It wasn't hard to take the beating. Eliot Spencer had received more hits in his life than he could ever deal to others. Still, he'd never made such a statement to anyone, not even to Amy back at the ranch all those years ago. One of his biggest assets was indeed being so well-rounded, wise, and eloquent, but he understood that actions do speak louder than words. That's why what he was doing now, what he'd continue to do while protecting them from these men and their guns, spoke so deeply and heavily of his love for them. What else could change a man that at one time came to believe that survival was only possible by killing everyone around him, eliminating every potential threat? What else could make the most focused, prepared individual let slide each liability they presented, endangering him in ways any other hitter would never allow? What, other than love, could make the most staid and steadfast fighter alive lay down his arms and take every pain presented to him, without a second thought?
Sophie and Hardison, the bleeding hearts, couldn't believe that fierce a loyalty without shedding a tear; Parker was, for once, solemnly resigned, having been trained by Eliot, while Nate thought he had a pretty good idea of how Eliot's mind worked. They all tried to reason a way around what was happening from the start, sought a way out or something that could end this.
Their hitter had no doubts, though. He knew how many men, gauged their training, recognized the makes and models of the guns, considered the comments and threats. He knew that their was no way out, not like this. He'd never endanger the team for anything, so whatever this man did, it was an acceptable measure to protect them.
Eliot Spencer was ready to die for them. Joining this team for good was like joining the army or getting into the business of the criminal underworld; the second you enter that world, you're making a deal and signing in blood. With all of these deals, he swore that he'd give his life for his people. This was the first deal that he'd made wholly willingly, and he was more that prepared to give them everything. It was decided, secured, fact. He believed that these were the most precious people in the world with everything he was.
No room for pride in a deal like that.
When the man was done beating him, he tried to knock out Eliot's knee from behind to force him to his knees, but the hitter easily locked it and held his stance. Finally the man just grabbed the gun from the guard nearest him and smashed it into the bloodied man's head. Eliot fell clutching his bleeding head and looked up. The gun was returned and Eliot was forced onto his knees, facing the team, feet from them. He dauntlessly met their gazes. They were scared, worried. The charismatic southerner let the calm radiate from how he held himself, ignoring the pain. His eyes showed a determination that they knew well. He may not have a plan yet, but he wasn't afraid. He wasn't hurt, not really. He was trained to handle this pain. He was happy to face it as long as it kept them safe, and they were comforted by this, not for themselves, but knowing that he would never let them get hurt, so his heart couldn't be broken. They'd get through this just fine.
Of course, the methodical hitter didn't really believe that, but his take on the situation's tactical disadvantages was not what they needed.
The man walked around to face the hitter. He contemplated the defiant specialist.
"You know, ever since you escaped me, I've been thinking about this day, when I'd get my hands back on you. You were the best learner, El, how good you were!" He moved forward and patted his head, running a hand through his long hair. Eliot didn't move an inch. "Oh, come on now. We had some fun!" He turned around and addressed the crew. "You know, when he was a kid, fresh out of the army, he started taking odd jobs for money, but I suspect that over a few months they all took on the same idea: kill, capture, neutralize. He was in it for the pay, but boy, was he sloppy! He had no idea what he was getting into. He thought his formal training had prepared him, that he could never see anything worse than a war. That's about when he was captured himself, an order issued by a gentleman whose feathers he'd ruffled in his dealings. Didn't do a very clean job. Said gentleman was happy to sell him to me." The man smiled back at Eliot, who never averted his eyes from the back wall. The man walked to his side and crouched down. He grabbed a fistful of Eliot's hair and wrenched his head back, forcing him to make eye contact with his holder. "I'd taken a special interest in him and wanted to show him the ropes of his trade. It's so revolting to me when people abuse our trade. He crossed a boundary, and I wanted to show him what he was getting into. I did have to break him, of course, a harder task than you'd think, with this one." His fist tightened. "Lessons in pain, fear, abandon, loss, shame... it was such fun." Now he leaned in more, so close to his face. "You were so young and... pretty." He let his other hand trail faintly, with feather-light touch, down the back of the hitters neck, and the beaten man shivered subtly. He maintained eye contact.
"Don't worry, dear, I'll have you again. I marked you as mine." He pulled Eliot back a bit by yanking his hair again, the hitter's neck bared. "You are mine, no matter what. Say it."
Eliot paused just long enough for the man to growl and give a gesture for the men to shoot one of the team. The gun was cocked with a sickening click.
"I'm yours."
The man held up his hand to stay his employee before a hostage was killed.
"What was that?"
"I'm yours, Silverman. Always have been, always will. I belong to you alone." Spencer's deep rumble as he said this was just what he needed to appease him. He wasn't citing empty forced phrases. This was what it would take.
"Prove it."
