TRIGGER WARNING: This fic does deal with domestic abuse. Nothing graphic or overly-crazy, but it's there. Just a heads-up!

A/N: COWRITTEN WITH domina tempore.

The story behind this fic is a long and semi-crazy one… isn't it always? Suffice it to say, it was mainly due to Deej recommending Sam Hunt's "Take Your Time" and its music video. (The moral of this tale: don't show Julie an epic music video unless you want to be roped into co-writing a surprisingly long one-shot inspired by said bit of cinema.)

Thanks to our betas frankie_mcstein, Jay, and SisAngel for the readovers!

Standard disclaimers apply.

Alternatively titled: The "I Can Do Anything Better Than You" Job

The first time Hardison met her, it was a Wednesday. It was more of a "Hey you can cut me in line because you have three things and I have thirty" kind of meeting, but he remembered her smile and her gratefulness, and he thought that pretty much counted. He also remembered the bruises on her wrist that make him think of Eliot's MMA friends, but he didn't think too hard about it. He didn't have much time, anyway, before she tugged down the edge of her sleeve that had slid up as she deposited her items on the belt. Then she was through the line without stopping to return the clerk's small talk; she simply offered a small smile and a "thank you" before hurrying out.

Several times during his next few shopping excursions, he thought he caught a glimpse of her here and there, but never for more than a passing moment. And those moments were so brief that he was never completely sure it was her. It wasn't until nearly two weeks later - also a Wednesday - that he got close enough to tell for certain.

He was in the dairy aisle, considering the merits of skim milk over whole. Eliot would have told him to buy the $7 organic stuff, but he was not about to waste seven and change on a half-gallon of milk! And that was when he ran into her. Literally. He had just selected a milk carton - without breaking the bank, thank you - and turned to head for the front of the store, but he hadn't noticed her open the refrigerator door next to him until his nose became intimately acquainted with it.

Miraculously, he managed not to drop his shopping, but he wasn't completely positive his exclamation of pain and surprise was as manly as he would have liked. Thank God no one he knew was with him. "Ow!" He rubbed his nose with his free hand and squinted through the compulsory tears that were certainly not intentional. Through the haze, he glimpsed a pair of wide, startled eyes staring back at him.

"Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry!" the young woman was saying, an unsure hand hovering in the air near his arm. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," Hardison nodded, even though the hand still over his nose seemed to betray his confidence. "Shoot, it was just a glass door. I've seen worse," he added, straightening his shoulders. He dropped his hand from his face and gave her a self-assured grin. "I'd say you should see the other guy, but, well…" He gestured vaguely at the clear glass door, where only a small smudge marked the surface, and had the satisfaction of hearing her chuckle. She had a nice laugh.

She reached up to brush a blonde curl from her face, and that was when he saw them again. They were similar to the bruises he had noticed the last time, except he could have sworn they were lighter a few weeks ago… and on the other arm. And this time, he was pretty sure he could actually make out finger marks in the brown and green contusions. His eyes narrowed slightly. Before he could say anything, however, she was tugging down her sleeves and putting a hand on her shopping cart.

"Again, I'm really sorry about that," she told him, shrugging at the door. "Um, I should go-"

"Hey, it's all good. No need to run away; I don't bite." He grinned widely, then stuck out his hand. "Alec Nose-of-Steel Hardison. Esquire."

She laughed again and rolled her eyes, but she did reach out and shake his proffered hand. "Annie. Nice to meet you."

He was going to make a witty comment regarding the omission of her last name, but then she glanced down at the watch on her left wrist and visibly paled. "It… it was great to meet you, Alec, really, but I need to be going. Take care," she called over her shoulder as she hurriedly pushed the cart up the aisle. A moment later, she had rounded the corner and disappeared from view.

Hardison frowned after her. Did I say something wrong? I don't think I was being creepy. Oh gosh, I hope I don't have bad breath or something. After running over the interaction in his head again, he shrugged, pretty sure that her hasty departure was not his fault. Most likely, she was actually in a hurry. You didn't sound stalkerish, he reassured himself. She just really hates grocery stores. Or something. He directed one last dissatisfied glare at the glass door before heading for the bread aisle.

Within five minutes, he had made it through the checkout line and was stepping out into the cool evening air. Now, where had he parked Lucille? The parking lot wasn't even that big; finding the van should not have been a difficult task. A moment later, he was shaking his head and walking towards his vehicle on the left side of the lot.

Loud voices made him pause halfway to Lucille. Hardison cast around for the source of the noise.

"What have I told you about taking your time in there?" The man's voice was startlingly loud, and it made Hardison flinch. Dang, I'd hate to be on his bad side. "You know I don't like to be kept waiting."

The voice that responded was female, vaguely familiar, and terrified. "I'm sorry, Eddie. The lines were long-"

"Don't give me that sorry old crap. I don't have all night to waste sitting around in this parking lot waiting for you to mosey around. If I say I want you out by six forty-two and ten seconds, that's when I expect you back."

"Ed-" A sharp slap cut off whatever the woman had been about to say. Hardison began looking in earnest now, certain that whatever the conversation was, it was not something to which he should just sit back and listen. Maybe he wasn't Eliot, but he knew enough to recognize when someone needed help.

He located the arguing couple by a rusty old pickup truck just as the passenger door slammed closed. A man - very tall and not very nice looking at all - stalked around to climb into the driver's seat, and the truck whipped out of the parking lot before Hardison could get a good look at either of them. There was something familiar, though, about the woman's voice, and the waves of golden hair he glimpsed through the window as they sped away.

"Okay, now you're just seeing things," he scolded himself, shaking his head to dispel the image of Annie in his head, that first second in the dairy aisle where she'd stared in shock with just hint of something else. Fear. Like she was waiting for something terrible to happen. "Just because you saw some blonde hair doesn't mean it was her. There are so many blondes in the world! And she left way before you."

Hardison was able to almost, if not completely, convince himself that the entire thing was his overactive imagination. If it wasn't for the conscience that Nate had somehow managed to instill in them over the years, he probably could have let it go and not felt responsible. But her voice and that slap rang in his ears all night long, and every time he closed his eyes he saw the bruises on her wrist.

"So let me ask you a hypothetical question."

Eliot rolled his eyes. Hardison's "hypothetical" questions were rarely that, and they were never as innocent as they seemed. The last time his friend had led with that phrase, it had ended with one of Eliot's best serving bowls in pieces in a wastebasket. And Hardison dropping in at his apartment out of the blue was never a good sign. "Is it about you breaking some belonging of mine, or accidentally tipping off a German bounty hunter to my current location?" That little adventure had been a hot mess. Hardison was lucky that either of them had survived the debacle.

"Okay, first off, he was Austrian; get it right." Hardison raised an eyebrow, and Eliot decided then and there that he deserved to be a saint for putting up with the man, friends or not. There was football on, and he wanted to nitpick the details? "Second, no, it's nothing like that. You act like I'm lying about the fact that I'm presenting a hypothetical situation."

"That's because usually you are," Eliot pointed out, crossing his arms over his chest and raising an eyebrow.

"Ye of little faith." The look that Hardison gave him was one of disdain, and it took actual effort for Eliot not to smack it off his face. Not beat the snot out of him, of course; just remind him on whom he was looking down. But his next words were said in all seriousness, shifting the mood from annoying to concerning. Suddenly, the man had Eliot's attention. "So hypothetically, if a guy met a girl - well, anywhere - but for convenience let's say someplace like a car wash, or that little grocery store down the road - and maybe it happened more than once… say early evening every Wednesday - and that girl had bruises on her arms that didn't look like the normal 'banged my arm on a cabinet door' kind of bruises, and there was a completely hypothetical argument right outside whatever this location may have been, between that same woman and this real sketchy dude with a temper… what would you infer from that?"

Having known Hardison for years now, Eliot was able to follow his train of thought all the way to the end, but it was a near thing. He was pretty sure he knew the answer, but he wanted more details before he told his friend what he probably already guessed. "What kind of bruises are they?"

"Hypothetical ones, Eliot. Have you not been listening?"

"Fine. What kind of hypothetical bruises, then? Describe 'em. Are they like, whacked with a baseball bat or a tire iron bruises, fell on the ground bruises, handprint bruises? They're very distinctive markings, Hardison," he added as he caught the look the other man was giving him.

Hardison nodded slowly as he seemed to think about it, then he replied, "Uh, let's say they were handprint bruises, around her wrist. And," he added, the thought occurring to him, "some vague, shadow-like bruises on her cheek. Again, hypothetically, of course… Whaddya think?"

"You really wanna know what I think?" Eliot narrowed his eyes, but Hardison was nodding, and the expression on his face was way too serious for the "hypotheticals" in which he insisted on speaking. "He's beatin' her. Probably pretty frequently, if the bruises are at different stages of healing. And forgive me for this question - it's hypothetical, of course." He raised an eyebrow, but declined to mention how transparent Hardison's deception was. "Is this someone you know?"

"...Define 'know'?"

"Dangit, Hardison!" Eliot fought down the instinctive rush of blind rage that threatened to overwhelm him. "Guys like that, they aren't content to stay in the minor leagues, all right? Sooner or later, something happens and they snap, and then there's all kinds of trouble involved - and someone usually ends up really hurt or worse." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then gave his friend a serious look. "Trust me on this one, Hardison."

"Okay, so if it's that bad, then I should do something about it, right?"

At least he'd dropped the ridiculous pretense. "You should call the police," Eliot advised. "That's what they're there for. You don't want to get mixed up in trouble like this, Hardison. That ain't your niche."

Hardison nodded slowly, processing what Eliot had just told him - although Eliot was fairly certain that Hardison hadn't grasped the full gravity of the situation. But his friend just smiled and stood, putting on a strained air of confidence. "Hey, thanks for the chat, man. I gotta run, but this was fun. We should do it again sometime."

It did not escape Eliot's notice how quickly Hardison ran out, leaving him no chance to argue. Or that he stole his umbrella. He sighed. It was just like Hardison to interrupt a perfectly good football game with one of the few situations - hypothetical or not - that Eliot didn't feel right about ignoring. However… it was already 9:30 at night. It seemed pretty unlikely that anything was going down at this hour. Hardison wasn't stupid, and he had said something before about seeing stuff in the early evening. Plus, in Eliot's experience, scumbag boyfriends who beat their women tended to spend their nights drinking and then passed out. It was a safe bet that this Tuesday night was going to pass without Hardison getting himself killed.

Sighing again, Eliot opened a beer and turned the volume back up. He would deal with it tomorrow.

It had been a week since the situation in the parking lot. Hardison had tried his best to brush aside the thoughts of what he had seen, but they kept turning over in his mind. That was why he had ended up at Eliot's apartment the night before; he had gotten to thinking on it and his teammate seemed like a logical choice of a sounding board, and he figured that Eliot would be the most informative and honest about the situation. He didn't really want to get the whole team involved - that seemed very messy for something he wasn't even one hundred percent positive he had seen - but Eliot was safe. Well, relatively safe. And he had a sweet combat umbrella.

Their conversation had gone something like what he had expected, though he had hoped Eliot would tell him he was just overreacting. Deep down, however, he had always known. All he had needed from his friend was an excuse… validation that what he was thinking wasn't way out in left field. But his worst fears had been confirmed, and even as he ducked out that night, something of a plan was forming in his mind.

Sure, Eliot had said call the police, but Hardison couldn't see his friend doing that. Eliot beat up guys for a living. And really, even if he did call the police, Hardison couldn't actually see them taking him very seriously. He wouldn't if the roles were reversed… What did he have anyway? Some circumstantial evidence and a gut feeling - and the advice of a professional hitter. He didn't see that conversation going very far. So instead, Hardison found himself back at the grocery store the next evening, trailing a short distance behind Annie as she exited the sliding doors.

That same old rusty pickup was idling in a parking space, and even from halfway across the lot, it was obvious the driver did not look happy. Hardison felt himself clutching Eliot's umbrella a little tighter the closer he got. Annie, too, was approaching it with trepidation.

Why you even going back to him, girl? Hardison thought with a frown as the man climbed out of the car and started yelling at her again. Ain't nobody ever told you not to put up with this crap?

"What did I tell you?" The man - Eddie, she'd called him last time - roared, waving his hands and towering over her. "Are you kidding me? I got places to be, woman, and you're in there chattin' it up with every freakin' warm body? You must be crazy." Annie flinched away from him as he continued yelling, but then she just stood there and took it. Eliot had been right. Not only was he beating her, but it was long-term. Consistent. Whatever fight she might have had in her at first had long since been beaten out of her, replaced by this tired sort of acceptance that was painful to watch for more reasons than one. Hardison felt sick.

This is no time to wimp out, man, he chided himself, readjusting his grip on the umbrella as Eddie knocked the bag of groceries out of Annie's hands and began to push her around. Just remember, WWED: What Would Eliot Do? And with that, he swallowed hard, squared his shoulders, and quickened his steps towards the truck.

"Hey, Eddie!" he called out. "Why don't you pick on someone your own size?" He had it all worked out in his mind, how it would go. After all, Eliot always made it look so simple. Yell something at the bad guy, duck a punch or two, then deliver one of his own that would completely incapacitate said bad guy.

When the man straightened and turned on him, Hardison realized that he might not have picked exactly the right words for his opening line. The guy was pretty big. Scratch that. He was very big. Bench presses cars every day kind of big. But then Hardison glanced at Annie - crying and hanging on to the edge of the pickup for support - and his resolve returned. Eliot's words about these type of guys never slacking off rang in his mind. He raised the umbrella and took a threatening step forward. "Leave her alone."

Then the first punch seemed to come out of nowhere, and Hardison's world spun around the edges.

"Wow!" He staggered back. When he tasted blood, he lifted hand to his mouth to feel for the damage, and his fingers came away wet and sticky. "Okay," he said, still trying to project an air of 'Eliot' at the man. "Okay, yeah, I let you get in a shot. First blood and all; it's a courtesy. Now I am well within my rights to whoop your-"

The next punch, while rather less of a surprise than the first, still hurt like heck. Eddie didn't have the practiced, controlled moves that Eliot was capable of, but what he lacked in skill he seemed to make up for in pure brawn. Dude was strong.

"All right; I'll give you that second one, too, because I'm a gentleman. But man, you had better just back away now before I give you what for. I have an umbrella, and I'm not afraid to use it!" The threat had sounded better in his head, but he tried to look committed by raising his makeshift weapon menacingly.

Eddie laughed and cracked his neck, a dark grin curving his lips. "That'll do you a whole lot of good fightin' a storm cloud," he chuckled. "Now you'd better run along and mind your own business unless you want more of what you already got. And it might be just me, but you don't look like you can take much more."

It was only then that Hardison managed to admit to himself that he was not Eliot. The realization was both discouraging and relieving, because Eliot's job was a lot harder than the man made it look. Making a mental note to never complain about his own job again, Hardison stepped forward and swung the umbrella as hard as he could toward Eddie's face.

He missed - the man's reflexes really just were not fair - and lost his grip on the umbrella. Oh, crap, he thought as his makeshift weapon clattered to the asphalt several feet away. So much for heroics; at least Annie would know that he tried, that someone cared enough to try to get her out of trouble. Screwing his eyes shut, Hardison braced himself for some super-strength uppercut or other knockout strike.

It never came. Surprised, he opened his eyes to one of the most beautiful sights in the world. Eliot was kicking Eddie's butt like a champion. While holding a bag of cat food, of all things. Will wonders never cease? he thought groggily as the world started to spin again.

Tailing Hardison for the better part of a Wednesday afternoon was tiring, to say the least.

Several times during his quiet surveillance, Eliot had been tempted to scare some sense into Hardison. His friend was remarkably intelligent - except for when it came to personal security. If Eliot had been an assassin, he'd have had the perfect opportunity to take Hardison out several times. But while revealing himself would have been worth it just for the look on his friend's face, Eliot held back. The point of his surveillance was to make sure Hardison didn't try something stupid, like going to the grocery store in search of this mystery girl and her violent boyfriend, and that wasn't going to happen if he knew Eliot was there.

Besides, while his friend's safety and that of the girl were ultimately the most important, he had paid, like, three hundred dollars for that umbrella. He was already fuming at the way Hardison was dragging it all over the place - as if it was just any old thing - by the time they arrived at the grocery store. He waited a few moments after Hardison had gone inside before slipping out of his own vehicle and following.

Thankfully Hardison was nowhere in sight when Eliot entered. He hadn't spent his whole day in total stealth mode only to be blown walking into the building. After a quick look around to make sure Hardison wasn't in plain sight of the door, he headed for the far side of the store. The plan was to locate his friend without being spotted himself. Hopefully, his presence would end up an unnecessary precaution; but if Hardison did end up in trouble, he'd be in a position to do something about it. It was a near-perfect plan, as far as Eliot was concerned.

Or, the plan would have been nearly perfect if only he hadn't headed down the cat food aisle in his search for Hardison.

"Oh, excuse me, sir. Would you mind helping me lift this?" She was tiny, white-haired, and walked with a cane. Wire-rimmed spectacles perched on the tip of her nose, and she looked up at him with bright, innocent eyes and a winning smile. "It's a little bit heavy for me, you see," she said, gesturing with her cane to a bag of cat food. A fifty pound bag of cat food.

Did a cat even eat that much in its lifetime?

Eliot sighed internally, casting a look towards the end of the aisle where he had been heading. He was tempted to politely direct her to the front counter and continue his search, and he almost did. But then the thought of her trying to lift the bag herself popped unbidden into his mind, and he knew he couldn't do it. If there was one thing Eliot Spencer did not do, it was leave grandmothers to throw out their backs over anything - cat food or not.

Undone by wife-beaters and little old ladies, he thought as he pasted a smile on his own face. At least it was only one bag of cat food; he could probably carry it to the woman's car or whatever in like a minute. Hardison couldn't possibly get into trouble that quickly. "Which bag was it again, ma'am?" he asked, his drawl coming out thickly.

"Oh, now let me see." The woman adjusted her spectacles and bent to study the two different labels that were currently on sale. "Hm… which one was it that I bought last time?"

Eliot had never been one to put much stock in Murphy's Law, but he was beginning to re-evaluate his position on the subject.

Fifteen minutes, twelve aisles, a full shopping cart, and two bags of cat food later, they finally made it to the checkout line. Eliot had learned a great deal about his shopping companion during that time. Her name was Ruth Sholtz; she was a widow whose three children lived all over the country - but she talked with them on the phone at least once every week. She knew practically everyone who was anyone within three hours of Portland. Currently, she was in an assisted living facility with her cat Alma, but she had also taken to feeding all of the strays that somehow seemed to end up on the property. She also played bingo every Wednesday night, and she would win more often if Mr. Andrews from two cottages down didn't cheat. But that was why she was in a hurry to get home, you see, because it was bingo night…

Nothing she'd said was at all relevant to Eliot's reasons for being in the store. But she was pleasant and reminded him a little of his own grandmother, and it helped to distract him from his growing concern about Hardison. Once or twice, he'd glimpsed him at the other end of an aisle, clutching the umbrella and looking like a man on a mission - and still utterly oblivious to Eliot's presence - but it had been a good ten minutes since he'd seen him last. That worried Eliot considering the situation, but he wasn't about to leave Ruth alone to load up her car. The bagger didn't look honest enough to offer assistance, and just like in the cat food aisle, Eliot had visions of the sweet old woman trying to do it on her own and ending up in the hospital.

As they walked towards Ruth's car, she was telling him some story about the newest stray cat to show up for feeding. Eliot wasn't listening, though. He was scanning the parking lot intently in search of Hardison and anyone who looked like trouble.

"Hey, Eddie!" Eliot winced. That was Hardison's voice, alright. And by the sound of it, he had not taken his friend's very sage advice to let the police handle things. "Why don't you pick on somebody your own size?"

"Idiot," he muttered under his breath. He looked in the direction of the voice, finally catching sight of the confrontation occurring by an old, rusty pickup truck approximately ten yards away.

"What was that, dear?" Ruth asked, looking up at him from where she had been unlocking her car's trunk.

"Hm?" Eliot tried his best to look innocent. The old woman's eyes were narrowed shrewdly, and he thought the better of outright denial. "Sorry, I had something caught in my throat."

"Drink some water, dear. Here, I think I have a fresh bottle in my car somewhere…"

He looked away again as she searched the contents of the trunk, then growled in disapproval as Hardison hurled the three hundred dollar combat umbrella at a much bigger, much more muscular man. Oh, he was so starting up a mandatory self-defense course for the team after this. There was no excuse for that kind of amateur move; it was embarrassing.

But that was an issue for another day; right now there were more pressing concerns at hand. Eliot sprang into action as soon as the umbrella hit the ground. Based on the state of Hardison's face, this dirtbag boyfriend knew how to throw a nasty punch. With no weapon of any sort - and yes, Eliot had seen Hardison throw a punch, so no, the man's fists didn't count - Hardison was now in serious trouble. So was the young woman in question, as the fight with Hardison would only serve to rile up her boyfriend more than usual. As it was, she was looking so scared she could barely stand on her own; she had a hand on the side of the pickup's bed like her life depended on it, and her knees sagged slightly as if they would give out at any moment. Even at his current distance, Eliot could make out a fist-sized bruise on her jawline. It only fueled his anger towards her gorilla of a boyfriend… Eddie, Hardison had called him.

In a matter of seconds he had reached the pickup and snatched his umbrella from the ground with his free hand. The movements were not quite as smooth as usual - he was still juggling a fifty pound bag of cat food, after all - but the idiot never even saw the first strike coming. There was a darkly satisfying sound as the umbrella made contact with the backs of his knees, bringing him down hard on the asphalt.

Eliot didn't give him time to even grunt in pain before swinging the weapon again, aiming for the man's shoulder blades. By this time, however, Eddie was anticipating the blow, and he managed to intercept the umbrella as it flew towards him. He clenched a meaty fist around the end of the weapon and twisted to the side, using Eliot's momentum against him to gain control.

As much as he tried to hold on, the umbrella was pried from Eliot's fingers, forced through at the odd angle Eddie was pulling it. A second later and Eddie was up from the ground - albeit a little stiffly - and the umbrella was swinging full-force at Eliot's face. He reacted with the only object at his disposal, and when the umbrella connected with a solid thwack, it was against the bag of kibble. A shower of crunchy little bits scattered, creating a sea of brown around them.

Eliot growled in displeasure. "Now look what you did," he scolded, rounding on the other man with a deeper ferocity than he had displayed just a moment before. "Do you know how much these things cost?"

"Oh, now you just pissed him off," Hardison chuckled weakly from where he was still sprawled on the ground. That was encouraging. He looked like he had just gotten the crap beaten out of him, of course, but if he was able to taunt the man who had just done it to him, then he was going to make it out okay. "Eddie, I'd run now, man, while you still got legs to do it."

Eddie looked like he was going to ignore the advice and keep going anyway, but then Eliot tossed the bag to the ground and snarled. This seemed to jump-start the man's obviously underdeveloped sense of self preservation, and he settled for chucking the umbrella at Eliot as hard as he could before bolting for the driver's side of the pickup. His sneakers skidded on the asphalt as he scrabbled for the vehicle, then he slammed the door and roared off in a cloud of exhaust and peeling tires. The sudden loss of support knocked the woman to the ground, and she went down with a frightened cry.

Eliot hesitated a split second, torn between the battered woman and his bleeding friend. Which was the more immediate concern?

"I'll see to her, dear; you help that poor young man," Ruth spoke up suddenly from beside Eliot. He blinked in surprise. How long had she been standing by his elbow? "Well don't stand there wool-gathering; your friend needs your help."

He wasn't entirely positive how Ruth had known that Hardison was his friend, either; but Eliot wasn't about to argue with the gift horse, or however the saying went. Crossing the short space between them, he dropped to his knees beside Hardison, who was struggling to sit up. "What did I tell you about gettin' involved?" he demanded, reaching out a hand to lend support. "What did I say? I said to call the police," he finished before Hardison had a chance to answer.

"But then you wouldn't have gotten to use your super-shiny war umbrella thing," Hardison pointed out. He turned to the side and spit out blood before continuing. "I bet you haven't had a chance to whack anybody with that before today."

"Dangit, Hardison! It's an Unbreakable Combat Umbrella," Eliot corrected him, shaking his head. "That thing cost me almost three hundred dollars; you don't just take another man's umbrella and go looking for trouble." Even as he was lecturing, he was studying his friend's face. A moment later and he'd made a decision. "Come on," he said, slapping his hands on his knees and standing, then reaching out a hand to help Hardison up. "We're gonna get you fixed up."

"I don't look that bad, do I?" Hardison asked, reaching a tentative hand up to his face. Eliot saw him glance sideways at the young woman, who was sitting on the pavement with Ruth settled beside her. "I'll have you know, I have a nose of steel."

Eliot shook his head. "You might by the time the plastic surgery is done," he teased roughly. Then he turned to Ruth and the girl. "Do you ladies need a hand up?"

"Yes, thank you, dear," Ruth accepted pleasantly, allowing Eliot to help her to her feet. As he did the same for the younger woman, she continued, "I think that we might as well join you at the doctor's; this poor young lady has had quite a time of it. Oh, just look at the state of you all. Come this way; I can drive. We can meet with Charlie just as easily while you're getting proper medical attention as we can here."

"Um, forgive me for interrupting," Hardison broke in as they limped along behind the old woman, "but, well, who are you? And who is Charlie?"

"Why, Chief Charles Jensen of the Portland Police Department, of course," Ruth chuckled, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. To her, Eliot was sure, it was. "He's my godson."

"And so I said to him, 'Why don't you pick on somebody your own size?' - except he was actually way bigger than me…"

Nate crossed his arms and chuckled. Parker was sitting on the edge of Hardison's bed and was listening with rapt attention as he described his fight. Every so often she would interject something about how she would have gouged the man's eyes out, or about the fact that Eliot had been guilted into paying for fifty pounds of spilled cat food, or how fantastic that old lady had been and they should definitely go and visit her regularly… you know, just to make sure she doesn't need anything. And did anyone else think that she might have been magic?

Sophie had seated herself in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs nearby and was shaking her head and laughing at their antics. They would never admit it, but both had been worried when Eliot had mentioned the words "hospital" and "Hardison" in the same sentence. That phone call had ended rather quickly and they had all arrived before Hardison had even been called past the ER waiting room.

Hardison had tried to talk his way out of a hospital room, even when the doctor had stood firm after seeing the amount of force Hardison's head had absorbed during the one-sided fight. But it was Eliot standing in the background, arms crossed and glowering, that had convinced him to accept the doctor's instructions. In passive rebellion, he'd hooked his phone up to the hospital's wifi and gotten himself a private room, where the rest of the team had gathered once he'd been cleared by the doctor.

"He's an idiot," Eliot muttered from Nate's left. The ease of long practice stopped Nate from asking how long he'd been standing there. It would have been a waste of breath, anyway. "Running off like that, trying to be all heroic and stuff…"

"You mean like you?"

Nate glanced at Eliot just in time to see him duck his head. "That's different," he argued gruffly. "He could have been hurt a lot worse than that."

"I still fail to see how that's different."

"Because none of you should have to deal with that!" Eliot hissed. He gritted his teeth and glared, and Nate felt a small measure of satisfaction. Not that he'd made his friend mad, but that he had made it to the root of Eliot's anger with so little prompting. It was less about Hardison being stupid and more about Eliot feeling like he'd failed to protect him. They could work with that.

"It's not your job to die for us, no matter how you rationalize it in your head," Nate said bluntly. He got a scoff in response but ignored it. "You're more important than that, frankly, and it's past time for you to realize that." He paused and considered the scene before them again. Hardison - in spite of his head injuries and the very strong suggestion from the doctor not to get himself excited for the next couple of weeks - was warming nicely to his tale, waving his hands and being generally theatrical about it all. "Besides," Nate continued to Eliot after a moment, "you should really give Hardison more credit. He told me that he rigged his phone to send out an alert to the police if he didn't cancel the program within so much time - I think it was three minutes? - and that he began the countdown as soon as he approached the guy. Not utterly dismal, as far as back-up plans go."

Eliot's eyebrows shot up in surprise. Apparently Hardison hadn't seen fit to share that information with him - not that Nate had had an easy time getting it out of him, either. Grudging respect colored Eliot's expression, but all he said in response was, "Huh. Is that so?"

Nate nodded and figured that was about as much as he would ever get out of the conversation. "What happened to the girl and the old woman?" he asked as they went back to watching Hardison's story hour. At least the man could enjoy his experience after the fact.

"Girl's being kept for observation. I'm gonna see to getting her a job at the brew pub once she gets out. Keep her busy and away from that scumbag. Ruth is trying to convince her to come live with her for a while, says she's lonely. I think she just wants to keep an eye on her; the girl's messed up. Bad. From what I saw, there's years of abuse there that she's gonna need to work through."

Something they would keep an eye on, then, for certain.

"And the, ah, scumbag?" Nate inquired.

"Police picked him up on his way outta town with about fourteen traffic violations - and resisting arrest - to add to Ruth's and our testimony about what happened today. They'll take care of him."

"No chance of him getting off easy?"

"Nah, Ruth knows the Chief of Police here; apparently she used to change his diapers or something… I didn't listen too close- Hardison!" he yelled across the room, interrupting himself. "Stop tellin' them I dropped the bag of cat food; that ain't how it happened!"

Hardison shot him a withering look. "You ladies can ignore him; he's just jealous that I got to start the fight. Anyways, as I was saying…"

"Idiot," Eliot muttered fondly, rolling his eyes.

"I heard that," Hardison commented, giving Eliot a sideways look. "And besides, if you didn't drop it, then why'd you tell Ruth you were bringing more food over later?"

"She's 80 years old, Hardison!" Eliot growled. "I ain't gonna leave her to go manage those fifty pound bags by herself. Can't believe anyone else would," he added under his breath.

Parker blinked. "What did happen to the cat food?" she asked curiously.

"Dirtbag boyfriend ripped it with my combat umbrella - that Hardison stole," Eliot stated. The disapproval in his voice was hard to miss.

"Combat umbrella?" Parker visibly brightened at the term, and Nate winced. That particular expression from Parker never boded well. "I want one!"

"Ah, a combat umbrella, Parker?" Sophie spoke up, also concerned with the look on the thief's face. She wrinkled her nose. "What about something a little bit less… violent? Like shoes!"

Parker frowned. "You mean like heels with real stiletto blades in them?"

"Hey babe," Hardison quickly interjected, catching the look Sophie was now giving Parker, "don't worry about it. I'll buy you, like, ten of them for Christmas; then I won't need to steal Eliot's next time."

"Aww." Parker grinned happily.

"Oh no," Eliot responded, shaking his head. "There ain't gonna be a 'next time,' Hardison. Didn't you learn your lesson?" He gave his friend a pointed look, clearly trying to bring attention to the many stitches and butterfly bandages that adorned Hardison's face.

"Ah. But if there is, wouldn't you rather me be prepared?"

Eliot sighed and started to say something, then apparently thought better of it. He just threw up his hands and turned for the door. "I got a delivery to make. Someone make sure he doesn't kill himself while I'm gone, will ya?"

"'Kill myself,'" Hardison scoffed. "I'm in a hospital room, Eliot!" he called after his friend.

But Eliot just disappeared down the hallway. As Hardison turned back to his conversation with Parker and Sophie, Nate smiled to himself. Eliot might have a gruff, "I'll kill you if you look at me funny" exterior, and he might be the last person you'd want to meet in a dark alley. But in his over-protectiveness of the team - and the way he went stock little old ladies' cat food pantries so they didn't have to do it on their own - his heart of gold shined through.