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English
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Part 5 of We Have Never Had a Hitter (That Wasn't Actually Moreau's)
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Published:
2022-01-23
Completed:
2022-07-05
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2,820
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2/2
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A Shot At the Dark

Summary:

Eliot never got away from Moreau and worked as his mole within the team for three years, slowly growing attached to the crew. When they set their sights on Moreau, Eliot has to choose sides.

Hardison already regretted volunteering to accompany Eliot on this errand, but he kept his mouth shut since Eliot was on tenterhooks already preparing to con Moreau for Leverage. Now if he can just figure out why everyone is looking at Eliot so strangely…

Note: This started with a joke concept, and it's a considerably lighter take on this AU than other installments in the series, but it's still set in a dark AU and not exactly a humor fic.

(Can be read independently from other fics in the series.)

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

Hardison already regretted volunteering to accompany Eliot on this errand. Eliot had said he could handle it, if Hardison just showed him what to do, but Hardison had to open his stupid mouth and insist on coming, and now here they were, ready to enter the gates of hell… or, technically, the doors of a fancy D.C. hotel.

Usually, this realization would have come out as griping. A lot of griping. This time, he kept his mouth shut. Eliot was on tenterhooks already, preparing to face Moreau again on the crew's behalf.

Eliot slanted an uneasy look at him.

Shit. Right, he would usually be talking now. Alec's mind went blank. What did he usually talk about when he wasn't complaining? Nervously, he started griping about the “gaudy” facade of the hotel and its “pandering to rich assholes.” It was weak—the hotel was fancy, but pretty tasteful.

They drew a few looks as they entered, Eliot striding purposefully across the lobby with Hardison following in his wake, but nothing particularly unusual. It was nothing in their current surroundings that was making the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

…

“I'm Eliot Spencer.”

Forget the hair on the back of his neck—it felt like Alec's skin was electrified as Eliot announced his name to get them in. The guards outside the elevator exchanged startled glances.

“I'm escorting him to speak to Moreau.” Eliot's tone was flat and unyielding.

The guards recovered their composure and moved to let them into the elevator. Hardison stood up straight, parked himself as close to Eliot as he could without blatantly clinging, and tried not to fidget with his suit cuffs.

He wasn't sure what he was expecting when the last set of doors swung open. He'd looked at the blueprints of many hotels over the years, and of this hotel only the night before. He shouldn't have been so turned around that he didn't realize that they were walking to the indoor pool… even if that made no sense.

Probably a dozen guards were spaced around the clear blue of the unoccupied swimming pool, facing the water at parade rest. A dozen guards in near-identical black suits, black neckties, differentiated only by shirt colors taken from a strictly grayscale spectrum. A dozen heads with short, conservative haircuts swiveled in their direction.

A dozen unfriendly faces that quickly turned… confused. A few hands drifted to rest near their weapons, but none drew. Eliot's face was enough to pave them a way through, for now at least, although several guards did leave their posts to form a loose, uncertain perimeter around them as they passed.

“Moreau doesn't hire his guys to think,” Eliot had said during one of their planning sessions, mouth twisted in a wry expression that never quite approached a smile. “He expects 'em to solve problems within the specific parameters they're given, and no more. Asking questions outside that ain't good for your job prospects… Or survival prospects, really.”

Hardison could hardly believe that this was an organization Eliot had ever worked for.

At the far end of the room, clustered in and around the hot tub, was a bevy of women in bikinis. Different hair colors; different eye colors; every swimsuit different, each cut more daringly than the last. And yet the group, uniformly slender, manicured, model-pretty, and smiling, radiated a sense of sameness almost as strongly as the guards.

One man was seated near the hot tub, his all-black suit paired with a plain black shirt and tie. It wasn't Moreau, Hardison knew that much. (Speaking of which, he would very much like to know where Moreau was and why they were being led down here, before the hairs on the back of his neck sprouted legs and skittered away to complete their escape.)

Despite the similarity of clothing, this man's haircut seemed a little less regimented than that the other guards, and he had a substantial stubble while the others were universally clean-shaven. Eliot had said someone else had been assigned to fill in his former position as Moreau's enforcer while Eliot was working with Leverage. Maybe this was—?

“Chapman,” Eliot greeted him flatly.

“Eliot,” he responded, a sneer coloring his voice. Hardison hated him instantly.

Despite the smug undertone in his voice, Chapman's face betrayed flickers of the same confusion and uncertainty Moreau's other guards did. He conspicuously ignored Hardison's entire presence, but his eyes flickered almost reflexively over Eliot, as if unable to figure out how to make sense of him.

Now that Hardison thought about it, they were all looking at Eliot rather than him. Shouldn't they be watching the stranger rather than their ally? Eliot been coming back to Moreau regularly, so surely the weird thing here was Eliot showing up with a member of Leverage, not him showing up at all?

Hardison's thoughts were derailed as the steam room door opened with a hiss.

Oh. This was Moreau.

He was instantly recognizable from Eliot's description, despite the fact that he was wearing a bathrobe and in the middle of toweling his hair dry.

His expression creased into confusion as he looked at Eliot, as all of his underlings had. Unlike the rest, he quickly turned his attention on Hardison. A warm, charming smile blossomed across his face.

“Mr. Hardison! What a delightful surprise. Such a pleasure to finally meet you. Please, sit down.” After the bits and pieces they'd heard from Eliot, Moreau's subtle emphasis on “surprise” made Alec's stomach lurch—he was about 95% sure that was intended as a reprimand towards Eliot.

Hardison hastily pasted a smile onto his own face, shook the proffered hand, and took the seat Moreau indicated. (“It's OK if you look a little nervous,” Eliot had told him. “He'll expect that.”)

Eliot didn't sit. Hardison tried to take comfort in Eliot's presence looming over him, but he couldn't help counting the armed guards in this very large and open room. No matter how incredible a fighter Eliot was, he was not bulletproof, and there was only so much anyone could do against a dozen armed opponents in an open space with no useful cover.

Moreau beckoned over a bikini-clad woman with a tray of champagne glasses.

“My apologies,” he said, warmly, “Had I known you were coming—” Another subtle emphasis; definitely a dig at Eliot. “—I would have ensured I had refreshments to your taste, but please, have some champagne.”

Despite the dig, the look Moreau was shooting Eliot seemed largely puzzled rather than angry.

Moreau's gaze slid down Eliot's arm, as if briefly mesmerized by the sway of the white fringe on his sleeve.

Hardison took a sip of the champagne to cover his own confusion.

What was going on? Eliot wore that shirt all the time. Granted, the fringe had been replaced recently—snow-white fringe and embroidery on a hot-pink shirt was a horrible combination for getting stains out of, so the last time Eliot accidentally trailed the sleeve trim through blood (not his, thank god), it hadn't seemed salvageable. Hardison didn't think his repair had visibly changed the look of the shirt, though?

Hang on. Was that bastard Chapman checking out Eliot's ass?

He—wait, no, Chapman's eyes were following the rhinestone-studded floral embroidery down the sides of Eliot's jeans. Oh, those actually were new, weren't they? Soph had gotten them embroidered, custom, to match the colors and floral patterns of the shirt Eliot liked so much. Still, they weren't that out-of-step from his usual style, just particularly well coordinated, and Eliot had plenty of well-matched outfits in his normal rotation.

Shit. Moreau had just said something. Fortunately, Hardison's brain had time to catch up and formulate an appropriate reply when Moreau was again visibly distracted by Eliot.

Either Moreau was rudely staring at Eliot's crotch (Yes, Hardison was aware Moreau was evil, but he also assumed a veneer of civility, and staring at a man's privates was rude) or it was probably the gem-encrusted belt buckle that was roughly at face-level with Eliot still standing.

Which again, was a little flashier than Eliot's standard clothing due to being a gift from Parker, who liked all things sparkly and delighted in the fact that Eliot alone on the team actually wore her style of sparkly, but at the same time… They were here to see Damien Moreau? He seemed like the type to want people to dress up to see him, even if he himself was receiving his visitors in a literal bathrobe. It's not like a suit was Hardison's normal attire, either, which Moreau presumably knew from Eliot's reporting. (He'd even matched his pocket square and the stripes in his tie to the pink of Eliot's shirt. Not that Moreau needed to notice that—he'd done it for Eliot—but he was mildly insulted, albeit kinda relieved, that Moreau had barely glanced at him after all this effort and theater.)

…

Moreau had mostly recovered his ability to focus by the time they left. That, of course, meant that Hardison had to be focused on his role of ambitious young hacker chafing enough under the restrictions of his current, Catholic-guilt-laden boss to be intrigued by what Moreau had to offer, so he wasn't sure whether Chapman and the rest of the goons ever managed to reel their eyeballs back into their skulls.

The conversation had given Hardison's automated scanners ample time to operate while they talked, so he was feeling pretty good about the mission when he finally shook Moreau's hand farewell, professing that Moreau had given him a lot to think about, and was ushered towards the exit.

Until… “Eliot, a word, please.”

He started to turn back, but Moreau flashed him a “pleasant” smile that somehow had as much tooth as a shark and waved him on. “Oh, go on ahead—he'll catch up. After all, we're all friends here, right, Eliot? I'd hate to send an old friend on his way without a word just because I had business to talk with his colleague.”

Eliot nodded for him to go, so he went, reluctantly. As he exited the last door guarded by Moreau's men, he slipped his earbud out of his pocket and into his ear.

Their usual earbuds had been deemed too dangerous to wear into the meeting without knowing what kind of monitoring Moreau might have put in place, but a short-range connection between two people in the same building was easier to mask among the many signals bouncing around in the ordinary functioning of the hotel (such as the walkie-talkies Hardison had specifically confirmed were used among the cleaning staff).

“—how I feel about surprises, Eliot.” Moreau's voice was slightly muffled by the layers of fabric between Eliot's earbud and the outside world, but entirely intelligible.

“Yes, sir.” Eliot's tone was subdued, but earnest. “I'm sorry, sir. I know you're interested in recruiting him, and this was the most primed I've seen him to look at other organizations. I didn't want to let that opportunity slip by, sir.”

“Yes, that much I understand, although I would have preferred a little advance warning. But what exactly is this?” Moreau's tone dripped distaste.

“Sir?” said Eliot, hesitantly.

“Explain to me how, exactly, the rush to bring Alec Hardison to me without so much as a phone call results in you being dressed like some sort of…” Hardison could almost feel Moreau's disapproving once-over. “…rodeo beauty pageant reject.”

Hardison stopped dead in his tracks. No. Moreau had not.

First of all, Eliot looked fucking gorgeous in that outfit. Second, Moreau had no business passing judgement on—OK, OK, that second one should have been first. But—

“…When you sent me to work with Ford, you said you didn't want anyone to associate me with my work for you, sir.” Eliot's tone was both worried and confused. “I thought you wanted a distinct persona for that project that wouldn't be linked back…”

“Do you mean to tell me,” said Moreau, “that you have been running around with your little troupe of do-gooders looking like that?”

“Well, not entirely… I mean, it varies, but the bright colors, yeah. So it's distinctive. Like I said, I brought him over here 'cause it seemed like an opportunity that wouldn't last. I—I didn't have a chance to change before—”

Hardison was already heading back in the direction of the pool when his brain caught up to his body. Nate would be furious if he went back in and ruined the con over Eliot's clothes getting insulted. Eliot would be—well, not furious, but definitely upset—if he endangered himself going back in over this. He had no idea what excuse he'd even use if he did—

“We are going to have a talk, you and I,” said Moreau, in a clipped tone. “After you take our little hacker friend home to think about his prospects. I can see I perhaps left a little too much discretion in this mission. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

…

Hardison was loitering just inside the door to the street playing with his phone when Eliot caught up to him. They fell into step as they headed up the street to Lucille.

Eliot broke the silence first. “You get what you need?”

“Think so. Need to test once we're back to see if it got us in, but we were in there long enough, and it definitely looks like we cracked their phones.” He paused and stole a glance sideways at Eliot's set jaw. “You're not actually gonna go back, right?”

“What?”

“Moreau said…” Hardison hesitated.

“…You listened over comms.”

“Yeah. Look, I'm sorry, but it wasn't part of the plan and I was worried—”

“It's fine, Hardison. I'll go back if I need to go back. We'll see what Nate says.”

This time the silence lasted until they climbed into Lucille. If all had gone according to plan, Parker would be done with her own assignment and waiting for them a few blocks away. Hardison pulled his regular earbud out of the center console to swap out for the short-range one, but didn't put it in yet.

“…Did you really start dressing different when he sent you to work with us?”

Eliot shot him a quizzical look, with something guarded lurking underneath. “Hardison… you saw Moreau's guys in there. Did you really think he'd put up with me wearing stuff like this? Always kinda surprised me Nate did, honestly.”

“I did notice a very distinctive lack of color in there, yes. In more than one sense. I guess I assumed there must be allowances for people who were more than just grunts paid to stand there for security theater.”

Eliot frowned. “It's not 'security theater.' Those were his actual security.”

“He had a dozen guys guarding a swimming pool! A swimming pool he wasn't even swimming in. Just standing there facing the water! What were they securing, Eliot? Moreau think Nessie's gonna swim up out of the drain to assassinate him?”

“…OK, there is some theater to it.”

“Which is why I kind of assumed the implicit dress code there didn't necessarily apply to you. None of the anti-pool-monster guards had scruffy-ass facial hair like that monochrome, cheap imitation Eliot up in there, either.”

Eliot's lips twitched slightly. “Chapman? The guy's scum, but he doesn't look that awful, Hardison. It's not as polished as Moreau's preferred look, but he does bend on some stuff. He didn't complain about me growing my hair out working with y'all, as long as I kept it pulled back when I was on the job for him.”

“Hmmph.”

The van pulled out, heading for the rendezvous point.

“You know,” mused Hardison, “Parker once said she thought you dressed bright as a warning. Aposematic coloration. Like poison dart frog colors, but for hitters.”

“…Seriously?”

“I'm serious that she said it. You know how she is about puzzling stuff out. This was early days, though—I think after that we all just got used to it and quit thinking 'bout why.”

He took a right on red, and reflected sunlight abruptly skewered his eyeballs. “Oh, sweet jesus! Get your hat off the dash before it blinds me, man!”

Eliot hastily scooped the white cowboy hat with its rhinestone-studded band off the dashboard and sheepishly slipped it onto his head.

“So why'd you dress like that today if Moreau didn't know? This is way on the sparkly side even for you, and I know you told him you didn't have time to change, but that definitely wasn't true.”

Eliot shrugged, keeping his gaze out the window. His fingers toyed absently with the edge of his hat brim… A hat that, if Hardison remembered correctly, had come from Nate, ostensibly one he'd bought for one of his own con roles.

“It's… different. Reminds me of you guys. I figured… It felt like I needed that today.”

Chapter 2: Illustration: Eliot

Summary:

Eliot's attire for this fic.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Digital drawing of Eliot Spencer wearing a white cowboy hat with rhinestone band, a hot-pink Western-style shirt with white floral embroidery and white fringe, blue jeans with color-coordinating floral embroidery along the sides, and a large belt buckle with a relief of a horse's head inside a horseshoe. The belt buckle, shirt buttons, and embroidery on the jeans are all decorated with sparkly rhinestones.

Notes:

Wasn't intending to illustrate when I wrote this, but I finally managed to do justice to my vision for Eliot's outfit!

Notes:

This was started based on Tumblr post where someone asked about the "aesthetic" of this AU, which got me thinking about what the most absurd answer to that could be without impacting the other elements of the AU in any way that would make it obvious.