Author's note: all the usual disclaimers about not owning the Leverage characters/concept and not making any money from this apply.
Chapter 8 - a.k.a. Hardison attempts to develop a new super-power. :)
Hardison made no move to follow Parker. There was a slightly awkward silence as both he and Eliot pondered how to handle the next bit. Hardison broke it first.
"You need some help with all that?" he asked, with a gesture vague enough to encompass pretty much everything from standing to unwinding the clumsy-looking bandaging the paramedics had applied to washing Eliot's hair.
"Yeah," Eliot admitted. "Thanks."
He slid to the edge of the bed, bracing himself for the effort of standing with only one good arm and one good leg for both pushing upwards and maintaining balance. But Hardison was there before he could move further, putting himself in position under Eliot's left shoulder.
They limped through to the bathroom and Hardison flipped the lid down on the toilet so Eliot could sit.
"Where do you want to start?" Hardison asked.
Eliot was already picking at the tape fastening the gauze wrapped around his leg. He could handle that one by himself.
"Can you grab my shaving kit from the bedroom?" he asked Hardison. "There're scissors in there we'll probably need for what's left of my shirt."
Hardison nodded and went back out into the bedroom. By the time he came back, Eliot had the leg wound exposed, a pile of blood-stained gauze dropped in the waste basket next to him, and was prodding at the entry wound on the front of his leg through the hole the paramedics had cut in his jeans.
"Damn," Hardison said, eyes growing wide at the rust-coloured stains of dried blood on Eliot's jeans and the damaged flesh. His eyes dropped to the waste basket and he swallowed convulsively.
Eliot looked up, taking in the grey tint creeping across Hardison's skin.
"You all right?" he asked.
"Mmm-hmm," Hardison replied, lips pressed firmly together.
"Shoulder's going to look worse," Eliot warned. "If you hand me the scissors, I can take care of it."
The implied offer for Hardison to get out and just leave him to it was clear. But Hardison had had enough of letting Parker and Eliot take care of the hard stuff for one day. Just because his strengths were more cerebral, focusing on technology and information gathering, didn't mean he couldn't do the other stuff too. Just like Eliot could do more than punch, and Parker could do more than steal. Hardison shook his head and set his jaw, reaching for the tape fixing the end of the bandage wrapped diagonally across Eliot's chest. Maybe if he did this fast, it wouldn't be so bad.
Hardison did okay through the first couple of rounds of unbandaging, so Eliot kept quiet and focused on not wincing when Hardison's efforts bumped his arm, sending shockwaves of pain through the abused muscles and nerves of his shoulder. But as Hardison encountered first the stiffened crustiness of Eliot's t-shirt where the blood it had absorbed had dried and then the dampness of fresher blood on the layers of gauze closer to the entry and exit wounds, the sensations started to overwhelm his resolve. Eliot heard the change in his breathing – from a carefully controlled inhale and exhale through the nose to the slightly desperate pant of someone trying not to throw up – and looked up just in time to see Hardison close his eyes and sway backwards. Eliot was on his feet faster than he would have thought possible a minute before, pushing Hardison down to sit in his place.
"Dammit, Hardison," he muttered, exasperation lacing his words. Bathrooms, with their hard floors and objects with sharp corners, were no place to risk passing out and hitting your head. If Hardison knew he couldn't deal with the blood, he should have just left Eliot to take care of it himself. "Get your head between your knees and breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth," he advised, a hand between Hardison's shoulder blades not leaving the younger man any choice but to comply.
Eliot listened for a moment, waiting for Hardison's breathing to settle back into a regular pattern. Over the sounds of the air conditioning and the news station he had left playing on the bedroom television, he thought he could still hear Parker moving around the suite. He limp-hopped to the door leading from the bathroom into his bedroom.
"Hey, Parker?" he called out. "You still here?"
She appeared in the other doorway to the bedroom a moment later.
"I was looking for a shirt or jacket or something I could put over this," she explained, gesturing at her tank top. "You think of something else you want me to pick up?"
"No," Eliot said, reflexively noting – and ignoring – her choice of the words 'pick up' rather than 'buy'. He gestured behind him with a jerk of his head. "You think you could...?"
Parker came forward and peered round him.
"Oh," she said, catching sight of Hardison. "Did he pass out?" she asked, curiously.
Eliot shifted aside so she could move past him into the bathroom.
"Not quite," he told her, settling back against the vanity, left arm cradling his right. Parker looked from Hardison's back to the half-unwrapped dressing trailing from Eliot's shoulder.
"You want me to finish that?" she asked him.
"No," Eliot said, tersely. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate their efforts to help, he told himself. It was just that sometimes it was more ... efficient...to take care of it himself. He sighed. "Could you just get Hardison into a different room from the blood? I can take care of the rest."
"I can walk by myself," came a muffled protest from between Hardison's knees.
Parker patted him perfunctorily between the shoulder blades.
"Of course you can," she agreed, rolling her eyes at Eliot. "But we want you to walk without falling over." She hooked a hand under Hardison's one shoulder, and tugged. "Come on."
Hardison went easily enough, mumbling an embarrassed apology to Eliot as they passed him, Hardison's eyes carefully only on Eliot's face and not his shoulder.
"Blood's not for everyone," Eliot brushed it off.
A look of frustration crossed Hardison's face, but he let Parker bundle him through the door. Eliot pushed it closed behind them, and got on with the task of undressing. More fully-functional limbs would definitely have made it easier, but a little creativity and a pair of scissors eventually took care of all the remaining bandages and clothing. It was just as well Hardison hadn't insisted on sticking around, Eliot thought as he inspected what he could see of his shoulder in the mirror. His Superman punch to take Udall out had turned the original entry and exit wounds into jagged holes, and judging by the swelling and bruising around the joint, he had managed some fairly decent muscle tears as well. At least it was a small calibre bullet, he reminded himself. And Udall hadn't got fancy with any of the hollow point or frangible bullets. If he had, Eliot would have been looking at a lot more than a couple of weeks of discomfort and recovery time.
He shoved his clothes and the dirty bandages into the hotel's laundry bag, bending and straightening slowly because the rule about not passing out and hitting your head in bathrooms applied just as much to him as to Hardison. They would have to find a way to dispose of their clothes at some point, but Eliot figured that could wait until tomorrow. In the meantime, he stepped carefully into the shower and let the warm water wash away the remains of the day. The water stung as it hit the open wounds on his leg and his shoulder, but he wanted them clean so he stuck it out, gritting his teeth as he worked the antibacterial soap he always travelled with into a good lather on the surrounding skin.