Title: put me eight feet down when you bury me
Disclaimer: not my characters
Warnings: none
Pairings: none stated
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 195
Point of view: third
Prompt: Eliot/anyone, "I don't like guns."
He really had believed he'd never have to use a gun again. Maybe it was naive or foolish or optimistic, but twenty-two years without needing one, without picking them up except to take them apart...
And it comes down to this, a discarded gun the only option when a muzzle is pressed to Hardison's head.
Hardison's eyes are closed and blood drips down his face. His lips move, voice a barely there mumble of a prayer.
"Stand down," the fucker says. "Or I shoot."
"I really don't like guns," Eliot replies. He lunges, grabs the gun, rolls, and fires, the fucker going down with the back of his head gone.
"Doesn't mean I can't use 'em," Eliot finishes, hurrying to Hardison as he collapses. "Hey, hey," he murmurs. "You're alright."
"Eliot!" Nate yells threw the com. "Eliot, what's happening?"
Twenty-two years without using a gun and it felt just as easy as last time. He shudders, propping Hardison up, and thinks about praying for absolution.
He knows better, though. There'll be no forgiveness for him; he's a lost cause. He'll never be able to balance the scales.
Doesn't matter. Hardison's blinking up at him alive.