Title: The Intersection of Points N and E
Summary: Snapshots of Eliot and Natalia's adventures over their years together.
Disclaimer: I don't own Leverage or any of the characters associated with the show. I only claim ownership to the character that I created. Also, no profits are being made off of this story. It's only for your entertainment.
Author's Note: To everyone who asked, yes this story is still being updated! Thank you to all the readers, new and old. Here's another chapter for you guys. Might get a little heavy.
Potential warnings for a car crash and head trauma.
Chapter 11: Shattered
~October 9th 2011 ~ Russia
Somehow he's found her. If he's honest, even he's not sure how. Or why for that matter. It was just something he needed to do. Some sort of overwhelming compulsion. An idea whispered in his ear by an angel or a demon or some combination of the two.
If you don't get to her, we will.
It's underneath his skin, itching and burning, and the only salve in the world that can soothe it is having her safe in his arms.
He barely recognizes the figure that opens the door to that fucking shithole in Moscow.
But the Colt pointed in his face assures him it really is her.
"Oh God," she whispers as the gun falls, clattering solidly on the floor. In an instant she's in his arms and he knows it's all horribly wrong.
She ushers him in and unnecessarily busies herself with tidying up in silence, and he can't help but notice all the things she's struggling to hide. He picks the gun up off the floor and latches the safety, spying an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts as he puts it down on a duffel that's still full of MREs.
She hasn't been eating.
It shows.
She weakly straightens a threadbare blanket over a mattress that's been flattened by decades of abuse. She checks nervously under the pillow to make sure her knife is still there. He lets his jacket fall and takes a seat on the frigid cement floor, unable to stop Gordon's call from ringing in his ears.
The one about her car being smashed between a Range Rover and a tree at upwards of 50 mph. The one about how she got out and put a bullet in that rival agent's head because she doesn't appreciate attempted murder - and she really fucking liked that A4.
They said she set off the emergency trigger on her phone. The one she's never used before. Twelve minutes later, Agency responders found her unconscious on the scene. He has to blink hard to block out the images that sweep over him like a wave of nausea.
She's fine but she sustained head trauma.
Well fuck you Gordon, head trauma doesn't mean fine.
She's so small in front of him, nearly drowning in a sweater that used to cling, hidden behind a mess of dark hair that falls in pained eyes. Even now, stupidly broken and lost, she's making him tea and tucking a lock of hair behind his ear because she loves him more than she loves herself.
"I'm fine Eliot, I've got it," she snaps when he scrambles to help pick up the sachets of tea that have fallen from uncoordinated fingers. He forces his hands past her words and does the deed himself, only to be met by her angry failed attempts at trying to slap his hands away.
"Natalia," the voice that comes out isn't even something he recognizes as his own. He reaches to comfort her. She fights.
"I'm fine, let go, I'm fine, I'M FINE," she hits and shrieks until he finally spins her around and gets his arms around a too thin waist. There, with her back to his chest, all of her strength fades and she shatters. He can feel the searing hot tears begin to spread over his arms.
They sink to the ground and she curls in his lap like a child. As he cradles her head to his chest, his fingers accidentally brush the scar on her temple. His stomach churns again.
She manages arms around his neck and "I can't do this," comes out encased in a sob.
He knows. She doesn't have to explain. She has all the right moves but her brain won't let her use them. Synapses won't fire and she can't will, trick, or beat them into submissive cooperation. She doesn't know what else to do because there's nothing else she can.
"You don't have to, momma. You don't have to."
She never hears him. Already exhaustion has her in its hold and her eyes have drifted closed. Her sobs have smoothed out into gentle breaths that ghost across his skin. He holds her just a bit tighter.
He knows he'd be in tears if the anger wasn't what hit him first. The kind of anger that could tear down the entire city before training its sights on the world. He hates the car that had to crash into hers. Fucking hates Davis for putting her out here when he knows what happened. This isn't even her part of the world. He hates her for being so goddamn stubborn and pretending that her world isn't actually fifty kinds of fucked up.
Perhaps most of all, he hates that there's no promise it will ever be right again.
Eliot scoops her up as gently as he can, laying her down on the mattress and pulling the blankets up around her shoulders. He rakes a hand through his hair when he stands, letting out a breath he didn't know he was holding. There are papers spread all over the drawing table and it doesn't take him long to piece all the bits together. He finds the mark's picture and stares into a pair of inky black eyes.
"Vetrov," he whispers, testing the syllables on his tongue. He folds the paper, stuffs it into his back pocket, stoops to pick up his jacket, and grabs the Colt from where he left it.
Tonight, Vetrov dies.
Tonight, Natalia goes home in his arms.
Tonight, everything is that simple. And if anyone tries to stop him…
Tonight, only God can help them.