Everything's under control
Fandom : Leverage
Pairing : Eliot/your choice
Time : Season 1, post The Wedding Job but no major spoilers for that
Rating : PG-13 (maybe even just PG to be honest)
Word Count: 1057
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.
Written for the prompt: Leverage, Eliot/any, he's got all his emotions hidden away inside
Everything's under control
It figures Eliot has been on his own for so long now that he's used to fending for himself, relying on himself. He's not used to sharing any of those things that really matter. It's hard to be with Eliot and understand that, allow for it and hope that in time he will change, but you're doing your best to learn.
None of it is intentionally meant to hurt, he probably doesn't even know he does it, but the self-preservation is so ingrained, his actions are pretty instinctual.
The truth is that Eliot is incredibly giving. He thinks nothing of spending hours shopping for food and preparing a meal; he remembers birthdays and anniversaries, good and bad and he's prepared to deal with whatever you might throw at him. At the least threat to your safety, he'll be there, time and time again and it doesn't matter how many bad guys throw themselves in your direction, he'll get in the way over and over and over again until he can't do it anymore and even then you know he'll still be trying.
But even with all that, you know, he still doesn't let you in. He doesn't tell you when he doesn't want to do something you suggest, he just goes along with it to keep you happy. He doesn't tell you when he's hurt, just tries his best to patch himself up in the bathroom without saying a word to anyone. You know it's more than him not wanting to worry you, as he claims when you catch him in the act. You know in your heart that what he really thinks is that he has to do this alone, that you wouldn't want to be there for him in this.
He doesn't tell you when he's tired or down, he just soldiers on, but time, time is giving you practise at reading the things he never says in words, the things he tries to hide from sight, but if you know what to look for, and you're beginning to, then you can be there for him.
Tonight you know he's tired, you know he's bruised and battered from the fighting in the kitchen and you know there's something else weighing him down. If you had to guess, you would say it would be his memories.
He drops his bag in the hall and heads for the shower. You allow him this time alone, allow him privacy to check his wounds because tonight you're pretty sure it's only bruising and later you can try to work on him letting you rub in oils to help his muscles relax, and instead you head for the kitchen. By the time he comes out, you have already started preparing a dinner for you both. He seems surprised, shocked even, but you just hand him a knife and ask him to help. You know the time in the kitchen is normally a time to relax and unwind. Today will be different, it will be confused, he's spent all day on the job in the kitchen, all day battling to be everything everyone else needed him to be and tonight he needs to find his way back to himself and to you.
He loses himself for a while in the chop-chop-chop regularity of slicing vegetables and you can see as some of the tension bleeds away from his shoulders. You finish up quickly, soon able to set a plate down in front of each of you and watch as he eats. It's enough to stave off any hunger, but not enough to show he's enjoyed it. You have to accept that as enough, because you know there are times when he wouldn't even have done this much. You stack the plates and take them away quickly, before returning to urge him in the direction of the couch, knowing he'll offer to wash up first, but you're determined to make him rest just like his body needs.
You find the game on TV that he had said something about wanting to watch a few days ago. He's not one for spending hours in front of mindless drivel, not one for watching long series or reality tv, but he does like to catch a few sports games when he gets the chance. Together you start to watch and once he's engrossed, you slip away for the few minutes it will take to clear the kitchen.
Later that night, before sleep, you convince him to lie down. You know he's weary but his mind is too full to let him sleep well, something else you've come to recognize.
Once he's positioned as you want him, you begin a slow gentle massage, cataloguing each bruise and scrape, feeling as the muscles gradually surrender under your touch. You push and push, sure but slow, tender at each stubborn knot until it releases.
You pour your love into every touch, every ounce of care and willingness to be there is conveyed in your movements. You let your fingers tell him over and over that he isn't alone anymore; he can tell you what he needs, show you what he needs and you will still be there. You remind yourself that even this is a long way to have come, that when you started out, Eliot would have taken himself away when he was this battered and you wouldn't have seen him in your apartment, let alone your bed until the bruises were faded yellow, almost invisible again.
You remind yourself how far you've both come on this journey, how much easier it is to see what Eliot needs, how much more he accepts from you than he did at first.
You wipe your hands clean of the oil as you finish and pull the covers gently over him as he murmurs a soft 'Thank you'. You smile, it's so him. You lie down beside him and to your surprise, he shifts across casting one arm across your waist and letting his head come to rest against your shoulder. As you relax into this new position, he says, "Thank you" again, his voice firmer, before he slides into sleep.
Maybe it isn't 'I love you' but maybe, just maybe it means the same.