A/N: So, the idea behind this fic is the hardest type for me to write - something that seems like it would never happen and sounds completely out of character, but that feels authentic to me. I hope no one feels inclined to flame me just because they think this is too far from Eliot's character, but don't hold back. Before we dive in, here's a quote from Christian Kane which describes the force behind this story: "Eliot's not the hired killer, if you will. You start to see that he's starting to give more and more of his heart to the team and the people he's helping, and at some point I know that's probably going to hurt him, to be honest with you. He's probably going to snap back to even worse than he was before." If anyone could use the team against him and make Eliot snap, it's Moreau.
The ride was smooth. Natural light streamed in through the windows, that pure bright radiance you only found when soaring tens of thousands of feet in the air, above the clouds. The seats, just a few for this private flight, were long and comfortable, the aisle huge and the bar stocked with only the best.
The flight attendants were dancing on the poles in the middle of the plane, Moreau's money put to work. They were talented. They were beautiful. But Moreau was not watching them. His eyes followed Eliot as he walked from the cockpit and came to sit by the other man. Moreau made it clear with a tilt of the head and an arm lain across the back of the seat that he wanted the hitter to sit at his side. Eliot accepted a cold beer from a stewardess on his way over. Leaning back into his seat and popping open the bottle, he didn't react when Moreau draped his arm over his shoulders.
After a while spent watching the girls nonchalantly, Moreau sighed.
"Bored."
Eliot grunted in amusement. "Whose fault is that? You decided to arrange a four hour flight on our day off. We coulda left tomorrow and cut the travel time in half."
Moreau huffed. "Now you're boring me."
The hitter took another swig of his beer, handed it off to a flight attendant, then rolled his shoulders. "When have I ever bored you?" Then, he turned, getting up on the seat and straddling the other man. He leaned down and kissed Moreau. It wasn't fervent so much as rough, but, then again, no one could expect much else from Eliot Spencer. Moreau hummed in surprise, then reciprocated. This was out of character for the hitter, who hadn't come into this work of his own volition. In fact, it had taken a great many days of isolation and torture to even break him down to the point where he wouldn't spit in Moreau's face after his capture. But finally, Spencer came around. He would never see his precious team again (and, if he did, he would be ordered to dispose of them immediately). He couldn't take the moral high ground anymore, he was a wetworker and there was no room for negotiation when he was given an order. He'd been stripped of his defenses and returned to his former glory as the world's greatest hitter, under the guidance of the world's greatest puppet master, Damien Moreau.
But Eliot hadn't taken initiative like this before. Even when he'd first worked for Moreau, a young man with the only blood on his hands being the carnage of war, he had never done this. It seemed he wanted some control back, in any form. While admirable, Moreau didn't want him to think he could step out of bounds.
When Eliot pulled back, wearing a cocky smirk, he waited for a response. Maybe he knew what was next.
"Down," Moreau said smoothly, watching for a reaction.
"I wouldn't get so bossy when you're about to have your dick in my mouth. All it takes is one bite." He wasn't serious, of course. The time for fighting back was long since over. Without hesitation, he moved off the seat and knelt on the floor, waiting for the man above him to move his legs apart in cue.
All the same, Damien was impressed by the hitter's bravado. There was a time when the slightest implication of attraction made him lash out in disgust and rage. But Eliot Spencer was nothing if not adaptable. He was a survivor. He somehow managed to never feel emasculated or impotent, knowing everything he had to take and had to do was for survival. Moreau happened to know that Eliot reconciled his sins somehow because the hitter slept on the floor by Moreau's bed. And Eliot never had nightmares. The sleeping on the floor was arranged for no reason other than Moreau wanting to maintain a clear line that the hitter was not to cross. Damien owned him, and Eliot was not his equal. Though the cage was no longer necessary, Damien felt the need to make it clear that he was in no position to pose any threat to him.
And so they spent the flight together, the ladies dancing on and the dance of the give and take of power ensuing between the men.
Eliot walked back into the hotel room, closing the door behind him. He tucked the gun back into its place in his shoulder holster. He walked farther in and stopped in front of his boss.
Moreau smiled, tipping his scotch glass in silent cheers to the hitter. "It always amazes me when you manage to leave a bloodbath spotless."
"You don't like mess."
Damien nodded in agreement. "Well, that mess outside needs to be dealt with by my cleaner, but yes, I like you clean. I have dinner with the minister later and it would just be rude for my pet to trudge in a trail of blood. It's unseemly."
Eliot didn't respond, he just sat down at the table and began disassembling his gun.
"I know you don't like doing that, El. But it has to be done."
Silence. The hitter polished the parts he removed, then put them back in place.
"Are you ignoring me?"
Eliot shook his head. "No. I'm focusing."
Moreau walked behind him, placing a hand at the nape of the hitter's neck. Eliot continued polishing the gun.
"You're avoiding me."
Eliot set the weapon down with a huff. "We're not married. I don't have to look after you, Damien. Enough with the flirting."
The hand didn't move. "Despite what you may tell yourself, I own you, Spencer. The only reason you're here and not back home in your little cage is that I like having you at my side. As talented as you are, I don't need you. As soon as you're more of a burden than you're worth..."
Eliot sighed. "I'm sorry."
Moreau removed the hand and sat down next to him. "I know you don't like that threat. You know I don't want to put you back there. So tell me what's wrong."
The hitter watched him before his eyes flitted away. "Nothing."
Moreau leaned forward, eyes locked onto the other's. "What is it?"
No response. Moreau sighed.
"Do you remember when you and your little team were going after the Ram's Horn, when I sent you and Chapman to kill Atherton? I told Chapman that Atherton was the only target, that we should wait to take out the family. That was for you. While I didn't love your going soft, I knew that it was what you needed, to show mercy. Because you thought you were good." He waited until Eliot met his eyes before he continued. "But you're not good. You're a killer. You're mine."
Eliot nodded. "Yeah. I know."
The dark haired man leaned back, still watching the hitter. "Then what is wrong?"
The hitter rolled his shoulders. He was about to lie, they both knew, but perhaps he couldn't give voice to his true problem. After all, Moreau had made it clear that he was not to speak of his old team, or to be distracted from tactical planning as the bodyguard of the world's wealthiest criminal.
"This," He placed the gun down. "It jammed. If you want me to take out that many guys without hand-to-hand techniques, I need a better gun."
That was another condition of his being released from the cage. In his service, Eliot was not to rely on melee attacks. Every combatant was to be killed effectively with a shot to the head or chest. Moreau knew his Eliot, knew that he'd tried to give up using firearms because it was too easy to dispose of a life, that the hitter wanted to take personal responsibility for each casualty and to incapacitate enemies by knocking them out. But that was not an option in this work. Wanting a better gun, to kill more men efficiently? That was progress.
Moreau smiled charmingly. "Of course."
The longer he worked for Moreau, the more the line blurred between acting submissive and actually submitting. He found himself acting not with survival in mind, but rather Damien's well-being. He wanted to keep him safe. Eliot grew bitter if Moreau didn't let him in on the plan or had another gunman positioned at his side. Damien called it jealousy. Eliot didn't care what it was, it was instinct to protect what was his and Damien was as much his as he was Damien's. The hitter didn't try to explain his drive as being fueled by hatred or survival, he was past that. This was his place now.
And Damien wasn't evil. That's what had made Eliot so wary of him in the past. Damien could be gentle, sympathetic, and rewarding. He was as human as anyone (which was hard to see past the unflappable confidence). And he knew Eliot, what drove him and what he wanted. It was almost exciting, their dance of power as Eliot disposed of dozens of men and could switch it up, planning alongside Damien.
It wasn't much of a stretch when Eliot started sleeping in Moreau's bed.
They didn't sleep together like that. Never had. It was never about romance or attachment, just power. After wreaking as much havoc as Eliot had under Moreau's hand, Damien deemed them equals in a way. The hitter was just as deadly a partner, and demeaning him by making him sleep on the floor was pointless now.
A/N: What's the cage? What happened to get Eliot to work with Moreau again? What's up with the team? Is Eliot evil? So many questions. I'd love to answer them. But are the answers too squicky to post? I know it's rated M, but I don't know. Is anyone interested in the rest?