#oh my heart – @wolves-in-the-world on Tumblr

The Nap Job

Sophie finds him the first time, curled up in the bathtub of the abandoned house they're borrowing for the con. The blue jacket he'd worn covers him from chest to thigh and a couple of ratty towels are wadded under his head to serve as a pillow. Nothing about it looks even remotely comfortable and yet he's relaxed, face peaceful. His hair is loose, falling into his face and it makes him look younger, stirs something fiercely protective in her. She pauses in the doorway, worried at first because his part of the job had been rough and she knows he's nursing some bad bruises. Should I wake him? What if he has a concussion? she thinks, but the decision is taken out of her hands when he stirs, opening one eye and stretching like a cat in a puddle of sunshine.

"Soph?" he asks, voice faintly rough. "You need something?" He yawns, scrubbing a hand over his face, then shifts like he's preparing to get up, but there's an exhausted set to his shoulders and the shadows under his eyes aren't just a trick of the light.

"No," she says, slowly. "Just looking for you to say we're packing up." You didn't answer your earbud, she thinks, and we got worried.

"Need help?" he says, eyebrow lifting in question.

She pats his shoulder, feeling bold. "No. Get some more sleep," she says and expects him to argue, but he just stretches again, socked feet flexing, and settles back, breathing smoothing out even as she watches. It's a neat trick, even if something about it makes her feel a little uneasy, because it speaks of things in his past she's never thought about before. She pushes that thought aside, smiles at the implicit trust he's gifted her, and turns to leave.

But she can't help but glance back, fixing the image of him in her mind, before she closes the door and leaves him to his nap.

---

It's Hardison, the next time, who finds him napping. They're in the middle part of the job, and neither of them have much to do, because the mark has fallen hopelessly for Sophie- excuse him, Kate the exotic bird breeder- and is spilling everything that they need to know. Hardison is snacking on gummy frogs and sweet popcorn, a mix that makes Eliot frown.

The van is hot and somewhat less than fresh and Eliot gets up from the bench, shoving the door open and stepping out. "I'm gonna…" he says, and makes a gesture Hardison takes as checking the perimeter. The hacker settles back to watch Sophie work, washing down the popcorn with a swig of orange soda that's gone disappointingly flat.

They're parked in an empty lot that has a couple of big trees and a covering of sparse, coarse grass. Their mark is in the offices behind them, and it's been a long day of waiting in the heat.

When Eliot doesn't appear back after half an hour, worry starts to niggle and the hacker stands, poking his head out of the van, heart lurching at first when he spots the figure slumped in the shade of the van, back against the tyre, baseball cap pulled low. His hands are loose by his sides. The worry vanishes as he hurries over, automatically checking Eliot for blood or bruises or worse, but his skin is unmarked.

"Eliot?" Hardison asks, and gets what sounds suspiciously like a snore in response. "Man's sleeping on the job…" he mutters and turns to go back into the van when he hears Eliot snicker.

"Gotta sleep sometime," he says, hitting the drawl hard. "You talk in your sleep, man. Sharing a room with you sucks," Eliot says and closes his eyes again, ducking his head to hide the smirk because he knows exactly what expression is on Hardison's face.

"Oh, yeah," Hardison mutters and climbs back into the van. "Man can't sleep for me talking, but he can sleep on the grass next to the damn van. Probably bugs and god knows what crawling on him…"

"I can still hear you, Hardison!" Eliot calls and, in the resulting silence, closes his eyes again, resolving to make the most of the sun and silence.

----

Breanna finds him next. It'd been a rough job, enough to leave them all a little shaky, and Eliot and Parker on the walking wounded list. They'd both vanished into the depths of the building to nurse their ills in their own ways and the last thing Breanna expects is to step into the storage room and find Eliot Spencer sprawled on the big leather couch, dead to the world. There's a bandage wound around his forearm and a soggy ice pack leaking on his hip. Another sits in a sad little puddle on the floor, water escaping in a slow flood that stains the bare boards dark.

She pauses in the doorway, frowning as she tries to figure out what to do. The lead she needs is stored in the storage box just behind his head, on the big old ugly sideboard that Sophie had banished from the living quarters, but somehow, reaching across him to get it seems like a damn bad idea. She doesn't want to wake him, for a start, and she definitely doesn't want to startle him.

It's warm and close in the room, stuffy because all the windows are closed and he's sweating, just enough to turn the baby hairs around his temples curly. There's bruises just starting to show on his arms and cheek. He's still wearing the logoed t-shirt from the business they'd infiltrated. The cartoon crab on the front looks decidedly sinister in the dull light and she shudders, but it gives her an idea and she retreats to Eliot's bathroom, starting the big old tub running.

The shelf holds a bigger range of bath products than she'd expected. Sophie's influence, probably, she thinks and grabs the most battered box. It's Epsom salts, with rosemary and eucalyptus, and her stomach does a funny little flip when she reads the words muscle pain. She dumps a handful under the water, then adds a little more, for good measure, making sure the goat's milk soap and the expensive shampoo she's pretty sure started out as Sophie's is within easy reach of the tub. There's already fresh navy towels folded on the vanity and she nods, watching the water rise as she plans her attack.

By the time the tub is full and steaming gently, she knows what she's going to do and heads down to the kitchen to collect a couple of long neck beers and a bottle of water. The water and one bottle goes on the stool in the bathroom, the beer leaving a ring of condensation as it sweats gently in the steam.

She heads back to the storage room and stops outside the door, suddenly not sure if she's overstepping. It's different, for Parker and Sophie and Hardison, because they've known him for years, not just months. She shifts, and the floorboards creak and she's sure she hears him sigh so she steps forwards, leaning in the door.

"Hey," she says, quietly and offers him the bottle.

"Not one of Hardison's creations, is it?" he asks, but reaches for it anyway.

The brewpub is still making them to whatever recipe he emails and the taste of the last one - cinnamon and mint- is still vividly and violently lodged in Eliot's brain.

"No," Breanna says, and twists the bottle to show him the label. "Your usual."

"You okay, kiddo?" he asks, twisting off the cap. "You need somethin?" The drawl is stronger than usual, and his voice is faintly hoarse.

If anything, he looks worse now than he did before the nap; faintly rumpled, a little out of sorts, with a frown that hints at a killer headache.

"No," she says, slowly. "But I thought you might. I came in to get a cable and you were napping-" his eyebrow lifts sharply at that, but he keeps quiet and she continues, aware that her words are getting faster and faster "-so I thought maybe you'd enjoy a bath, because it was pretty rough and I know it's not really my plac-"

She stops with a squeak, because he's pulled her into a hug, pressing a fleeting kiss against her temple.

"Thanks, kiddo," he says and she nods against his shoulder.

An hour later, when she walks past his bathroom, the door is ajar and faint snores are coming from within.

It's a surprisingly comfortable vent. Very roomy, Eliot thinks and shifts so he's laid flat on his front, chin pillowed on his folded arms as he watches Parker do her thing. He's tired, because the job has had them running from pillar to post and back again all day, and a nagging ache in his shoulder from an ill placed hit had kept him awake most of the night. The vent is warm, and for once they're in no danger.

"How long is this gonna take?" he asks, and Parker glances back at him, grinning.

"Maybe fifteen minutes, ten if I really push."

"Can you make it twenty?" he asks, with more honesty than he'd intended.

She tilts her head, assessing him in a way that's new for her, fingers stilling on the recording equipment they're setting up, and nods. "Sure," she says.

"Thanks, darlin'," he murmurs and drops his head onto his arms. Three breaths later, his shoulders relax and he's asleep, ribs rising and falling in an even rhythm.

She makes it twenty five minutes, and when he heads to bed, countless hours later, there's a new bottle of his prescription painkillers and a box of instant ice packs on his bedside table.

---

They're all squashed together on the big leather couch. It's Sophie's turn to pick the movie, and they're watching. It's a French arthouse thing, about a precocious woman spreading joy, and if he's honest, Eliot can't make head nor tail of it. He's not really interested enough to even try and the warmth and closeness of Parker and Hardison on either side of him, coupled with the droning from the movie, are going a long way to lull him into a doze.

He shifts, moving Parker's bony elbow out of his ribs, and tips his head back to rest on the couch. It's surprisingly comfortable and he lets the world filter out, relegating the drone of the movie to the back of his mind.

There's a yawn brewing and he can't quite stop it in time, stifling it with his hand. His eyelids suddenly seem to weigh a thousand pounds each and he blinks long, feeling like he's sinking and gives in, letting sleep pull him under.

When he wakes, a good while later, the damn movie has finally, blessedly, finished and the room is quiet apart from the quiet hum of the sir con and the soft breathing of another person.

Parker is sprawled next to him, hair wildly tangled, flat out in a way that makes Eliot feel tired again.

He shifts, tugging the light wool blanket so it covers them better, and leans back, relaxing again. The couch is warm and comfortable and he's feeling lazy, content to stay exactly where he is for as long as he can. He flexes his toes, humming quietly and closes his eyes again.

He doesn't realise until the morning that someone has painted the nails on his left hand shocking pink.

Later that afternoon, when a thug makes a snotty remark about the manicure, just before he's felled by a punch from that same hand, Eliot decides that he quite likes the pink nails.

And naps, he thinks, but Sophie can keep her damned arthouse movies…

#OH #oh my heart #eliot napping <3<3<3 #fics #fave #long post

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