Alec Hardison [Leverage] (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
stillageek) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
makingthisupasigo2018-07-24 12:53 pm
stillageek) wrote in makingthisupasigo2018-07-24 12:53 pm
And the Inside Job - for Eliot Spencer
One of the many advantages of being the hacker is you don't have to deal with your co-workers all that much. Which can be a literal lifesaver when your co-workers are the deadliest people on the planet.
Hardison is camped out in his server room, pulling up information and data for the various jobs that are coming up for the assassins. And, as usual, looking into the online habits of his co-workers. It's his way to protect himself, digging up dirt on all these guys to keep them at bay. So far it's been working. He hasn't been in Moreau's services for very long and it hasn't been pleasant (no, sir, it has not been pleasant at all) and in the beginning nobody expects him to survive very long.
But then Hardison lives up to his reputation and starts making things happen, digs up information that is thought to be impossible to get, gets a hold of people who are impossible to find, gets into systems they used to work around before because they're impossible to hack. And people take note. If Moreau's personal e-mails can be believed (which of course Hardison totally doesn't read) the boss even wants him to work with Spencer on one of the next jobs. He hasn't met Moreau's favorite yet but what he found out about the guy so far has him nervous in advance.
There's an alert and one of his screens light up, revealing a window with an online poker webpage. There's a second window next to it with code running in the corner. The webpage informs him that beefboy has entered the lobby.
Hardison rolls over in his swiveling chair, grabbing one of the keyboards. "Now what you up to, Brett, my man? You gonna play a little? Spend some of that hard-earned cash? Come on then."
There's just something incredibly satisfying about having these murderjerks lose their blood money on his fake gambling sites. Hardison watches the game unfold for a while, upping Brett's chances here and there, giving him a couple of good runs and waits until the assassin gets greedy. Then he quickly types a line of commands, causing the AI's cards to flip around right before Brett calls. The screen blinks and then the poker site informs that beefboy's winnings have just dropped down to a big fat 0.
There's an enraged howl coming from somewhere in the mansion and Hardison grins, clapping his hands together and giggling. "Ohh yeah, I got you. I got you good! In your face. Where's your beef now, huh? Where's your beef!? At the butchers, that's where it's at!"
While his analyzing programs run some calculations for his actual work he gets up to get himself some food from the kitchen. It's gonna be a long day of pulling data and getting ready for his meeting with Spencer, so he'd probably better grab some snacks while he's still got the chance.
Stepping outside he slows when he passes by a very angry assassin in the hallway. Hardison knows he probably shouldn't be pushing his luck too much but that angry vein that looks like it's about to pop is just too tempting. "Yo, Brett, what's the matter? You having a bad day, my man? Did I hear you scream earlier?"
There's murder in Brett's eyes (but then again when is there not?) and that tower of a man steps up to him. "You looking for a beating there, geek?"
"Yeah, I wouldn't do that if I were you. See, a little birdy told me that you've been using the company's credit card for some little personal shopping. ... The birdy is my computer, by the way. It's, I call it birdy, it's like a..." He trails off when Brett looks at him like he's going to snap his face in two.
"I'm gonna put your head underwater until you beg me to put a knife between your eyes."
Hardison frowns. "Uh, no you won't. Come on, b-boy, you know the drill? The moment something happens to me there's like an e-mail that goes straight to the boss. It's called automatic forwarding. You should look it up."
Brett looms and pushes past him very closely, growling. "You better watch your back, Hardison."
"Oh! Oh! No. What's that? No touching. You know the rules. No, there's no touch, you don't touch me." He holds up his hands, turning in a half-circle while Brett stomps past him and calls after him. "Can't touch this, baby! Yeah, I'm teflon! I'm the teflon man, they call me Mr. T. And the t is for teflon!"
The grin drops off his face once Brett disappears around the corner. God, he is scared to death of these guys.
It doesn't stop him from humming a little tune as he walks into the kitchen, though. Seems empty but there's something simmering on the stove. Hardison randomly sticks his hand inside to grab some of the food, tossing it in his mouth as he walks past it.
Stops.
Walks backwards until he's back at the pot and stares at it because damn. Damn, baby.
He grabs a small bowl from the cabinet, helping himself to some more.
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Carter puffs his cheeks, shrugging, his spoon digging into the bowl. He eats a bit, chewing thoughtfully. "It's... weird. Some of it feels really familiar, like the endless cocktail parties and galas and business meetings my parents would hold. But at the same time it's nothing like that at all?"
He rubs the back of his head. "He's... nice to me," he admits a little awkwardly. "Which is weird because I also think he would totally shoot me in the head in a heartbeat?"
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"...yeah, Moreau's actually really nice when he wants to be." And good at what he does, and organized, and one of the reasons why Eliot preferred working for him.
Preferred in past, past, past tense.
"Just...don't trust him, okay?" Eliot's brows furrow. "He'd also...really easily shoot you in the head in a heartbeat."
He needs to warn him, to tell him to watch his back...because he won't be here to protect him anymore.
Eliot grits his teeth, quickly taking a swig of his beer because something catches in his heart and he feels like he's going to tell Carter everything--this hurts. He wants to protect him. Needs to.
He's almost angry at Carter for making him open up. For reminding him what it was like to feel again.
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One good thing to come out of those 36 and 48 hour shifts.
Moreau's actually really nice when he wants to be.
"... Yeah, he is. I think he likes me." Which is nice, in a way. There's a noticeable difference in how the other assassins are treating him now and while he's a little afraid about being on everyone's radar like that, Carter would be lying if he said that it didn't also come with a certain satisfaction and a sense of empowerment. After being scared for so long it feels... good. It shouldn't. But it does.
So does Moreau's attention, his interest in Carter, his charm. The way he asks about his work in the ER, commiserates this whole family ordeal. How it's unfortunate that this was how business between him and his family had to be conducted. How he knew Carter wants to be a doctor, so he continued to let him be one. How he knew Carter didn't want to be treated differently from other people so he made sure he wasn't, at least not in the beginning when he had to settle in here. How proud he is that Carter's still around, that he knew he made the right choice in letting him help out instead of just sticking him in a cell somewhere.
It's a weird twisting of the narrative but some part of John feels ensnared by the words, the smiles, the occasional hand on his shoulder.
"I don't trust him." He's not entirely sure if he's telling himself or Eliot.
"My dad's parties were always these arduous, endless affairs. Hours and hours of talking to people, mingling..." Which was probably a skill that was saving his life now. "And suddenly I have to make small talk and I feel like I'm small talking for my life? It's kind of high pressure, you know? I just hope he doesn't get bored with me."
He's babbling, he realizes, but it's good to share these conflicting feelings because everything is so confusing. Carter takes a long sip of his beer.
"... I made Brett get me a drink the other day. He was so mad? Wish I could have taken a picture of his face for you."
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A good deal that was no longer valid.
"Moreau's good to the people he likes." It's a warning. Stay on Moreau's good side if you want to live.
Eliot pauses, listening to what Carter says, trying to carefully choose his words as he takes another swig of his beer.
"He's not gonna get bored with you. You're a good doctor, he's gonna keep you around even if you're not that great at small talk."
And somehow, even the thought of Brett suffering manages to break the weakest of smiles to his face.
He doesn't deserve to smile right now.
"I wish you did. Man, I woulda loved to see that."
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Carter doesn't look to happy about what that might entail but maybe if he played his cards right he wouldn't have to kill anyone. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.
It's easier to drag Brett instead. There's a small, sadistic part of Carter that wonders what else he can make the assassin do now that he's at Moreau's side but he pushes the thought away. "I'm telling you, he was foaming at the mouth. I'll try to get one for you next time."
He rubs his arm awkwardly, looking over at Eliot. "What do you think about it? Do you think this is good for us? I'm still gonna be at the clinic, but..."
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He'd never forgive himself for this anyway.
"Thanks, I'll keep it just to cheer me up."
It's so easy to lie.
"Yeah, I really do." Another sip of his beer. "I'm already his favorite assassin--" For the next few hours at least. "--and this way, nobody will mess with us anymore. Not even Brett."
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Carter smiles. He doesn't like what's happening, but the idea of not having to look over their shoulder, of not being worried that the other assassins go after Eliot... He thinks he can make that sacrifice.
"Maybe I can protect you this time."
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Eliot almost loses it right then and there--something in his mouth trembles and he's about to tell him, he needs to tell him, he's going to tell him--
--but self-preservation and Hardison's safety bring him back from the brink.
This is the best way. The only way. The most logical way. The only way to secure their safety. It might not be the best idea in the world, but it would keep them all alive. And that's what's important.
"...yeah? You save my life enough times as it is, surely you'd get bored of it by now." He's smiling, but it doesn't reach his eyes.
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Carter chuckles, taking another sip of his beer but pauses, looking at Eliot. "... Hey, are you okay?"
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And he was doing this to him.
"...I'm fine, just...tired, y'know? Thought I'd make some chili before callin' it an early night."
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Both for food and some real company.
"But hey, don't let me keep you, alright? If you need some shut-eye you go ahead."
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He fakes a yawn, and takes another sip of his beer.
"Yeah, just...I just wanted to make sure you got a good meal before..." he catches himself just in time. "Before you called it a night, too. Can't go to sleep hungry, y'know?"
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"Thanks. I appreciate it. How about I do the dishes? It's only fair."
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A laugh was...well appreciated.
He gets up, having finished his beer, and goes to throw it in the garbage. He was going to lose his nerve if he lingered, and he never lost his nerve in anything.
His heart was pounding, and his stomach genuinely hurts. He feels sick. He hasn't had a reaction like this since...he couldn't remember.
Eliot checks on the stove, turning it off, and puts the chili pot on the counter. He didn't really care if it was eaten by random hungry assassins, he'd gotten his use out of it.
He pauses, his hands on the counter, trembling slightly.
"...hey, uh...Carter?"
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"Yeah?"
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"I just...I didn't think I could have friends here. And then you came along, and I...had a reason to care."
He doesn't look at him.
"So...uh, thanks."
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"You're welcome. I'm glad you do."
He leans back, taking another sip, just the stupidest, happiest grin on his face. "I didn't think I could have friends here either. Or ever again."
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"...yeah." A nod.
Why did he look at his face?
Eliot turns away, stopping at the door. He can't look back. Not anymore.
"You never know what the future might bring."
He regrets the words as soon as they leave him, even though he means for them to be hopeful. But they might not be.
And with that, he goes through the door, and leaves the kitchen.
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Carter watches him leave, smiling and taking another sip from his bottle.
"Goodnight, Eliot!"
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He's gone.