Hardison had to admit that being a god-poppa sometimes wasn't all it was cracked up to be.
For a start, it appeared that it meant he was a built-in baby-sitter for his god-daughter, nine-month old Elizabeth Grace Ford, when her momma and daddy and co-god-momma Parker were on a con. This was one of those moments.
His tech skills weren't needed other than to listen in on the earbuds, make sure his team didn't get into too much trouble, and keep an eye on Lizzie. Which, on the face of it, wasn't so bad, really.
Sitting on the couch in the Leverage International office with Lizzie meant keeping one eye on his little notebook while keeping tabs on his team. The reason he was using the mini-computer was that he and Lizzie were using the huge plasma screen for a movie marathon.
In that respect, Hardison was a very happy man, because, it turned out, Lizzie was a geek. A sci fi geek. A Star Wars geek. She loved Luke takin' out the Death Star, shrieked with delight at the speeder chase in The Return of the Jedi, and sat rapt with attention as Luke found out that Darth Vader was his father. She hated CGI Yoda.
So the pair of them sat enraptured, Hardison surreptitiously chewing the odd gummy frog and Lizzie ensconced on his lap, and watched Obi Wan tell storm troopers that these weren't the 'droids they were looking for.
In between listening to Parker's continuous complaints about playing the waitress again and Sophie charming the socks off the villainous and evil CEO of a construction company building homes on land badly contaminated with toxic waste, he could hear Eliot rattling about in the kitchen.
Ever since Lizzie had begun eating stuff other than milk, Eliot had had issues. He didn't care that the so-called baby food in jars and packets was wholesome, full of vitamins and goodness and made from organic crap from who-knew-where.
It had led to a lot of growling, complaints and a little bit of over-enthusiasm in the punching department when working, until Sophie promised that she would never ever buy that pre-made dross again.
Eliot, somewhat mollified, had set-to and begun creating his own Spencer's Original Baby Food, and had instigated a lot of very serious experiments willingly assisted by Lizzie, who was a bit of a bottomless pit when it came to food intake.
Today was one of those days. Apparently it involved broccoli, rice and chicken, and that was what the three of them were having for lunch, with poached pears and a ravishing raspberry sauce for dessert, all made with the very best of ingredients. Eliot was of the opinion that Lizzie was never too young to get a taste for the finer things in life.
Hardison, listening to Parker's whining through the earbud, glanced at Eliot. The hitter was muttering to himself and scowling at a raspberry. All was good, then.
Eliot reached over for the container of fruit he was working with, and Hardison frowned. Eliot was flinching. And then the pain on the man's face was gone as though it had never existed, and Hardison thought that perhaps he was seeing things. Eliot never flinched. Hmm. Maybe he would mention it to Parker.
It was at that moment he became aware of an absolutely appalling stench. Lizzie cackled happily.
Oh jeez.
This was why he wasn't entirely enamoured of baby-sitting.
"Aww, baby-girl, why now??" he muttered as the smell quickly became overpowering. And she was sitting on his lap. "Aw hell!" and he quickly shifted Lizzie onto the blanket beside him. Lizzie, being the good eater that she was, could easily over-fill a diaper, as Hardison had previously discovered to his dismay. His Nana had chuckled like a loon when he told her, and she had been no help whatsoever.
Ugh.
Maybe …
"Eliot!"
"WHAT?"
Ooohh … that sounded a little tetchy. Perhaps, Hardison reasoned, he could make a few on-the-point-of-puking noises. Eliot knew the hacker's stomach was a little delicate and might take pity on him and do the diaper thing. On second thoughts … probably not. Eliot wasn't known for his generosity when it came to Hardison's stomach. Or Lizzie's diaper either, for that matter.
"Just change the damn diaper, Hardison!" came Nate's exasperated whisper over the earbud.
Dang.
Sighing, he reached down beside the sofa and grabbed Lizzie's Bag of Everything and dug out a fresh diaper, wipes, cream and a bag to contain the disgusting, effluent-riddled remains of Lizzie's used diaper.
Hardison sighed. He wished the Bag of Everything also contained a straitjacket, because Elizabeth Grace Ford had obviously been taking lessons from Parker and could escape from just about anything simply by wriggling, an art she had mastered eons ago as a sprightly seven-month-old.
Okay. He could do this. He knew the quicker he worked, the less stench was left to permeate the air around him. Lizzie didn't seem to mind the smell.
Off with the onesie, unpeel the diaper … oh, dear god what was Eliot feeding this child? Swallow down the urge to barf, roll up the soiled diaper just … so, and into the bag. A thorough wipe – and how in hell did Lizzie manage to get poop halfway up her back – and oodles of cream, mainly to get rid of the stink, one squeaky-clean Lizzie and it was done. Hardison wiped his brow.
Now for the really difficult bit.
Lizzie lay on her back, legs and arms waving enthusiastically in the air as she strained her head sideways to watch the cantina scene – her favourite. She couldn't have chosen a worse moment to fill her pants, as she loved to dance along to the music. The limb-waving became manic. This was Eliot-damn-Spencer's fault, Hardison grumbled to himself. Taught this child to enjoy music by playin' his damn guitar an' singin' an' gettin' her all happied-up before she was even born –
Lizzie squealed and rolled onto her side so she could see better. Obi Wan had just sliced the drunken bad-tempered alien's arm off with his light-sabre. Maybe not the best thing for a nine-month-old to be watching. Hardison winced. Lizzie laughed cheerfully.
Gently rolling her onto her back once more, Hardison hauled out a few more diapers – because he realised he would need more than one – and prepared for battle.
The first attempt, even by Hardison's standards, was pitiful. Ripped sticky-things, a plethora of wriggling legs and Lizzie happily turning into a contortionist. Sheesh.
Attempt Number Two was almost as bad as the first, and with Lizzie now on her stomach and levering herself up onto her hands and knees, yelling with delight at Hardison's inept skills at dealing with a nine-month-old, he ended up with the diaper on back-to-front. He actually contemplated leaving it like that, but knew he would never hear the last of it from his team, who would probably find out by scrolling through the security camera footage.
Hardison rolled up his sleeves. Now he was gettin' serious.
Grasping Lizzie gently but firmly he lifted her, turned her around and tipped her once more onto her back.
Lizzie gurgled at him, a little mockingly he decided, and Hardison thought he saw a tiny sneer of triumph on her sweet angelic face. Yeah. Some angel.
Removing the reversed diaper with a little difficulty, he prepared for Attempt Number Three. It was then he realised he was being watched.
Looking up, he saw Eliot, brows drawn down in a frown and a bowl of raspberry sauce in his right hand, standing behind the sofa. Gesturing at the diaper in Hardison's hand, he grabbed it, shook it out, and deftly unpeeled the sticky things.
Still holding the diaper in one hand and the raspberry sauce bowl in the other, he fixed his glare on Lizzie and raised a single finger. Lizzie, gazing at the finger, stopped wriggling instantly. And before Hardison could say Dammit, Eliot! the hitter had somehow inveigled the diaper under Lizzie's behind, flipped up the tummy flap and sides and stickied everything into place. A final check that it wasn't too tight by running a finger under the waistband, and it was done.
Hardison stared at Lizzie.
What the hell?
He shifted his gaze to Eliot, who stared back, then rolled his eyes and shook his head with disdain.
Eliot started to head back to the kitchen when he had a sudden thought, and fished a spotlessly clean teaspoon from the breast pocket of his shirt. Dipping it into the raspberry sauce, he leaned over and offered the small, sweet morsel to Lizzie, who dutifully opened her mouth, received the sample and chomped thoughtfully. She burped.
Eliot pondered this for a moment, and then took a sample himself, tasting it carefully.
"Yeah, Lizzie darlin', maybe you're right. More crème fraiche an' maybe just a tad more lime juice."
Hardison gaped.
Eliot spoke Baby. Huh. Who'd a' thunk it?
Watching Eliot wander back to the kitchen, rolling his right shoulder as though to get a painful kink out of his back, Hardison pondered the situation. Eliot, Master of the Diaper. One-handed. And with his left hand. Yeah, he decided. He was right. Eliot really was a ninja. He had goddamn ninja skills.
Sophie's voice cut crystal-clear through the earbud and his ponderings.
"I hope my daughter now has a clean and pristine backside, Hardison!"
He looked at Lizzie, who smiled back, all innocence and childish glee as a piquant stench filled the air. Hardison groaned.
Finis