Work Text:
“Do it,” said Nate, crisply. He took a sip of his whiskey, frowning out the front window, without really seeing the stripes of rainy streetscape between the blinds.
“What?” said Eliot. Confusion bled into the dull, almost-robotic blankness that had laced his voice since he arrived, as if everything about Eliot since he joined the team had been a grift, a personality programmed in by his employer to appeal to the crew.
“Do it. If Moreau wants to meet Hardison, then bring him.”
The pieces of the plan slowly slotted into place in Nate's mind. There would be risk, of course, but Moreau still thought he had the upper hand, that Eliot was loyal to him.
Nate never heard him move.
The glass flew from Nate's fingers as a muscular hand wrenched him around, just a heartbeat before his back slammed forcefully into the wall.
Nate's head bounced off the drywall, pain exploding from the point of impact. The glass shattered on the floor. There was a knife at his throat and murder in Eliot's eyes, and Nate suddenly, belatedly, remembered why Eliot Spencer had been the bogeyman of the criminal world even without a known link to Damien Moreau.
…
Nate was supposed to help. Shit, shit, shit. He'd fucked up. Doubled the number of Masterminds out to hurt Hardison. They were different, though. Moreau was out of reach, but Nate had been foolish. There was only one way to deal with someone who could be the next Moreau. He had to die before he could build his empire. Before he could become untouchable.
This would blow the whole con. He had to get them out. Grab Hardison and Parker and stash them somewhere until he could find a way to keep them away from Moreau permanently…somehow.
He couldn't kill Nate. If Hardison and Parker found out, they'd be terrified. They wouldn't understand. Lock Nate up; tip Sophie off after they were well gone. Even Nate couldn't build a criminal stronghold overnight. There would be time to come back. Time to mop up if he continued to be a threat.
Then it's just an extraction job. They trusted him. He could lead them on for a while, feed them some story about why Nate and Sophie were staying behind, get them to come willingly, not realize he wasn't letting them leave. They'd be upset when they caught on, but that was OK. They could hate him, as long as they were safe until Moreau was off the playing field.
Maybe he could stash Nate and use him to bait his way into Moreau's presence. Eliot didn't need to make it back out as long as he made sure Moreau would never touch them again.
Nate was talking. Begging? Bargaining? Nate wasn't the type to beg, but what else could he have to say at this point? It was just disjointed words through the haze of panic. "Don't understand...Plan...Not giving him..."
"Eliot, listen to me. Kill me if you have to—not like I could stop you—but hear me out first."
Eliot blinked, eyes finally focusing on Nate's face.
"Well. Guess I know where your loyalties are." Nate gasped, voice shaking. His head was tilted back against the wall, chin stretched upward, toes digging into the floor. It took Eliot a minute to register the slow trickle of blood oozing down his neck from where Eliot's blade pressed into the skin, and another to make the connection and ease the pressure on the knife.
For a moment, there was no sound except Nate's ragged breathing. He was trembling. Eliot could feel it in the forearm ruthlessly pinning Nate to the wall.
Nate took a deep, shaky breath and met Eliot's eyes, over the knife still poised to open his jugular. “I wasn't suggesting we should give Hardison up,” he said, slowly and deliberately. “I meant this gives us an opening. Moreau expects Hardison to walk in unprepared and alone, except for you, and Moreau thinks you're still loyal to him. You said not bringing Hardison would blow this job before we're ready. I'm saying we can have Hardison go in prepared and with an entire team making sure he—.”
Nate inhaled sharply. Eliot's fingers had flexed without conscious thought, pressing the knife back against tender flesh. He forced them to relax, giving Nate room to breathe.
“No.”
“Yeah,” Nate rasped. “Got the message.”