Hi :) This is probably the longest one-shot I've ever written. I feel a bit nervous about this.

Basically it's how I imagine the back story of Eliot would be. Mostly based on The Low Low Price Job. I haven't posted many things on this site and I've definitely been gone for quite a long while... I really hope you'd like it. Feel free to point out any mistakes I made. I'm not a native speaker and I tend to make stupid and ridiculous mistakes.

Btw, if you're reading The Game Changer Job, I'm really sorry for not updating. Please believe that I haven't given it up. I just need (probably a lot) more time. Sorry again.

Warning: Some strong languages. Implied violence.

Don't own anything from the show, in case you're wondering...

Time and Time Again

Three.

He watches as the glass slips from his clumsy, chubby fingers, and freezes in horror. He didn't mean to drop it. He really didn't, but the glass is heavier than the small plastic cup he is used to. Much heavier. The plastic cup that belongs to him alone is currently placed on the top shelf of the kitchen set. Mommy put it there out of habit and then left the house for grocery. He doesn't want to ask his father for help. The man will just tell him to figure something out himself.

The glass touches the ground and shatters into pieces. Pain shoots from his ankle. He looks down and sees blood streaming from a burning open wound. He can't help it.

He cries.

His father runs into the kitchen and sees the mess he just made.

"You stop crying right at this instance, Eliot Spencer," the man orders sternly, so he stops crying. He's a good kid. He always does what his father says.

His ankle hurts.

"Now," father sees the bleeding wound and frowns, making him almost starts crying again. He hopes father is not disappointed in him. He's a big boy. A big boy is not supposed to break glasses.

"You put some band aid on that cut and you come back to clean this up, ya hear me?" Orders the man. "You've made a damn mess and you gotta make things up yourself. Being small and stupid doesn't mean people will just do things for you, y'hear me? And you definitely don't cry for your own missteps, y'hear me?" He nods yes. Yes, he hears him. As always.

So he doesn't cry when he gets himself cut again, on his palm this time, as he is picking the pieces up. You don't cry for your mistakes, that's what father said. He doesn't need to be told twice.

When mommy comes home an hour later and ask about the two band aids, "I broke the glass, sorry," was all he says.

Mommy kisses his hand better and tells him to let the adults handle broken glasses next time.

Five.

"Eliot, you are going to have a baby sister," his father enters his room and says. The man is having a rare smile on his face, so the boy smiles an even bigger smile.

To be honest, he doesn't really mind if he has a sister or not, life goes on, but it is his father's smile that makes him believe this has got to be the best news he's ever heard.

"You are the big brother now, ya 'ear me? So you're gonna love and protect your sister. She's gonna look up to ya and you don't let her down, y'hear me?" Says the man solemnly, but he can still see the tinkles in his eyes that betray the man's excitement.

"Yes, sir!" he answers seriously. He always listens to his father.

His father chuckles and rubs his hair.

This is the best day of his life.

Six.

He hears mommy's yelp of pain from the kitchen.

Father is not home yet. The hardware store closes at exact six. It is five thirty-two. He runs into the kitchen and sees mommy sitting on the floor and crying in fear.

"Ellie, y… sister… coming…" she yells in pain again. "Call… daddy…"

He runs to pick up the phone, but before he dials the first number, he realizes calling his father is not going to help.

The store is twenty minutes away. Mommy can't wait for twenty minutes in pain. So, without a second thought, he dials in 911.

Later that night when the three—four—of them gather in mommy's hospital room. The doctor will tell his parents how brave he has been, and that few six-year-olds can report an incident so clearly and right to the point and can recite his home address so accurately.
It's lucky that the medics were there when she gave birth, the baby would have been strangled by the umbilical cord, the doctor will tell them. They made it just in time.

Mommy will smile the most beautiful smile in the world and his father will pat on his shoulder and tell him "Good job, boy." And he will be the happiest six-year-old in the world.

Eight.

"Ellie, mommy is sick," mommy kneels in front of him and says. Normally he will protest and tell mom to stop calling him "Ellie". It's a girl's name. He knows that because there is a girl on his class called Emily. Her mother also calls her Ellie.

But today it's different.

"You should see a doctor," is the only thing he says. It's only natural. When you get sick, you go to a doctor and you'll feel better, but deep down, he knows.

Mommy is not getting better.

"I have, honey," mommy sighs. "God knows I have."

He wonders if she sighs because she is annoyed by his reaction. Mommy sighs a lot, usually after talking to his father. He never tells mommy but sometimes he hears their conversation from his own room. Mommy would say something to his father and wait for his opinion, but more often than not all she gets is a nonchalant "whatever". It's always then she will sigh, deeply, like she's got something so, so heavy in her chest that she almost can't breathe.

He feels guilty for making mommy sigh like that. So he wraps his arms around her neck and buries his face in her neck, feeling relieved when mommy returns the hug, and confused when he hears her sigh again.

Somewhere in the house he can hear Rosie laughing at a cartoon he knows she is watching.

Ten.

He can tie a tie himself. Mommy taught him once when he was helping out with the laundry. Once was enough. He's a smart boy. He doesn't need to learn things twice.

So he tie the black tie and put on his black jacket. Father threw him the kid-sized three-piece suit this morning and told him to put it on. It is at least two sizes too big for him. His father must have told the saleslady his son was ten-year-old and let the lady decided the right size for an average ten-year-old. She doesn't know he's a small kid.

It looks ridiculous on him, but it doesn't matter. Nothing really matters these days.

He adds a few pins here and there and now it fits better.

Now that he's ready he goes to Rosie's room to see how she is doing. She is struggling with the zipper on the back of her black dress. So he helps her out. She asks if mommy would be at where they were going. She hasn't seen mommy in a week and she really, really, wants mommy to be there, to watch her in this pretty dress. Mommy bought her this one about half a year ago. It fits perfectly.

He tells her mommy would be there, but she probably won't speak to them. She cries and asks why. Why, why, why, why, WHY?

He doesn't know what to say so he says nothing.

And so when he smells the alcohol on his father as the man was driving them to the funeral home, he doesn't say anything either.

Twelve.

Hereditary. That's the only word he understands. He's heard of it somewhere from TV. The gray-haired doctor is nice enough. He only wishes the news he delivers is half as nice as the man himself.

But no. He comes here and tell them what Rosie gets is hereditary.

Why, he asks. If she gets it from mom then what about me? Why don't I get it as well? The doctor looks at him and puts down his glasses.

Sorry, son, he says. But with all the technology, we have yet to learn much about cancers. Hereditary is just a guess, and seeing her family medical history, it is as good a guess as any.

Father hasn't spoken a single word the whole time. The doctor shakes his head and tells them how sorry he is and starts talking about options.

He hates sympathy.

Thirteen.

They can't pay for the medical bills anymore. The hardware store is not making money with the economy and father's savings have run out since two months ago.

They needs to do something. He knows it; his father knows it.

That's why when he comes home with the mysterious four hundred bucks his father doesn't ask where they come from.

"Can he afford it?" was all he asks. Father looks tired, and sad. He wonders if it's because of the money.

He nods yes.

The man he borrowed the money from definitely can afford it, with that Giorgio Armani he was wearing. The bad news is he finds out he doesn't make a very good thief. The man felt it the moment he pulled out the wallet from his pocket. The good news is he realizes he is a great fighter instead.

He hopes he didn't hurt the guy too bad. He did what he had to. They need the money.

It doesn't matter. Within two months they won't have to worry about medical bills anymore anyway.

For a moment he wonders if his suit will finally fit this time.

Fifteen.

He comes home from school and puts the takeout on the kitchen table. His father watches as he lays out the greasy not-so-Chinese food.

Secretly the fifteen-year-old promises himself that one day he'll take up cooking. Ingredients are cheaper to buy than fast food. It will definitely taste better, too.

After dinner he takes out the two grand from his back pockets and gives them all to his father. The man is beyond shocked.

"It's for the debt. We can't owe Uncle Randy the money forever," he points out calmly.

For the first time in his life, his father slaps him.

He isn't surprised.

"Eliot Spencer." Father's face is red from anger. "Where did ya get that?"

"A part time job," comes the quiet answer, followed by the even quieter silence.

He swears his father has stopped breathing.

"We don't have a choice," he tells his father when the man hasn't spoken for too long.
"If they catch us?" asks the older man, now looking even twenty years older. He doesn't ask the boy what, exactly, the job was.
"Me. If they catches me. I'll tell them I've already spent the money," he's already thought that through. "And you don't know anything about it."

His father glares at him.

"Of course I know about it. And I let you. You can't say I don't, ya hear me?" He is not angry anymore. Now he's giving an order. For a split second the fifteen-year-old almost smiles. Something just never changes.

But something does.

"No."

His father stared at him. Hundreds of emotions play through on his face. Outrage, sadness, horror… So he softens his expression. "Look, I'm fifteen. They'll lock me up in juvie for a month or two and that's it."

His father is contemplating.

A minute has passed.

Then two.

Five.

Slowly his father picks up the money and looks at it for another minute. He takes out a hundred from the bills and hands it to his son.

His son won't take it.

Seventeen.

He gives Mrs. Thomas all the money in the store's cash drawer. There are about a thousand dollars in it. It's a good week. Better than most others anyway. He knows it's not easy for the store to make this money in a week these days, but he hasn't even hesitated.

The folks in the town are raising money for little Luke's college fund. The seven-year-old has just lost both his parents in the house fire three days ago. He knows them. They are friends. They used to come here for house supplies. Sometimes they brought Luke too. The boy likes hanging around in the store, asking the seventeen-year-old bunch of questions only a seven-year-old knows to ask.

What's a hinge? Why are there so many types of screws? If you hammer you pinky does it really grow like a huge balloon like in the cartoons? Oh and if I throw a crowbar at someone's head…

He has a hard time keeping a straight face in front of the kid.

"You don't throw crowbars at people," he's told the kid. He tries, unsuccessfully, to not smirk. "Of course, unless you really hate him." The boy laughs.

He hasn't heard that laugh in three days.

So yes, he'll empty the store's drawer to help the boy. Even if he suspects his old man won't want to talk to him for a month after this.

After Mrs. Thomas says all the grateful words exist in the English language, and leaves, his father comes out from the storage, with a strange look on his face. He braces himself for the storm that's sure to follow.

"You gave all the money to her?"
"Yes." No point beating around the bush.

"Good."

It was then he finally recognizes the strange look father is wearing. His father has looked at him like that, over ten years ago when he found out his six-year-old son has saved his newborn daughter's life.

It is pride.

Eighteen.

"I enlisted," says the now-grown-up coldly.
"Shipping out tomorrow."

His father stops eating.

"You promised you'd stay."

If he doesn't know better he'd say his old man is sad. It's not like it can change his mind anyway. Little does he know, the Pandora box is opened right from this moment.

The conversation continues.

"I'd stay and do what? Work in your store?"
"Yes!"
"I can't, dad. I can't! I want to do something more. I thought you'd understand!"
"Eliot Spencer, you are NOT doing this, you hear me?"
"What is your problem? I want to serve my country. I thought you'd be proud!"
"Well I'm not. You promised me…"

The conversation continues, until it's too late for either of them to fix this.

"You know, dad," he doesn't know what's got into him, but he can't stop himself.
"Sometimes I wish it was me who died instead of Rosie. I think all of us would be happier now."

He wants to take it back so bad, right after he hears himself say this out loud. He really does, until he hears his old man's reply.

"Yeah, me too."

He wonders if his father wants to take that back too, but he's afraid to know the answer.

So he goes on to pack that night, and walks out of the door the next day before his father wakes up.

Nineteen.

It's hard, being a soldier.

He doesn't really mind. He's already got used to it. It feels damn good to be someone; to do some good.

Twenty.

Finally, they're back in the base. Having a day or two to himself means time to think. He hates thinking these days.

He misses the town. He misses the weather. He misses walking down the road where everybody knows your name and talks to you about how beautiful a day it is.

He'll try to make a call to Aimee tonight.

Twenty-three.

He can't do it anymore. He doesn't want to keep playing a good guy when all he does is killing people.

All means necessary, they say. He understands. It's for the greater good, but when he finds himself starting to enjoy what he's doing, he fled.

He's a bad guy through and through. No need to pretend otherwise.

He's heard Aimee is getting married next month.

Twenty-seven.

He really wishes that Ford guy would give him a break. They're really not that difference. They both are just doing their job. It's annoying how he always calls him the bad guy.

Ford is aninsurance investigator. That man's job description is practically calling his every single client a liar. Who's he to judge anyway?

Thirty-one.

This is the worst thing he's ever done. The. Worst. Fucking. Thing.

He feels like he is drowning. Drowning in his victims' blood.

It's not a good way to die.

Moreau. This is that asshole's fault. That man crosses every line in this business.

It is Moreau's fault. He made him do it.

Blood. Blood everywhere. Blood on his clothes. Blood on his black rubber gloves. Blood on his hair. The worst part? Most of it is not his own blood.

Moreau has promised this time he'd get an easy job. The man lied. This time is the hardest.

He's killed before. Against more people, bigger muscles, but this time is the hardest.

Moreau has offered to find some men to take care of the bodies, but he refused. He always does the clean-ups himself after kills.

Moreau. Moreau. Moreau.

So he puts the bodies together, pours some gasoline and lights the match. The fire burns bright and it smells like the barbecue they used to have at the Thomas' yard on Sundays. That's when he throws up.

He wants to cry. He can't lie to himself any longer. Moreau didn't pull the trigger. He did. There's no one else to blame.

But he can't cry.

You don't cry for your own wrongs.

Thirty-four.

For the first time since seventeen, he feels like he's done something right. He sees how Corporal Perry's face lights up when the kid realizes they have the money for his rehab, and he knows. He knows he's finally made something good out of this messed-up world. It feels so damn good.

That's why when Nate Ford says they can walk out anytime if they don't want another job, he tells him:

"One more."

Thirty-eight.

When Hardison asked about him. He really didn't want to answer. It was distant memory. He doesn't even remember which shelf theyused to put the wrenches on in the store.

But he told him anyway. He told him everything. How his father's store looked like; how his old man wanted him to work in the store; how he walked out and never returned. After these years of working together, Hardison deserved to know more. It was then he finally realized: He missed him.

The very next evening he goes back. He really hopes it's not true what they say about you can't go home again.

They really do say all the bullshits.

Who are they anyway? What do they know about home?

He carries the six-pack to the front door. He doesn't understand why this is so hard. He has fought an entire Russian mob, more than once, for Christ's sake. Hell, he's Eliot Spencer. He has infiltrated and escaped North Korea for the damn monkey.

One breathe.

Someone must have put rocks in his chest.

Two breathes.

Feels like drowning, again.

Three.

.

He knocks.

No one answers.

.

.

He knocks again.

"Dad?"

Nothing happens.

.

.

So he puts down the beers and turns around to leave, feeling something hot in his eyes.

The light in the living room is on the whole time.

You don't cry for you own missteps, y'hear me?