AN: Moreau's head is an icky place.

Eliot Spencer was like a delicate instrument. Wasn't that an irony? That a weapon that skilled, that violent, was as fragile as a Stradivarius? It was impressive almost to the point of beauty how he could make something so messy seem precise.

Damien couldn't play the violin, but he was a virtuoso with people. Most were simple enough; money and fear were excellent, reliable motivations, and had been since the time of ancient philosophers. But certain things couldn't be bought, and a violin required a different sort of handling than a cheap electric keyboard. He paid him, yes. Handsomely. He made sure that he knew the risks of crossing him, certainly. But he also showed Eliot affection, and with it, earned something far more valuable: his loyalty.

Damien was shocked that no one had done so before. The loyalty of a man like Eliot Spencer was incredibly valuable, and it had been so easy to earn. A smile here, a touch there, occasional words of praise. What he gained from it was worth so much more than what he gave. Every unexpected moment of generosity put a certain soft light in Eliot's eyes, sank his loyalty deeper and made him that much more invested. Damien loved that look. He could measure just how much farther Eliot would go for him every time he saw it.

And the day he shared his meal with him, practically on a whim? That day had bought him so much good will, equivalent to a dozen compliments and a pat on the shoulder.

As intelligent as Eliot was, he was still so much that country boy from Texas or Georgia or whatever country bumpkin state he originated from. He was so accommodating, so open to overtures of comradeship even after his time in the military. He ought to have learned better by now. When he was bored, Damien tried to introduce him to class, to taste, but while the information was retained, he didn't think Eliot truly understood. Either way, Damien started keeping cheap beer on hand, passing one or two to Eliot at random, seeing that same fall deeper and deeper. Eliot was his.

Although...perhaps not entirely. Eliot had a personal code that was somewhat inconvenient. Easy enough to get around by sending someone in his stead, but inconvenient all the same. Damien wanted to see him work to his full potential, but a lot of that good will had gone to helping Eliot turn a blind eye initially, building up his tolerance for Damien's business practices. It wasn't something he could ask for without preparation. Though to be fair, the targets without families were often the more difficult ones to put down. They had a tendency to be more prepared, and more paranoid, which made them the perfect targets to let Eliot properly stretch himself.

It wasn't a problem until they hit an exception to the general rule: a family in Belgrade that sent back one of his teams of two in body bags. That was sloppy, and sloppy was unacceptable. It was time to test Eliot's resolve.

He had a lovely Mediterranean spread laid out for two with the perfect wine to complement it. Eliot might have preferred beer, but Damien had his limits too. He could have it as a reward after the job was done.

"Eliot, please. Join me," he encouraged, waving him over.

He hesitated, looking over the food. "What's the occasion?"

"No occasion. I just thought this would be the perfect time to discuss something I'd like you to do for me."

Eliot sat with a brief smile. "You didn't have to go to this trouble, Mr. Moreau."

"No trouble." He waved to the spread. "Eat."

He did so, but carefully. Watchful. Damien would have been concerned if he ever saw Eliot's guard go down fully. It was his back the man was meant to be guarding, after all. "I am sure you heard about the trouble with the Italians," he said, sipping the wine.

Eliot watched him, shifting back in his seat slightly. "It's not good."

"I know you recommended a different team than the one I sent to do the job," Damien conceded. "You were right."

"It'll be three times as tough now. They're waiting for us to try again."

"Which is why I'd like you to be the one to go."

Eliot blinked once. "Sure. I can take care of him—"

"Them."

Eliot's mouth worked silently. It was a very revealing tic of his. He should have trained himself out of it by now. "Damien—"

"I don't know exactly who is involved," he said, using his napkin to dab at the corner of his mouth. "And I do not want any problems to come back to me from this. It has already been more costly than expected. So I would like you to be thorough."

"...How thorough?"

"Completely. I want you to make it a statement." Damien watched him, head tipped to the side. "You can do that for me, can't you?"

Eliot shrugged, a bit of steel in his eyes. "I don't see why not."

Damien smiled. "Lovely. See you soon, Eliot."

Eliot left, and Damien had the food he'd barely touched thrown out. He didn't need it any more. The violin was responding to his gentlest touch at full voice.

Perfect.

Damien was outraged. After everything he'd done for him, Eliot had abandoned him. Him. He hadn't needed to be generous. He hadn't needed to cater to him. Eliot had to realize that.

This was a betrayal he would not soon forget, no, but Damien let Eliot leave him without immediate repercussions. He knew that Eliot would come back to him soon enough. Where else could he go? He had no one, was nothing, without Damien Moreau. What was a weapon with no wielder? What was a violin without the hands to play it? He couldn't change. He had been made into an instrument of death. That wasn't something that he would ever escape.

Yes, he knew Eliot would be back; he'd completed his last assignment. Thoroughly.

Eliot was a delicate instrument. A china cup, even. Evidently, he had not been well enough prepared for this. Odd, that; Damien could have sworn he would have died for him. Regardless of that, the damage was done, the china cracked. He wouldn't break, not for this, but he could use a little time for the pain to subside. Damien could be patient. Soon enough, Eliot would be back and Damien could finish improving him—like kintsugi, sealing up his flaws with gold. So he let Eliot walk away. Disappear. For now.

Eliot's return was years late and fearless. He'd kept himself occupied with worthless trifles in the interim, but evidently he hadn't softened. Damien had to appreciate his boldness.

It was also incredibly suspicious. Someone had been interfering with his business for a while now, he had a big sale coming up, and Eliot had appeared out of the ether representing people that Damien did not know.

How to handle this, then? It could be a coincidence. Could. Or it could be exactly what it looked like. He was fairly certain that Eliot hadn't lied to him yet, but it was harder to tell than it used to be.

He wanted to ask Eliot some frank questions. That meant getting the middleman out of the way. "We could talk," he said, offering the prodigal son his hand.

"I ain't much on talking, Moreau."

Moreau allowed himself his disappointment. Business first, then. But this game wasn't over yet, and that decision would cost him. "Okay. Let's keep it short."

He kicked the middleman into the pool, studying the way he sank until he reached the bottom, thrashing. A poor choice. It would use up what oxygen he had left that much more quickly. His very presence was an oddity, though. "I'm sure you told your clients I don't do business with strangers."

"That's why I'm here. To vouch for them."

"A little vague," Damien said coldly. His suspicions were drawing closer to certainties.

"I never told anyone about you. I use the same confidentiality with all my clients. However, I can say they're overseas. You sell it to the international buyers, it leaves US soil immediately. No trace back to you."

Damien had heard every sales pitch before. That one was fair, but— "I already have international buyers, so it's not an issue." He checked the middleman—still thrashing—and sipped his drink. "What else you got?" Give me something I want, Eliot. Something unique.

Eliot knew what he was looking for. Damien could see it in his eyes. "What do you want me to do, Moreau?"

Damien studied him, thoughtful. "Why didn't you come back sooner, Eliot?"

"I was looking for a change. Are we going to do this deal or not?"

Damien scrutinized him for tells, but his lips were pressed firmly together and his eyes were steel. "Hm. Very well. I'll tell you where the auction is, for a favour."

Eliot stared back at him, unflinching, while Damien waited patiently. Behind him, the pool continued to slosh. "...What favour?" Eliot asked, and—ah. Reluctance, or simply bargaining?

"I have a problem I need you to solve, Eliot. Thoroughly."

Eliot was unmoved. "Who?"

"General Atherton. Take care of him, and I will let your client take part in the auction."

"You have a deal," Eliot said, never looking away from him. "Now, I don't exactly like the guy, but—"

Damien held up one hand. "Not so fast. Your friend can wait just a little longer."

"Not my friend."

"Either way."

"Are you trying to get me in trouble?"

Damien smiled. "Certainly. Because I'd like you to consider my offer very seriously."

"You want me to work for you."

"Precisely." He set a hand on his shoulder. "Someone of your calibre shouldn't be wasted on errands like this."

Eliot...remained cold. Completely unmoved. "I'll consider it."

"Just consider, Eliot?"

"Let's see how this goes first."

"Let's see," Damien agreed. He studied the handcuff key. "We could still let him drown, though. He's unnecessary to the proceedings."

"Maybe," Eliot said. "But then I would have to answer to my client instead of you."

Smiling, Damien tossed the key into the pool.

The middleman did surprise him, getting out of the pool himself. He'd hoped to see whether or not Eliot would save him from drowning. And with that line of bravado? This could turn out to be quite the show.

Before he left, he did drop the smallest reminder to Eliot of that last assignment. He would not be so forgiving if he was denied a second time.

"Did he kill the whole family?"

"No. He only snapped the general's neck."

"And you warned him beforehand, Chapman?"

"Yes sir."

Damien hung up the phone, seething. Someone had warped the body of his Stradivarius and ruined its tone. Someone had taken his china cup and filled up the crack with lead. Someone had stolen the loyalty that was rightfully his, and they were going to pay. And after Eliot survived, because of course he would, Damien would take him, shatter him, and build him up again from nothing into what he was always meant to be. Like a bone set wrong. It would hurt to correct, but it was necessary if it was to heal straight and strong.

He should have known that a simple kill box wouldn't be enough. That Chapman wouldn't be up to the task.

I'm the stick.

He should have had people outside the warehouse to gun down this imbecile and the overconfident girl working with him. He should have expected Eliot to succeed in anything he attempted, accounted for it and taken measures to prevent it. And wouldn't it have been perfect, if Eliot had come out of that building and found them dead even after all he'd done to protect them? That would have started him well on the path to breaking. But first, he needed to have this man handled.

"You've only got one shot Moreau!"

Ah, Damien thought numbly. With his precipitous arrival, Damien had finally recognized the coldness in Eliot's eyes. Hatred. Sheer hatred.

Eliot was going to kill him.

This new annoyance wouldn't leave him be, he could tell. If he left, this man would do his best to destroy him. But it would be in his world, in San Lorenzo. Eliot Spencer would kill him here and now, later if he had to. He would find him, end him, wherever he tried to go. But one small calibre bullet may not—would not—be able to stop him.

On the other hand, they'd already saved the girl when they'd had no reason to, after he'd ensured she was worthless. Whether it was Eliot or his new master who had made that choice, they had gone out of their way to help her in spite of the mistrust Damien had just seen the man show her.

Time to test their convictions. It would be a risk, yes, but if it didn't work then running wouldn't do much good. A ruthless opponent was far more dangerous than one with those weaknesses of character. Damien pivoted on his heel and fired. He didn't care whether she died or not, she'd be a distraction either way.

As the man grew concerned, Damien turned away. Eliot hadn't stopped running for him, but his new master would yank his leash. He had no doubt that the weapon would listen, that he would let himself be sheathed. A violin could not play itself.

Damien stared out the cabin window as his plane took off, frowning. It had been a necessary retreat, perhaps, but it burned to be caught so off guard. To lose what was his.

He had made a bigger mistake than he'd realized, earlier than he'd thought. Eliot Spencer's loyalty was conditional. It was cheap to gain, but hard to hold. Somewhere, somehow, he had found a way to be something other than a weapon, and he was never going to come back.

What a waste of his skills.

fin