DISCLAIMER: I don't own anything to do with Leverage or The Librarians. Dean Devlin, John Rogers, and others do. All rights in this work are hereby given to them.
This is a one-off set in the Brothers-verse. It takes place sometime after "United."
The secret to perfect Christmas cookies - or, really, any cookies - was to rotate the baking sheets in the oven halfway through the cooking time. Eliot Spencer had learned that from Ms. Bigelow in Home Economics back in high school, and it had proven true ever since.
So Eliot opened the oven to the spicy scent of gingerbread and with mitted hands swapped the baking sheet on the top rack with the one on the bottom rack. He closed the oven door gently and re-set the kitchen timer for four minutes, then turned back to the island where the remainder of the dough and two cool baking sheets waited for him.
He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and got back to work.
There was something almost meditative about scooping up bits of dough, rolling them into balls, and placing them on the baking sheets - not quite as meditative as the steady chopping of vegetables for a cassoulet or ratatouille, but still Eliot could relax when he baked, and he was grateful for every moment of relaxation that came his way.
He was just placing the tenth cookie on the first baking sheet when he heard the door to his apartment open. Eliot glanced at the clock and grinned.
"A little early, aren'tcha, Mia? Cookies aren't done yet."
He looked up at the sound of footsteps, frowning when he realized there was more than one set - and too heavy to be Lamia's.
Three. He didn't have time for more than that realization before three men emerged from the entry hall.
Huey, Dewey, Louie, he dubbed them, noting in the same instant that none of them were carrying guns.
"I don't remember inviting you guys for dinner," Eliot drawled. "You must have the wrong apartment."
"Nah," the one in front - Huey - said. "We're in the right place, Dr. Sinclair."
The name told him three things. First, these three hadn't bothered to check the rental agreement for the apartment, nor the ownership records of the building.
Second, he'd only used his Adam Sinclair identity recently in connection with the Library and the House of Benwick, so whatever they wanted was a result of that, not his work with Leverage, Inc. or - however remotely - the Bridgeport Brewpub.
Third, the attempt to intimidate him by using his name marked them as amateurs. Eliot hated dealing with amateurs.
"I don't recall meeting you before," Eliot said.
"You hurt us," Huey declared. "All of us."
"How could I do that if I've never met you before?" Eliot kept his tone reasonable. If he had to fight these three, his dinner schedule would be wrecked.
"You killed Dulaque," Huey said. "We can't let that stand."
"I was invited to take over his position. He didn't want to give it up."
"Pretty words for a pretty boy," Dewey sneered. Huey held up a hand.
"We know she put you up to it," Huey said. "But we can't let it stand."
"I get that," Eliot said. "And I get you gotta do what you feel is right. But if you burn my cookies, I'm gonna be pissed."
All three of the others laughed.
Eliot chuckled with them, glanced at the oven timer. One minute, fifteen seconds before the cookies would be ready. He rolled the latex gloves down and off one hand, then the other.
"Let's do this," he said. One step and a handhold later, he'd vaulted over the corner of his kitchen island, coming into a ready stance with his back to the living room.
No sense angling the fight toward the dining table. He hated cleaning up broken china almost as much as he hated cleaning up broken crystal.
His move startled them, but they recovered quickly, Dewey and Louie moving to flank him on either side, while Huey closed in from the front.
Eliot grinned, raised one hand in a bring-it gesture.
One minute.
They closed, in an attack surprisingly coordinated for amateurs. Then again, Eliot mused, they'd been coordinated from the beginning, save for Dewey's lone insult. Maybe they were Dulaque's enforcers.
Eliot blocked Huey's lunge, lashed a foot toward Louie.
Second-tier enforcers, Eliot corrected himself. Lamia, of course, had been Dulaque's top lieutenant.
Fifty-five seconds.
Dewey closed in from Eliot's left, and Eliot took one step back, using Dewey's momentum to slam him into Louie.
Huey looked surprised, but recovered quickly. "Nice moves for an academic."
"You didn't think it was just luck that I killed Dulaque, did you?" Eliot let humor color his tone.
Forty-five seconds.
The trio paused, glanced at each other, re-settled.
Definitely a team, Eliot decided. And one that worked together often. Not well, but often.
They rushed again, together, and for long moments, Eliot was lost in a deadly danced. He'd danced it before, too many times and in too many variations to count - punch, kick, block, strike, kick, dodge - a whirling frenzy of movement impossible to plan. He could only act and react.
Thinking would come later while he iced bruised muscles and joints, and with it regret, but for now, Eliot simply moved.
And then there was only Huey left standing before him, looking much more disheveled than he had when this began, his left eye already swollen almost shut, blood dripping from his nose.
"Who the hell are you?" Huey demanded.
Eliot grinned, and it felt feral, like something too long leashed was being let free. "Me? I'm Eliot Spencer."
Huey's expression had just registered shocked recognition when Eliot's fist slammed home and Huey crumpled to the floor.
The oven timer dinged.
For the record, I don't believe Eliot Spencer would be caught unawares in his own home. But some friends gave me the prompt, and I ran with it.