The metal glittered and shimmered, a weaving gleam of deadly light, rhythmic, mesmeric … beautiful, Parker thought, as the knife and its owner worked calmly, deftly, slicing shallots with precision and skill.
She loved watching Eliot cook. She loved the repetition, the focus, the calm confidence which almost oozed from the man's sturdy frame, his mane of hair held back by a bandanna and his eyes focused on his work.
He moved about the kitchen like the athlete he was. No motion was wasted, but – and she smiled to herself at the thought – he did have a little of that … oh, what was it Sophie said … je ne c'est quoi, which apparently was French for 'I don't know what.' Parker didn't know what 'I don't know what' meant, really, but she kinda got it.
She sighed happily.
Eliot's hands used the knife to scoop up the diced shallot and dump it in a casserole dish, and then he began on a few large sprigs of rosemary, easily using the wickedly sharp knife to turn the scented leaves into teensy, richly aromatic shreds.
Parker's smile turned into a happy grin, eyes narrowed like a Siamese cat smothered in catnip. She let out a little hum of pleasure and leaned forward from her seat on the kitchen surface well away from Eliot. Her gaze was getting intense.
Eliot, a man whose senses could tell if a ninja and his ten buddies were heading in his direction from a mile away, froze. The frown of concentration on his face altered fractionally into the frown of 'what the hell?' and his eyebrows glowered as he looked at Parker.
For a moment, silence reigned.
Parker's smile widened even more.
Eliot went from frown to scowl mode.
The silence deepened.
Eliot, to whom the phrase 'freaked out' was meaningless, began to feel a little uneasy.
Parker sighed again.
Eliot's resolve had a little moment of indecision and he straightened, glaring at Parker, knife poised.
"What?"
Parker studied him for another second or two, and then unfurled her legs, slipped silently to the floor and within moments had invaded his body space, standing close beside him, eyes gazing steadfastly into his.
Eliot took a step back.
Parker followed him, still smiling.
Eliot, who had once taken down eight katana-wielding Japanese yakuza in four seconds flat using merely his hands and feet (and one head-butt), took another step back and found himself backed into a corner.
It was time to call for reinforcements.
"Hardison!"
The young hacker was busy creating some sneaky software to play havoc with independently hosted secure servers in a Swiss bank thought to be laundering ISIS funds, and wasn't in the mood to be distracted.
"Wha', bro …?" he murmured, only half listening.
"She's lookin' at me." Eliot growled.
Hardison scratched his nose. These algorithms were a bitch.
"Who's lookin' at you?"
"Who the hell d'ya think?" Eliot, oddly, sounded just a little bit unsure.
Hardison blinked and glanced at Eliot and Parker, the latter apparently gazing at Eliot with some form of inane adoration.
Hardison smiled.
"Maybe she likes you," he said, and focused more intently on the misbehaving algorithm.
Eliot snorted.
"Now I know there's somethin' wrong with her," he grumbled to himself.
Parker didn't seem to have heard a word, and cocked her head to one side. Then without warning she reached out and gently caught hold of Eliot's hand – the one holding the knife, making him twitch with sudden worry.
"Dammit, Parker," he grouched, "watch it, will ya? You'll hurt yourself! This thing is frickin' sharp! You coulda lost a finger!"
And reaching over with his left hand, he eased the knife out of his right without touching her, trying to keep her safe. But even as he laid the knife down on the chopping board, he felt Parker's small hands shift and grasp both of his wrists, pulling his hands towards her.
Eliot, now mightily confused and not on the spur of the moment able to figure out a way of wrenching his hands out of her grasp without hurting her, reluctantly allowed her to lead him around the kitchen work surface and urge him onto a stool.
"Sit," she said.
Eliot sat.
Parker sat on the stool opposite him, still holding tightly onto his wrists, and her gaze dropped from his face onto the two hands now resting on her lap. She took a breath, and Eliot could see she was turning something over in that crazy noggin of hers, but damned if he could figure out what it was.
Parker's face screwed up into 'thoughtful' mode.
"Hands," she said.
Eliot was now completely thrown.
"Uh … yeah, Parker. My hands. An' I need 'em to finish dinner before Sophie an' Nate get back, so stop acting like a crazier crazy person an' –"
Parker lifted Eliot's right hand, placed it on the kitchen surface, and lifted a finger to her lips.
"Shhhhh …" she said.
Eliot suddenly realised he had a choice. He could embarrass himself by lapsing into a muttering growly bluster, an occasional weakness he hated about himself, or he could just shut up and try and figure out just what the hell was going on. He decided on the latter.
"Aww hell …" he sighed. "Whatever."
He relaxed and decided to wait it out.
Parker's wide, manic smile suddenly softened, and her eyes were warm and curious. Leaving Eliot's right hand where it was on the kitchen surface, she lifted his left from her lap and turned it over, cradling it in her own hands. She ran her thumb over the warm palm, and then traced the outline of his thumb. Then supporting the big hand in her left, she began to study it closely.
Eliot, completely mystified, look at Hardison. He raised his eyebrows in a silent question, and Hardison, who had begun to take notice of Parker's investigation into their hitter's hands, shook his head and shrugged. He had no idea what was going on either.
But Parker didn't notice. She was gently studying the lumpy bump on Eliot's thumb where it joined his hand, and she felt the swollen tissue there. She knew he had damaged the thumb years before doing God-knows-what, and the joint was not as strong as it once was.
Turning the hand over, she ran the tips of her fingers over scarred knuckles, old, white scars mingled with newer, half-healed ones. The knuckle of his pinky was large and misshapen. Not enough to stop him playing the guitar, but she knew it sometimes bothered him.
Turning the hand over once more, she studied the palm, and found the long, knotted scar of a blade running from side to side. He had garnered that one by gripping a commando knife by the blade, and Parker suddenly shuddered at the memory of Eliot, teeth bared in a feral grin, face beaten and bloody, holding that damned knife blade in his left hand and pummelling the crap out its owner with his right, allowing Nate and herself to crawl back out of the way of their attacker before escaping along a tunnel to safety. Eliot had floored the assassin with one punch, and stumbled after them. He had been lucky not to sever every tendon in his hand.
Parker looked up into Eliot's face, eyes shining with sadness.
"Oh, Eliot." She whispered brokenly.
Eliot sat straight-backed, face guarded. There was nothing he wanted more than to grab his coat, growl at Parker and Hardison and head out into the rain-drenched night. But Parker was holding his hand. Holding his hand. And he could no more stop her than fly to the moon.
But then Parker dropped his left hand back onto her lap and lifted his right from its resting place on the worktop.
This time she began at the knuckles. Eliot winced internally. She would see. And his fears came true as Parker laid her palm over them, the warmth of her grip lessening the almost-permanent ache in the battered joints. Her touch ran along scarred fingers, several showing the signs of repeated fractures over the long years of abuse.
Eliot gasped. He couldn't stop himself. Her soft, small hands that could steal the Hope Diamond and pick any lock known to mankind gently enfolded his. He suddenly realised she was trying to soothe the damaged bone and ease the ache of systematic and regular abuse.
It was then he knew.
She was trying to fix him. Make him well and whole … heal him. His hands were the symbol of what he was. What he had done, and what he represented. The creature he had become.
His breath hitched in his throat.
"Parker –"
She smiled again, this time through tears.
"They keep us safe."
"I –"
"Eliot, you keep us safe." Parker chewed her lip, and blinked. "Your hands hold us close and protect us. They make music for us. They feed us." She gently laid Eliot's hand back on the work surface, and placed her own hand against Eliot's chest, right over his heart. "And this heart is too big, and too good, but we love it anyway. And we'll do our best to keep you safe, and make sure your heart doesn't break."
Eliot was shocked into silence, but Parker wasn't finished.
"You … you're like an unsheathed sword," she whispered, patting his chest affectionately. "You glitter too much. But I promise we'll make sure you always come home to us. Okay?"
And before Eliot Spencer could say a word, Parker stood up and gave him a hug.
Knuckling tears from her cheeks, she gazed into a pair of stunned blue eyes. She sniffed noisily and wiped a dab of weepy snot from her nose.
"What's for dinner?"
Eliot finally got his mouth back into gear.
"Um … braised rabbit pappardelle with sauteed chanterelle mushrooms in white wine," he said, voice still riven with wonder.
And in a moment Parker changed, shrieking in horror.
"WHAT? You want us to eat BUNNIES?" She crowded into Eliot's face and hissed "There is something seriously wrong with you!"
Eliot sighed.
Yup. Some days, he thought, you just couldn't win.