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"Breakfast?" Eliot said, and she smiled, made some noises of regret, but her eyes were already turned outward, beyond him and focused on her real life. He walked her to the door, stood and watched her walk away down the hallway, heels clicking with her rapid strides. She had seen Hardison standing there like he was part of the wall, had started slightly, but Eliot had touched her arm in silent reassurance, and she had done nothing other than lift a brow before she walked away.
"You coming in?" Eliot didn't wait; he just turned and left the door open behind him.
He busied himself making coffee, listened with half his attention to Hardison softly closing the door and crossing the wide empty expanse of the living room to sit at the bar. Eliot poured a second cup of coffee and set it in front of Hardison. He never lifted his eyes from the coffee, just sipped at it occasionally, added more sugar twice.
"Hungry?" Eliot said.
Hardison shrugged, stared at the floor, looked up, and his eyes flared with something unidentifiable before subsiding back to blankness. "You have some lipstick," he said and made a gesture near his own mouth.
Eliot let his grin crack wide. "Yeah, other places too," he said, but Hardison just nodded as if that was only to be expected. Eliot took a closer look and thought that Hardison was maybe wearing the same clothes he'd had on the day before. "Okay," he said, "I need a shower. There's bread if you want toast. Not much else, though." He waited, but Hardison just stared at the sink, silent, contemplative.
Eliot headed for the shower; he thought about calling Parker, but he couldn't really imagine her having any useful insights into the human condition. He didn't think Nate would be up, unless he was still up, and Sophie wasn't seeing anything but Nate these days, so neither of them seemed likely to offer help. He was on his own.
He towelled his hair, grinning at himself in the mirror. Kristen, the hairdresser he'd dated two or three years ago, had screeched in horror the first time she'd seen him do that. He'd laughed it off at the time, but he'd vowed to never date another hairdresser—the nagging had gotten old after a while. Sam totally didn't count as breaking the vow, because it wasn't like he and Sam were ever really dating. He pulled a knit hat down tight over his still damp hair, resigning himself to the inevitable hat-head. He rummaged around for clothes, and came up with a tank and shorts as his only clean options. He was going to have to crack open the paranoia enough to hire a housekeeper.
Eliot found Hardison on the sofa clutching the remote and staring at the television. He'd half expected to find him just plain gone. The window-wall behind the sofa looked out onto the marina, and everything was dull in the early morning light; there wasn't even any sparkle of sunlight on the water yet. The view was the excuse for the price he'd paid for the place, but he'd chosen it for the proximity to LAX and a fast getaway. The hot and cold running flight attendants that could always be found clustered around the pool were just a perk. He could have found something cheaper, but he'd never been this rich before and he had decided he'd deserved some mindless luxury in his life.
"If this place was any more retro, Jaclyn Smith would be sitting here on the damn sofa," Hardison said.
"I thought you liked retro, Hardison." Eliot realized the place was a little seventies, but he'd had the kitchen remodeled, so he didn't care.
"There's retro and then there's retro, man."
"Uh-huh. You hungry yet?"
Hardison shrugged again.
"You want to talk about it?"
Hardison shuddered theatrically. "No man, just—old news, that's all. Blast from the past. Got me all fucked up."
Eliot got another coffee and settled on the sofa beside Hardison. "If it wasn't so damn early in the morning," he said, "I'd recommend you go get drunk."
"Not my scene, man."
"Yeah, figured that. There's always the pool."
"Not in the mood for swimming either."
"That's not what I meant." Eliot sighed. "Anyway, there's the gym. You don't look unfamiliar with a weight bench." Eliot looked over at Hardison whose attention had never strayed from the cheesy sci-fi movie he'd found to watch. Under all the clothes, he had a good body that he didn't get from sitting in front of a computer.
"Tried that."
"You just want to sit here?" Eliot thought about the fun day of laundry and his own date with the weight bench he was missing out on, and started to pay attention to the movie himself. "So there are vampires and werewolves, and they're in space?" he said after watching for a bit.
"Yeah, it's a classic, man."
"Uh-huh."
Half an hour later, Hardison was slumped down so that their shoulders were on the same level, and he'd loosened his death grip on the remote enough to let Eliot flip to the food channel during the commercials. A few minutes of Nigella and Hardison grabbed the remote to keep him from changing the channel back to the movie.
"Maybe you just need to get laid, son," Eliot said.
"Probably."
Eliot nudged him with his shoulder.
"What?" Hardison said crossly. "Didn't think I was your type, man."
"Didn't think I was yours."
"Yeah"—Hardison watched Nigella taste a sauce, which was apparently sex on a spoon—"well, I wouldn't say I have a type, as such."
"Really."
"Yeah, man—you got a problem with that?" Hardison sounded challenging, and Eliot had to resist the urge to laugh at him.
"The last thing you need is to pick a fight with someone who can kick your ass nine ways from Sunday. Trust me, I've tried that method, and it ain't worth it. And no, you dumbass, I don't have a problem with that."
"You so sure you could kick my ass, Eliot, maybe you should try it." Hardison stood up, stalked a couple of steps away and stood, looking like he might run, or stay and start that fight after all.
"I don't need to prove anything, Hardison. So, do you want to keep talking smack, or do you want to–" Eliot nodded to the bedroom.
Hardison just stared at him. "You're serious?"
"Sure, man. You're not exactly hard to look at, and I guarantee I can knock whatever you got running in circles in your head clean out the door."
"You're fucking with me."
Eliot bit back the obvious joke and said, "I changed the sheets."
"Well ain't you just a boy scout. If you're messin' with me, I'll–"
"What, Hardison," Eliot stood up and got up in his face. "What will you do?"
"Empty your bank accounts, hack your cable receiver so the porn channels are all scrambled, blow up the photo that I found of you with eighties hair to poster size and put it up in the conference room, sign you up for a home visit from every church group in L.A.–"
"Okay, okay. You're one vindictive badass. I get it."
"Damn straight."
Eliot set his palm against Hardison's chest. "I'm not," he said.
"What, messing with me, or straight?"
"Both, either, whatever."
Hardison stared at him like he still thought this was all some joke. Jesus, had the guy never been hit on before? Eliot stared back and kept his hand where it was. He'd made the offer casually—almost sure the whole thing was going to get laughed off—but now he was surprised by how much he wanted it, wanted to get Hardison out of those retro layers and see the real man underneath.
Hardison turned and walked away. Eliot watched him, watched him turn toward the bedroom, watched him start peeling off the layers. Eliot followed.
He found Hardison face down on the clean sheets, head pillowed on his arms, naked. He looked like he had the longest legs Eliot had ever seen. He also looked as young as he really was. "Hardison," Eliot said softly. Are you sure?, he was going to say. Is this really what you want? "Alec–"
"No," Hardison said, sharp and almost angry. "No," he said again, and lifted his head enough to look at Eliot over one shoulder. "Don't call me that."
"Sure, man," Eliot said. He got it, he did.; this wasn't personal—it was just physical, sex, release, someplace to hide for a while.
"No, no," Hardison said, half rising up off the bed, "it's just—it's not my real name, not the name my momma gave me."
Eliot let out a puff of laughter. He hadn't even considered that. He never really thought of Hardison as a criminal, he was the geek boy, a computer jockey, not someone who needed to live under an alias. "So your real name's on a wanted poster somewhere?" Eliot grinned at the thought, wishing he could do that thing where you altered photos. He'd make one and blow it up poster size.
Hardison rolled his eyes. "Funny, man. Just how many states are you wanted it?"
"Depends. You counting Mexican states too?"
Hardison laughed, and the tension in him just dissolved, and he collapsed back onto the bed, gangling limbs all sprawled out without a hint of self consciousness.
Eliot peeled out of his clothes, tossing them onto a chair, and then he crawled onto the bed, giving in to the impulse to run his hands up those legs. Hardison was long and lean, and his skin was smooth, soft, silky, the hair sparser than he'd expected. Eliot couldn't stop touching. He'd thought he was walking in here for something quick and dirty, but listening to Hardison laugh and seeing his goofy smile had given Eliot other ideas. Mindless luxury—he was a rich man now, and he could have whatever the hell he wanted. He ran his hand down Hardison's back, tracing the dip and curve of his back and the swell of his ass. "You in a hurry?" he said, low and sexy—not the voice he usually used with a man.
Hardison arched up into his touch and didn't laugh at him, didn't roll his eyes; he just squirmed deeper into the mattress and said, "Take all the time you like."
Eliot reluctantly pulled his hand away from Hardison's skin to rifle the nightstand for supplies. Someone, some kind soul in the parade of blurring faces he'd entertained here, had left behind a bottle of massage oil. He wanted to see Hardison's skin shiny with oil, weak morning light glinting off the planes and angles of his body. He popped the top and let a stream fall down the length of Hardison's spine. He swept his hands up along taut muscle, and he dug in hard with the heels of his hands when he got to Hardison's shoulders. Hardison grunted in startlement and probably pain; he was pretty tight.
"Give into it," Eliot said. "Don't push against it, just let yourself relax into it."
Hardison made some noise that may have been complaint, but on the next stroke of Eliot's hands, he didn't press back, and a few strokes after that he was falling deeper into his easy sprawl. Eliot indulged his greed. He worked Hardison's body, slipping and sliding over the slick, oiled skin, feeling the heat and the softening of hard muscles into something almost pliant. They were both warm, and the smell of oil and sweat mingled in the air. Eliot's hands were hot, the palms polished with oil, and he felt like he was melting into Hardison's flesh. Eliot had been ignoring his arousal, focusing instead on the texture of Hardison's skin, the curves and angles of his body, but the urge to drag his half-hard cock across those slick round curves of Hardison's ass was getting harder to resist.
Hardison had barely moved, had barely made a sound, just the occasional groan or murmur of pleasure as Eliot had worked him over, but now he was spreading his legs, pulling the right one up, exposing himself and asking wordlessly for something more.
Eliot wiped his hands on a towel and exchanged the oil for lube. He worked it in his hands, letting his skin warm the gel. "Want you just like that," Eliot said, the first words he'd spoken in what felt like hours, and he slid his slick finger down the cleft of Hardison's ass. "Want you all spread out and warm under me." He slid the finger inside, and Hardison relaxed and let him in. "Want to do all the work. Want you just to feel it, give in to it."
Hardison groaned low in his throat when Eliot started working him open. He shimmied his hips and bucked up.
"Shhh, now, settle down," Eliot said. "Still just taking my own sweet time."
"You're killing me, is what you're doing," Hardison said, voice all low and slow like a hot summer day back home.
"We'll get there," Eliot said, and thrust with his hand, gradually speeding up. He set his other hand on Hardison's back, feeling the speeding of his heart through skin and bone; Eliot was working him now, working him with pleasure— letting his heart rate speed up, then pulling back, slowing it down and letting him come down a little before pushing him again. He did it again and then again—ramped up the rpm, and then let it drop back.
"You trying to make me beg?"
Eliot gave him a little something extra on the next thrust for the impertinent tone. "I wasn't really, but now you've got me wondering."
"Want it," Hardison said, and Eliot laughed, low and rough and said, "Yeah, so do I."
He got himself covered up and slicked down and pushed Hardison's legs wider with his knees. Hardison was more than ready, stretched open and slick and Eliot balanced on one arm, lined up and pressed in. Hardison opened up and let him sink down nice and slow, and this was a hell of a lot better than just having his hands on the man. Mindless luxury. He let himself fall in, melting in again as he worked his hips, slow, deep thrusts. "Taking my own sweet time," he said again.
He was losing himself in the feeling, muscles flexing and stretching, body moving of its own volition. It wasn't too different from a session with the free weights. His mind was floating free, reveling in the sensations and the slow moving tide of his growing pleasure. There was sound, but it was blurry—voices and the sound of flesh, but none of it resolved into any pattern. There was the sharp smell of sweat and sex and the soft aroma of sandalwood oil. There was heat and sweat and the burn in his arms, but it was distant—all out of focus. He was deep inside his own head, and when Hardison started bucking under him, twisting his hips against the mattress and moaning, he just held on for the ride. Hardison's ass clenched tight as he came, and he let out a long, low groan and somehow managed to melt into an even more relaxed puddle of limbs. Eliot's arms were shaking, but he needed only a couple of short sharp thrusts to push himself over. It was like a slow sinking into the sea; the orgasm took him slowly, sweetly, and he let his body slide down until he was submerged in it.
He let Hardison shove him off and over onto his back. He listened to Hardison's muttered complaints about his abused muscles as he shifted around on the bed. He was reasonably certain he had his eyes open. He felt the bed dip and roll, and the AC cut on, blowing cold across his skin. He thought maybe Hardison had left, but then he was back, flopping onto the bed, and Eliot was going to make some smart remark about seeing his dick for the first time, but Hardison wormed closer, pressed his lips to Eliot's ear and whispered a name.
***
Eliot cruised into the conference room, jazzed off an hour in the gym and the really good cappuccino in his hand. Hardison's widescreens were lit up with a map of North America; thick black lines showed the state borders, and bright orange and blue filled them in. He read the heading and grinned. Parker was standing with her nose inches from the screen, examining the labels on each state. Hardison was lounging in one of the chairs, arm hooked over the back, smirk in place.
"Okay, first off," Eliot said, squinting to read the fine print, "Chiapas should be orange. You must not have found the alias I was using there, but trust me—I'm so wanted there, it's not funny. Also those charges in Texas were dropped, so...and Nunavut—I don't even know where that is and I'm looking at it on a map—must be some other really hot guy with my name got in trouble there..."