Title: The Fixit Job
Author/Artist: yeomanrand
Pairing(s): Eliot/Parker/Hardison if you're looking very closely
Rating: PG-13 at most
Summary: For my hurt/comfort bingo square "head injury" -- Eliot gets hurt. Parker and Hardison each cope in their own way.
Notes/Warnings: Some schmoop. My first Leverage fic. Beta by shinychimera on LJ.

Parker drew Hardison's attention when she stopped pacing, her head cocked toward the ceiling.

"Did you hear something?" she demanded, hands on her hips.

"Nope," he answered, leaning an elbow heavily on the counter next to his laptop. "Nate or Sophie will be down when there's something to know."

She growled, and resumed her stalking back and forth in front of the bank of monitors. Hardison shared her concern; Eliot was upstairs, in Nate's bed, unconscious, being examined by a doctor Sophie had found God only knew where because any of them being in a hospital -- while actually helpless that is, not during a con -- was a Really Bad Idea.

Someone had managed to get the drop on Eliot; the fight on the recording was fast and brutal, and before Parker and Sophie reached him and startled his attacker into bolting, Eliot was flat, bleeding, and horribly still. Hardison had found the feed from a security camera near the site, was playing and replaying the footage trying to figure out who the hell the bad guy was, but he was having trouble focusing on the search for clues.

"I hate this," Parker snapped, flinging herself down on the couch, out of sight behind the cushions. But by the time Hardison had pushed aside the computer to join her, she was bounding back to her feet. "We should be able to do something. Find the guy."

And do what? Send Eliot after him? Hardison wondered, sick, worried anger twisting through his gut. Parker went on fuming, pacing, running her hands through her hair; tying it up in a ponytail and taking it down again.

"Parker," he finally said, and she whipped around to face him.

"What?" 

"Pretzel?" he asked, raising both eyebrows and holding up the foodstuff in question from the snack bowl Nate kept on the counter.

She stared back at him, and even if she hadn't been Parker the series of expressions that crossed her face would have been hard for him to read. As it was, he didn't try, just kept watching her and waving the pretzel slightly back and forth.

When she moved, she was quick and sure as always, and she slid in next to his barstool with the same force she'd thrown herself onto the couch, snatching the pretzel out of his hand and burying her face in his shoulder. If Hardison hadn't been braced for impact, she would have knocked them both to the floor. The stool rocked beneath him; he cautiously set his arm around her shoulders because even seeking reassurance Parker could be strange about touch.

"I want him to be okay," she said, muffled into his shirt.

"So do I."

She huffed, shockingly still after the last half-hour of manic energy. He squeezed his hand on her bicep, gently, and she turned her head so he could see her face.

"We need Dr. McCoy," she said, thoughtfully.

"Or maybe just The Doctor," he answered, but she gave a very child-like shake of her head, absolutely certain of her plan of action.

"No guarantees The Doctor -- any of them -- would be willing to help. No oath. Besides, Dr. McCoy fixed Chekov's head in the one with the whales, right?"

Hardison couldn't help the laugh that escaped him, and Parker flashed him a worried grin.

"Damn, girl, you've been studying."

"Know your mark, right?"

"I am not a mark," he said, with all the offended dignity he could muster. "I am a member of your team."

Parker whirled out of his arms and snagged her jacket.

"Where are you going?"

"I can't wait anymore," she said. "I need to do something. You keep looking at the video, find the guy. I'll be back."

"Park --" His shoulders sagged. "Don't do anything crazy," he called at the closing door, shaking his head.

~~~

Hardison leaned against the frame of Nate's bedroom door, watching Parker perch on the edge of the bed near Eliot.

"Why is there a stuffed bunny in the bed?" Eliot asked, low and gravelly. One broad hand, knuckles abraded over the scars, lay on the belly of the big stuffed animal tucked against his hip, but Hardison had to be imagining his thumb moving gently over the love-worn plush. Eliot still looked the worse for wear, Hardison thought, but not much worse than they'd seen him before. A whole bunch better than pale and breathing shallowly and not moving at all.

"You needed Bunny," Parker said, brightly. "But now that you're awake again..."

She reached out to take the toy back; there was a momentary tug-of-war before Eliot let go. If he'd been struggling with anyone but Parker she would have gone ass-over-teakettle; Parker caught herself with ease, eyes shining happily, and was past Hardison and out the door like a flash. Or maybe The Flash.

"What're you grinnin' at?"

Hardison shook his head. "Just glad you're okay."

Eliot raised his eyebrows, gaze shifting past Hardison to the doorway, then back to Hardison's face. Hardison shrugged, wishing he was as good as Parker was at saying the things the team never said out loud. We appreciate you. What you do is hard. We got your back. Thank you.

He rubbed the corner of his mouth, cleared his throat.

"Don't be surprised if she brings you pretzels next," he said.

"Pretzels." Eliot's eyes were distant and unreadable; the expression that let him get away with looking like the dumb thug he wasn't, when he chose to.

"It's a... it's just a thing." A weird, twisted, salty little Parker thing.

"Gotcha." His lips twitched. Just a little, and he definitely wasn't smiling. "You gonna bring me pretzels too?"

"Naw, man, I am not bringing you pretzels." Hardison shook his head indignantly, pushed off the doorframe. "I am too busy running a heuristic search for a six-foot-three male who wears a fake Omega watch on his left hand, a 2006 navy blue Land's End wool cap on his head, and prehistoric Converse sneakers on his feet, who drives a schmancy-ass Ford pickup truck. Go back to sleep, fool."

Eliot's eyebrows twisted, and he mouthed the word 'fool,' but maybe there was just a bit of a smile there, before Hardison turned and left the room, closing the door gently behind him.