Chapter 13
After his outburst, the rest of the team mutually decided to give Eliot some space.
It was a struggle at first, ignoring the sounds when he wheeled himself into something or turning away when his shaking, cramp-ridden leg became too much to look at. Each day, the bags under his eyes became larger, as the stubble on his chin grew longer giving him a dishevelled look. His skin paled from the exhaustion and any more sleepless nights would have him back in the hospital, they were sure. The mastermind couldn't help but wonder if it was a physical or mental issue that had their hitter deteriorating, whether there was anything they could actually do for the man? (If he ever did want their assistance.)
At times, Parker had to be forcedly restrained as she begged the others to help him. She didn't understand why they were letting him isolate when they'd worked so hard over the years to break down those walls. But the majority agreed that they needed to step away, to wait for the hitter to come back to them.
And they kept that promise, even after two weeks of watching their friend struggle in pain.
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The first few days were uneventful.
It was clear that Eliot still needed their help, but he wouldn't ask for it so they wouldn't push. Instead, he would either find a way around the problem or go without. Take getting dressed, for example, the hitter couldn't manage buttons too well and when the pain in his leg flared up, the muscle would seize making jeans a nightmare to put on. So for now, he was stuck wearing oversized t-shirts that hung off him, and old thread-bare sweats on a daily basis. And don't even mention shoes, he hadn't worn any since Nate's birthday meal.
Apart from the main meals that the team still cooked for him, food became a matter of convenience. He couldn't stand at the counter and prepare stuff, so he resorted to ready-made snacks that could be found in the lower cupboards. Things like chips, cake bars and plenty of peanut butter to dip them in. When Sophie mentioned the unhealthy options, Eliot just glared at her and rolled away.
The sleepless nights didn't become too obvious until somewhere around day six. The dark patches under his eyes seemed to become a permanent fixture, and his newfound caffeine addiction didn't remedy his tired fumblings as he stumbled around the apartment. Why he was tired was pretty obvious too. Although they didn't know what the hitter was dreaming about, the team could tell it wasn't pleasant, probably something from his past coming back to haunt him. Nate did mention it to Eliot's therapist, but it hadn't been much help.
The problem with sleep deprivation was that it was causing other issues. Eliot barely had the energy to make it through half of his physio sessions, and the exhaustion was causing the nerve damage to worsen. They were at a point where the cramps and spasms were becoming so frequent that they were considering stronger pain relievers despite the risk of addiction. On day eleven, Eliot couldn't even get out of his chair because his entire leg, right up to and including the hip, had locked into place. The hitter ended up spending the entire session hooked up to a TENS machine to try and get his leg moving again.
After that, things just kept going downhill.
Clumsiness had left him with lots of cuts and bruises that he just left untreated.
Mood swings had him switching from angry and volatile to broken and silent. Two things they never expected to see from the tightly controlled ex-soldier.
He had burns on his hand from where it shook and spilt coffee, that he either didn't feel or didn't care to acknowledge.
And his engagement with the team was practically non-existent.
If he did hang out with them, he wasn't really there, just staring off into space whilst everyone else talked around him.
He didn't argue with Hardison, even when the hacker did things to purposely annoy his best friend.
He stopped gossiping with Sophie about the things that bothered them both. The grifter missed the way they used to come to each other for a bitch and a moan.
Nate didn't even try to talk to his teammate, he knew that it would be a wasted effort.
The only person to get a reaction from Eliot was Parker, but it wasn't the response that she wanted. In the beginning, it would surprise people to know that it was the hitter and the thief that first made a personnel connection. For some reason, even in those early days back in LA, the pair found themselves reaching out to each other. But now, when Parker tried to hug him, Eliot would curl into himself, the shakes from his hand spreading across his entire body.
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He was back there again.
That little grey shop, so cramped and devoid of life. Dust thick in the air as he tries to breathe through a coughing fit, his lungs aching from the flu that should have kept him home. There are tools piled high, threatening to topple over and crush him any minute. He sometimes wonders if that would be a bad thing.
Dad is there too.
He's shouting about something. Probably the same old, "you need to stop dreaming and start focusing on your future." Or, "get your head out of those clouds and do something useful." That day's rant was something about being in the way after getting sent home from school, like having the flu was his fault. And he tried to be useful around the shop, but it was difficult when his head kept on spinning and his hands felt all clammy. After dropping yet another box of screws, his dad slammed his hands onto the counter as he berated the boy for his constantly idle mind. A regular customer, who stood only inches away, took no notice of the tense atmosphere. It was a common sight at this particular hardware store, a phenomenon that grew more frequent as the years went by. His dad's red face glared at him as he apologised for his inadequacy and promised to do better in the future.
The thing was, he was pretty sure that his dad didn't even care about his future or really even the shop. This was just another thinly disguised attempt to get back at his son for the mistake he made so many years ago. He may have been shouting, "why can't you just listen?" but he really wanted to say, "why can't you be like your brother? Why did I have to lose my wife and boy just to be stuck with some screw-up kid that can't do anything right?"
Spencer didn't need his dad telling him how much of a waste of space he was, he already knew. He knew that his actions had caused his mother's and brother's deaths. He knew that he could never live up to Eliot's memory no matter how hard he tried. He knew that everyone in that small town looked at him like the curse he was.
He just didn't care.
One day he would be out of there. Away from his father's disappointed eyes, away from those gossiping old biddies from the church down the road, away from his past and the ghosts that haunt him. One day he would be out of there, dead or alive.
He looked back up, expecting to see his father still standing over him, shouting and scolding till his face turned blue. But what he saw, was the shifting face of Nate Ford. His friend the mastermind was shouting at him, saying the same things his daddy would say. Searching for help, he spun around only to find the customer was gone and now his friends stood there, turning their backs on him.
The now-grown Spencer felt a sharp tug on his arm, as he was forced to face the man and his many tirades...
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He never yelled when he woke up from a nightmare. He merely sat there shaking, pinned to his sheets with fright. The panting was heavy as his lungs fought for breath, sweat dripping from his forehead and soaking his shirt collar. Why did his mind have to constantly attack him with a mixture of past mistakes and future fears? It wasn't like his life was hard enough. Every time he closed his eyes, that image of Nate in his father's store assaulted Eliot until he opened them again. He knew he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep again, and attempting to would just throw more salt on the wound.
The hitter knew what his brain was trying to tell him.
It was a warning of what would soon come, his team leaving him once they realise just how useless he was. If he could, he would just do like that time in Oklahoma, and run before anyone could kick him out. But he can't, not while he was still stuck in a wheelchair, unable to even cook his own food or shave his goddamn face.
Why couldn't they just hurry up and get with the picture already, it will happen eventually, and all this waiting was torture. Yeah, they were close, but so were he and his daddy before the old man caught onto how little his son was worth.
And now he was worth even less.
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His alarm went off at 6:30, but it was pointless given that he'd been awake for the past four, maybe five hours. The hitter's head pounded much like it did every morning before taking his meds. The beat matched steadily with his own heart as blood pumped through his veins. Awkwardly, he bent his left arm at an odd angle so he could grab the controls for his bed. He raised the top end so he could sit up and found another button that could lift just his right leg into a more comfortable position. Eliot knew that Nate would be in shortly to give him his breakfast and pills.
Like clockwork, the mastermind tapped gently on the door before leaning into it with his shoulder.
"Hey El, you awake?" He slid through the small gap, a tray balanced on his right arm holding a cooked breakfast, mug of coffee, and the hitter's pill organiser. He heard his friend grunt some kind of response that he took as an invitation to enter. "Got your breakfast and pills for you." He didn't know why he felt the need to say that, it was the same every morning. Placing the tray down on the sliding table, he watched as Eliot inhaled the caffeine almost instantly. He wanted to ask about the nightmares and see if there was anything he or the therapist could do to help. But asking had gotten them nowhere in the past, it was up to the hitter to decide when he was ready to talk. Giving the man a chance to tuck into his food, Nate waited to start speaking again. "Everyone has something they need to do today so you're going to be here alone," he paused, giving time for a reply, not that one came. "I left you some lunch in the bottom of the fridge, and if you need something my phone will be turned on all day." He didn't like leaving his teammate like this, but Sophie had been working on this show for months and she couldn't miss this rehearsal. Hardison was sorting out a mix-up with suppliers for the Brewpub, and Parker was still in New York visiting Archie. Nate would stay himself, but quite a few errands had started to stack up and they really couldn't wait any longer. Besides, Eliot could look after himself for a while, it wasn't like he asked for help while they were there.
The mastermind stood up and went to leave, but not before turning back to give his friend a quick once over. "Remember to take your meds."
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Getting up was a much slower process these days. It would take at least half an hour for his pain meds to start kicking in, and he was warned by his doctor not to push himself before they did. Something about subjecting himself to additional pain before his antiseizure drugs had a chance to work could trigger an attack. So instead, he just had to lie there until the cramps subsided enough for him to move.
Once he was up, and wearing something semi-suitable for the day, the hitter would look to the schedule Hardison had made for him, to see what torture they had planned for him that day.
After breakfast, he was meant to do his own version of physio. Nothing fancy, just a few strengthening exercises to improve the function of his arm and leg, mixed with some yoga to ease the joints that often stiffened. The whole ordeal felt pointless, he wasn't improving. In actual fact, the hitter was getting worse, a week ago he could a least put weight on his leg for a few seconds, but now, just tapping the limb caused painful spasms. His last two physio sessions had been switched to pain management therapy, which was a fancy term used for sitting in a room with a tense machine strapped on. After that, they would try rotating his joints, basically back to where he started in the hospital.
If Nate or Parker were there, they would force him into doing at least a few reps, literally moving his limbs for him when he refused to cooperate. But seeing as though they weren't there, Eliot decided that physio was cancelled for the day. Instead, he wheeled himself to the kitchen, grabbed some snacks and then headed to the large flat screen tv in the middle of the communal space. He flipped through channels for a bit before landing on some historical documentary, it was the only thing he could find that didn't remind him how screwed he was.
Sitting on that sofa wasn't as comfy or relaxing as it looked. After days of barely sleeping, doing even mundane tasks were difficult. To start with, just getting from his wheelchair to the couch was a lesson in pain and strife. Moving stole the breath from his lungs, leaving him gasping by the time his back hit the chair. Eliot could feel the daily strain he placed on his spine as his chest's forceful rising pulled on the area, the voices in his head laughing as they watched the ex-soldier battle his tears.
That little bit of exercise would leave him so worn that he could barely lift his arms.
Reaching for his drink he suddenly realised the problem he'd soon be facing. A simple screw lid, a basic action that he'd been struggling with for months, one he definitely wouldn't be capable of in this state. He tried getting his hand to cooperate, but the useless appendage couldn't get a grip, it just kept sliding along the top. Instead, he tried putting the bottle between his legs, using them as a vice whilst his left hand unwound the top. But his right leg wouldn't move to clamp down on it, so the bottle just kept on moving about. In the end, the hitter grew frustrated, throwing the offending item clear across the room.
He looked down at the bag of chips sitting innocently on the table. This was one thing he'd learnt to do one-handed and right now he was so grateful for that fact. He'd come to rely on comfort food to help get him through the really bad days. During his time in the army, he'd gotten used to life without those little snacks. You needed family and friends to send you that kind of stuff when out in the desert, and he of course had no one. Some of the guys would offer to share snacks and chocolate with him, but he declined, lying to them about not liking those kinds of things. Now though, Eliot had regressed to that fourteen-year-old boy who used to hide under his bed sneaking cookies whenever he got upset.
After a couple of hours of not watching the tv, Eliot gave up and opted for a shower instead.
Pulling his heavy, aching body upright took an extreme amount of effort, the end of which had him feeling nauseous to his core. The pain and exhaustion made him dizzy, his vision rolling around like a beach ball in a hurricane. Suddenly, the hitter grabbed the arm of the chair as his whole world tilted violently to one side. He couldn't move, couldn't speak, he just sat there, hand still firmly grasped onto the sofa, waiting for the dizziness to settle.
Around five minutes later the hitter found that getting off of the sofa was even more trouble than getting on, but he did it, eventually. Then he proceeded towards the wet room so he could clean himself up a bit.
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The water pressure hitting his back was amazing. It was so good it almost made him forget how embarrassing it was to have to sit down to take a shower. This room had been specially built with the hitter and his needs in mind. All the walls and floors were tiled because there were multiple jets coming from all different directions, meaning that Eliot didn't have to move around too much to get his entire body clean. Instead, he sat on a bench in the centre of the room, that had handrails to support him too and from a waterproof wheelchair. The controls for the shower were attached to the side of the seat letting the hitter choose which heads were turned on, what temperature was set by degree, and how much pressure they used. Typically, he used the large overhead one combined with a high-pressure jet aimed at his back. He wouldn't even consider the one that sat under the bench, not sure why that one was installed in the first place.
He scrubbed down his body, cautions of the still tender scaring that covered his legs, chest and arms. He skipped washing his hair, his arms ached too much to lift them that high. And it wasn't like he was going out anytime soon, so who did he need to look decent for? No one, that's who. A bit of soap and water would just have to do for now.
Tiredly, he fumbled with the soap bar, trying to grip it but only managing to build up a slippery lather. It kept jumping from one hand to the other, the hitter's temper growing very thin. He'd had enough with this day, hell this week, he just wanted it to be over. The pain in his temple was back, despite the meds that were meant to prevent it. The voice of his doctor listing off all the things that could make his condition worse. Lack of sleep, stress, alcohol, poor diet, and not drinking enough fluids. Even for a guy who loved routine and order as much as he did, these new rules were way too much. At the moment the only rule he was following was the no booze one. But that was only because there was no alcohol left in the apartment.
He was still trying to get a firm hold on the soap when the item went shooting from his hands landing in the corner of the room.
"FOR FUCKS SAKE!"
He wanted to get angry, to lash out and throw things, but he was completely spent. His body folded in on itself, crumpling like a house built of playing cards. His eyes lazily scanned the room looking for the slippery white bar. Once found, Eliot realised it wasn't that far away, he could probably manage a couple steps before the pain became too much.
He gradually eased himself up, eventually standing on one foot. The fact that he hadn't stood in a long time meant that even his left leg felt weak under the pressure. He didn't want to risk hoping the short distance, the tiled floor of the wet room was very slippery, especially with the water still flowing freely. Slowly, he placed his right foot on the ground, shifting a small bit of weight over to test its strength. It hurt a lot, but Eliot could handle it, he'd had much worse in the past. The right leg seemed to be holding its own so he attempted to slide his other foot forward a bit, not lifting it just in case.
Two steps down, he attempted a third.
Just as he started to put pressure onto his right leg again, the whole limb gave out and he fell quickly to the floor. The impact of his side hitting the ground knocked the air right out of him along with a barely restrained whimper. The overhead spray was still coming down on him quickly, the water bouncing off his face and body. He tried to move, roll over or pull up, but he couldn't. The pain radiating down his entire right side was agonising, all he could do was freeze and hope that it would soon subside.
He wasn't sure what had finally caused it. The pain? Sleep deprivation? Memories of his father? Or just the helplessness of the situation? But at that moment, everything became too much for the hitter and so he broke down into a fit of tears. The heavy sobbing didn't help his bruised chest but he couldn't hold it in anymore. This was his life now, lying on a bathroom floor unable to get himself up. What was the point in living when you had nothing to contribute, where all you could do was take from your friends and loved ones, ruining their lives with your constant need for help? It was probably for the best if he was just left there, allowed to pass without anyone noticing.
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Nate had managed to get all his errands done in just over five hours, leaving it just a little after lunch when he arrived back at the apartment. The place was quiet, the only signs of life being an empty chip packet left on the table and the low rumble of water hitting tile from the back room.
After slipping off his jacket, the mastermind made his way into the kitchen seeking out some leftovers in the fridge. Having grabbed his food, he was about to turn toward the table but he stopped. On the bottom shelf, where he left it that morning, was Eliot's lunch still untouched. This concerned Nate because it was important that the hitter took his medication with food at the same time every day. He rechecked his watch to make sure of the time, Eliot should have eaten an hour ago. He dropped his own food back into the fridge and headed to the hitter's room.
The closer he got the clearer he could hear the pitter-patter of water hitting the wet room floor.
"El, are you ok? You missed lunch." He called out, expecting at least a grunt for a reply.
But nothing came.
He walked further into the space, stopping at the wet room's door. "Eliot, you alright in there? Can you please answer me just so I know you're ok?" There was still no response which worried the mastermind greatly. Luckily, the bathroom didn't have a lock on it so Nate could just walk in. He slid the door to the side, where it disappeared into the wall.
"Christ! Eliot, what the hell happened? Did you hurt yourself?" He shouted, running to the younger man's side. Lunging himself under the spray, he shuddered as soon as the ice-cold water hit his back. "Fuck Eliot, how long have you been like this?" The hitter still wasn't answering, he just lay there, shivering and sometimes whimpering in pain. "We need to get you up and into something warm."
Nate pulled over the chair from the other side of the room, hoping that he would have enough strength to lift the hitter into it. He'd never seen his friend like this, never in a hundred years imagined he would. The once strong as steel soldier was now curled up on the floor with tear tracks running down his face. Seeing him now Nate realised his muscles had pretty much vanished and what was left seemed small and broken. The fact that Eliot was naked didn't bother the mastermind as he carefully pulled the man into his chest. They sat there for a few seconds just to let the hitter breathe again before they attempted the exhausting task of getting him into the chair.
"Right El, you ready?" It was more of a warning than a question, Nate knew they couldn't stay there for much longer. Who knew what damage had already been done.
After some struggle, and a few heart-shattering cries of pain from the hitter, Nate finally had him tucked into bed with a few extra blankets thrown on top. Eliot was still shaking, though this was probably due to how much he was hurting now, not the cold. He hadn't spoken a word since Nate had found him, but the mastermind was determined to discover what went wrong.
"Eliot please talk to me; I need to know what happened and if we need to call Dr Davis."
The shaking continued, as more tears rolled down Eliot's face. Nate wanted to know what happened, wanted him to admit that he'd fallen and couldn't get up. Wanted to talk about the hour he spent shivering on the bathroom floor as he cried.
"I f-fell," it wasn't much but it was the truth and all he could manage at the moment.
"Ok, how did you fall? Did you trip or pass out?" Nate's voice was soft as he tried to get as much information as he could.
Eliot shook his head, "neither, I t-tried to st-and but my leg g-gave out." The words came out broken, his teeth still chattering slightly.
"Has it been a bad day again, with the pain and the tiredness?" Eliot's head sunk as he tried to bury himself into the sheets causing the mastermind to sigh. He knew what the team had agreed to, but it clearly wasn't working. "Eliot, we need to talk about what's been going on recently. With the sleep problems, the increasing pain, and now this," he took a deep breath, rubbing the bridge of his nose like he often did. "Your doctors are really concerned that you're heading towards a complete relapse which will put you in hospital again, and I don't blame them. You're holding something back from us, but it's only making things worse. You need to talk to someone so they can help fix it."
They sat there for another half an hour, neither one of them making a sound. The mastermind could tell the hitter was thinking things through and that he just needed to be patient if he wanted the man to talk. Eventually, a low raspy voice spoke from under the covers.
"I don't like feeling useless." Nate waited, knowing there was more that Eliot needed to say. "Having a purpose in life was the only thing that kept me going, but now I don't have that. I feel like a burden, and I know it's only a matter of time until you guys realise and leave me like everyone else."
"We wouldn't do that, El. We love you, and you could never be a burden to us."
"You say that, but I know it's all lies. How can I help the team now, I wasn't much use before but at least I could protect the team. Now, I don't even have that."
This clearly went a lot deeper than just this accident. The fact that Eliot didn't know how talented and amazing he really was upset the mastermind. Something must have happened to him in his past that damaged Eliot's sense of worth so badly, that the only saw himself as a wall for others to hide behind.
"Eliot, would it help you feel better if you could work? Not in the same way obviously, but something that got you out of here and helping people again." They were going to put off this conversation for at least six months, but if it could get Eliot out of this funk...
"But I'm no good at anything else, everything I do requires a working body. I'm not like you guys, I-I'm just... useless."
"Pretty sure Sophie would disagree. She's always telling me how great you are as a grifter, the subtle characters you create always hit their mark." It was true, Eliot was actually a much better grifter than Nate, the only reason they didn't use him more was that they needed him for protection. "And you're amazing when it comes to strategizing. Think of all those times you've saved my ass by creating an exit I had never thought of."
"But we don't need another grifter or mastermind, we already have you. You need a hitter and I can't be that anymore."
"Who says we can't have more than one grifter?" He shrugged scooting further onto the bed. "And you've always been my second in command when it comes to planning."
"You really think I can go back to work, even when I'm like this?" His eyes were glowing with hope and unshed tears.
"I think if anyone can do it, it's you." He poked the hitter playfully on the chest. "Now I'm not saying it won't be tough, we'll probably hit some bumps on the way. But... I know we'll make it work."
And with that, team leverage was back in business.