Work Text:
Lost
by Sam-Tony
Eliot has always been able to lose himself in a great many things…
…the smooth, easy rhythm of controlled violence, the comforting heat and spicy-fragrant steam of a well stocked kitchen…more violence…the dark thrill and satisfying challenge of the con…yet more violence…the darkness broken only by garish lights and soft curves of the local strip joint…hard planes and harder bodies in the *other* strip joints…and of course, more violence…
But what he can truly, truly lose himself in completely is his music - in the quiet perfection that echoes from six strands of steel housed in a golden hardwood shell and tuned to perfection by a practiced ear as his fingers reverently brush the strings. Sometimes, like tonight, he needs to lose himself in this simple quiet in order to get his mind off all of the other things this job has made him lose himself in. More violence, more depravity accepted on pretense in order to get the job done and the bad guy to confess, his money already conned away into the hands and bank accounts of the families of his victims.
It’s only on days like today when Eliot can see just how deep in it he really is. That his only salvation seems to be the four small rays of sunlight that brighten the darkness that seems to have become his soul and the music he can still reach for himself.
Some of those families didn’t even have enough of their loved ones left to bury.
He doesn’t know what he picks, just lets his fingers choose for themselves; familiar notes and chords and sections of songs he only half remembers they’re so old and faded and some he’s only heard in passing, unfamiliar melodies picked up from Hardison’s office or Sophie’s. He plays them all through, letting them lift and fall away, circle and change all on their own while he lets his mind drift, carried along on each rise and fall until his thoughts settle into an even plain all on their own. His breathing isn’t harsh in the silence anymore; the darkness behind his closed eyelids no longer sparked by shades of red and gold that holding them tightly shut had caused.
He can smell the scent of honeysuckle and jasmine in the candles he has lit, scattered around the darkened room, selected because they reminded him of simpler days back before he left the farm he once couldn’t wait to be rid of. It’s back to that farm that his mind roams these days; back to the fields and the woods that hide the quiet little creek with its old oak tree and tire swing that had filled many of his childhood summers.
Only now, when he goes back there, he sees Parker laughing, her blond hair shining gold in the summer sun as Hardison, all dark skin and wildly tacky swim trunks swings from the old rope, letting go to drop with a yell and a wide splash into the water. He sees Sophie-as-southern-belle lying back on a large blanket, large white hat perched in beautiful contrast to her dark hair as Nate lounges back on the blanket with her, indulgent smile turning accusing as some of the water finds him even on the bank.
The snatches of songs he’s been playing slowly quiet and fade to nothing and he smiles at that image; his new, odd little family happy in the sunshine.
Opening his eyes to the candles flickering in the darkness of his suite in the Leverage HQ in downtown LA, Eliot brings himself back from that summertime creek, surprised to see the others scattered around his living room, listening to him play. Parker and Hardison lay sprawled out on the floor in front of the couch Eliot perched on while Sophie and Nate have claimed the two armchairs that he had picked out to go with the couch. He honestly had no idea when they had gotten there. He had been so lost in the quiet, he hadn’t heard them come in…
As soon as he stopped, fingers flattened across the strings in reaction to having been caught with his guard down so completely, the applause began, each of them clapping softly as if loathe to disturb the peace they sensed Eliot had found.
Spotting the half empty tumbler of golden whiskey held casually in Nate’s hand, the large bottle of orange soda at Hardison’s elbow and the larger pile of fortune cookies at Parker‘s being shared between them, Eliot finally realized that maybe he wasn’t the only one who needed a crutch or two to unwind; maybe they needed it, too..
Clearing his throat softly, Nate asked simply, “More?”
End