Thanks to Firelord65/Dragonmaster65 for the prompt. One bunny down, a whole warren to go.

Prompt: Character being lulled to sleep by hair being stoked/carded through/played with.

Two times Quinn fell asleep and one time Parker did.


Quinn was drunk. Not brawling in a bar because of too much whiskey drunk, but the soft kind following overindulgence of good bourbon and better company.

He went boneless after clever fingers began to card their way through his curls. He was growing it out before winter came. As a Southern Boy, the prospect of a North Eastern winter wasn't his favorite thing to think about.

Right now it was Parker's hands, specifically her fingers, and how they went from his crown to almost the base of his skull on his mind. She traced nonsensical designs in his hair, moving it this way and that. He didn't even care how it would look later.

"This okay?" Parker asked. Her face was upside down and pretty as a peach, "Quinn?"

"Hmm?"

"Playing with your hair, is it okay?" Parker asked, like he had trouble understanding what she said before. He'd understood, but got distracted by her being her.

"It's great, keep doing it, Sweetheart," He replied. Somewhere to the left he heard Eliot yelling about barbecue sauces, but it just came as a buzzing in his ear. There were rare times when the hitter felt secure enough to let his guard down and lazing on a blanket in a well cultivated part of Spencer's yard was one of them.

He liked his new crew, having given up on protesting he wasn't affiliated with them after the fifth job he got dragged into. It'd been the longest Quinn settled down for and were he sober, there would be a lie about how Boston had many business opportunities for his time away from helping Parker and the rest of them. In reality, he liked the stability it provided, plus it was easier to limp home to your own well stocked medicine cabinet than cheap motel rooms where the only thing there to help was a copy of the Gideon Bible and threadbare sheets.

She added some slight pressure, massaging as she went. Quinn sighed, closing his eyes as drowsiness crept in. He rested his hands on his stomach, just letting his mind go blank.

Sleep took him shortly after that.


He hated Spencer, he hated Hardison, and he fucking loathed Nathan Ford. Pain coated his nerves like molten sugar even after he'd pulled the taser prongs out of his flesh. It added to the burning road rash he had on one leg and the throbbing in his head.

Undercover in a motorcycle gang was not how Quinn wanted to spend his weekend, especially when the cops finally busted it. He left the officer who tased him unconscious and the bike he'd stolen on its side where it slid after said tasing caused him to slightly crash it.

If he had a concussion, someone was getting hit.

He avoided the police line closing in, hiking the half mile to where Lucille (and he would deny calling the van by that name) was parked.

"Not a word," Quinn snarled at Hardison after taking a seat on the bumper. He braced his hands on his knees and started to count. "How did I get dragged into this?"

"One day you decided to take a job-" Hardison began.

"It was rhetorical," Quinn gritted out. Any other time he'd have appreciated the hacker's snark, not now though.

"Quinn, let me see you," Sophie ordered. He submitted to being examined and it was telling of the state of him when he didn't complain about her shining a penlight into his eye . "No light sensitivity, any dizziness?"

"No, Ma'am," He answered. After working enough jobs with Sophie pre and post his relocation to Boston taught him she was an excellent field medic. "Think it's just the knot on the back of my head that hurts. The helmet took a lot of the abuse."

She clucked her tongue at the amount of gravel in his leg. He pretended it didn't sting when she rinsed off the wound before picking out each piece. By the time Eliot rolled up with Parker on the back of his stolen bike, his leg was gravel free and blissfully numb under its bandages from whatever Sophie slathered on it.

"I owe you," Quinn told her. "How does a bottle of expensive champagne sound?"

It was an old joke.

"Keep this up and it'll be a case before you know it," Sophie said. She tilted his head from side to side. "I'll keep Nate away from you for a few days."

"Appreciate it." He tossed his leather vest into the van before limping his way towards Eliot's truck. He dragged his aching carcass into the back seat, thankful the shorter hitter splurged for a model with a secondary bench seat in the cab. He breathed through his anger, trying to center himself. "Fuck."

He laid down on his back, bending his legs to fit.

"Feet." Eliot chided after he climbed into the front seat.

"Fuck yourself, Ace." Quinn decided to pay for the detailing later, once he healed up. "C'mere, Parker."

She looked between the front and back seat until he lifted himself up. He never used an endearment for her when he was upset because she didn't believe the meaning behind it when it was said in anger. That had been a teachable moment for both of them. She closed the door behind her, he scrunched down so he could lean against her shoulder while sitting.

"Seat belts." Eliot said. Out of spite Quinn threaded the center one around his waist. "That wasn't so hard now was it?"

Quinn nearly bit through his tongue to stop himself from snapping back. It wasn't Eliot's fault the haphazard exit plan went awry; the blame fell on Ford. Send the tallest member of his crew to a place with the worst cover in order to cut brake lines, absolutely brilliant Quinn thought. Not like the cops wouldn't be on him like stink on a pig's ass or anything.

Parker ripped his shirt down the front.

"What are you doing?"

"There was blood," Parker answered like it was obvious. "What happened?"

"I got tased. It sucked," Quinn answered. His body barely began to shake off the remaining discomfort once Eliot turned onto an actual road. He glanced up to meet blue eyes in the rearview. "Keep staring, Spencer, and I'll charge you."

"Was it a Raysun X-1? The prong marks are very distinctive." Eliot said and winced in sympathy. "You're lucky it wasn't one of the new ones. They hurt worse."

Quinn shrugged, with the adrenaline rush gone he was getting tired but the jittery feeling coursing through his nerves made it hard to relax. He breathed in. He counted while flexing his fingers. By the time they hit the thruway out of Pennsylvania, the throbbing in his head decreased to a dull ache. Maybe his doctor was right about the high blood pressure he thought before releasing a final deep breath.

Nimble fingers wove into the hair at the base of his skull, making him lean into the gesture.

"Thanks, Sweetheart." Quinn said. He closed his eyes, listening to the sound the tires made on the road and Eliot singing softly under his breath, "How was your part of the con?"

"Great! I knocked someone out and didn't get fight bite!" Parker told him, holding her other hand up for him to see the unbroken skin. "Just like you taught me."

He took her hand then kissed the knuckles.

"She's got a mean jab." Eliot agreed. The opening for the potshot about their first fight was there, Quinn didn't take it. Maybe because he was that tired. "You feelin' alright, Quinn?"

"I've been better."

Parker's fingers squeezed the back of his neck before threading back into his hair.

"You need to apologize to Hardison, you yelled at him for no reason." Parker said. She had a very good point. He was raised right which meant he would the next time he saw the hacker because the best apologies were given face to face according to his Mama.

"I'll apologize to him the next time I see him, I promise. And I'm sorry for telling you to fuck yourself, Eliot," Quinn decided to hedge his bets since the first time they met, Parker had some very choice words about his breaking Eliot's rib.

There were a handful of people she cared about in the world. He was glad she counted him among them now, but her choice of words and the conviction in which she said them made him admire her beyond her reputation and skills.

"Don't worry about it, Jackass," Eliot replied. It made Quinn snort. Hearing Eliot swear was always a novelty since no one thought he actually did it. The man could speak a blue streak and back in several different languages as well as dialects.

He buried his face into Parker's neck, focusing on the patterns her fingers were tracing on his head, and letting the motion of the truck help him fall into a well deserved and sound sleep.

Before he drifted off, he felt the ghost of a kiss on his cheek.


Snow sparkled on the hills. It buried the cars in the parking lot. If it were Christmas time, Parker would find it perfectly enchanting, and just right. Instead, she was trapped in a ski lodge as a result of their Fake Now Real Avalanche. The back up generators and a large blazing fireplace in the center of the lodge's main room kept the building warm.

It'd been a fairly simple con involving Eliot and Quinn in ape suits on the slopes, a fake snowboarding tournament, and several batches of out of the box red velvet cake batter (Eliot's Opinions on that part of the plan were officially in the Team Record according to Hardison).

The real avalanche was the result of a snow maker exploding at the wrong time.

She didn't like being stuck somewhere with no way to leave.

Parker turned the corner of the room, clutching her upper arms, and staring out into the vast white beyond the lodge. When it was on her terms, staying in one place was fine. Even though Nate assured her the plows were coming, no visible roads made her twitchy.

She headed towards the couches where Eliot and Quinn were lounging, listening to an audiobook with a headphone splitter while pretending not to be paying acute attention to the area. She'd gotten familiar with the various quirks hitters had from working with Eliot. Audiobooks left their hands free as well as they didn't have as many sounds to track like music did, allowing the hitter to stave off boredom while sharpening knives or cleaning guns but not compromising a lot of awareness.

Parker knew they were in a book club which met at a gym somewhere in downtown Portland.

She went to go between the coffee table and the couch Quinn settled himself on when it happened. Parker blamed the fact he'd worn a navy fisherman's sweater and jeans rather than herself later. It wasn't her fault it was a good look on him, the blame entirely fell on Quinn for picking an outfit he knew she liked him in. No, she just couldn't resist getting a closer look at him in it.

And it was also Eliot's fault.

He put his feet up on the coffee table, cutting off her route, and making her lift up a foot to step over his legs. That's when Quinn struck. He grabbed her by the waist, pulling her down then sandwiching her between his body and the back of the couch.

"That was unfair," Parker said. She wanted to be upset instead the thief laid her head on his chest. The wool of his sweater was soft and slightly scratchy on her cheek in the best way. "I'll get you back."

"I reckon you will, Sweetheart," Quinn replied. He tilted her chin up then kissed her. "Relax."

She tried to do as he said. Finding the right position involved a lot of fidgeting on her part since Quinn didn't move. After a few minutes, he shuffled closer to the couch edge, making her body drop farther down into the cushions.

Parker wrapped an arm around him, trying not to sigh when he began to push her hair away from her face. His calluses tugged on strands here and there, yet he continued to gently stroke her hair. She closed her eyes, focused on just him, and his heartbeat under her cheek. The sweet smell of cake batter clung to his skin a little, not overwhelmed by the woodsy cologne he liked to use when not on a con.

He said something to Eliot, the words became noises to her ears as she let herself lose focus on the world around the couch. Parker normally never fell asleep outside of their bed, but over the years Quinn began to represent the same peaceful safety.

And she welcomed it.