.
Wrong tone. Eliot's eyes snapped open. "Fine," he muttered, and turned for the door. "I'm gettin' out of here."
"Be back at noon. I've got another job lined up for us."
The hitter stopped in mid-stride, and turned. He stared steadily at Nate, for ten, fifteen seconds. Then without a word, he turned away again and made for the door, stopping only long enough to sling his duffle bag over his good shoulder.