Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Parker looks around the gallery distractedly. “Can you hear that chirping?,” she murmurs to her companion. “It’s driving me crazy.”

Alec gets the message and mutes his feed to Parker’s earbud, reduces his volume to Eliot. He’s been murmuring, “Be cool, be cool, be cool,” to Parker for 30 seconds straight, but stressing her out is the opposite of what he wants.

He was set off by the mark putting his hand on Parker’s waist. In the part she’s playing—a delicate, foolish woman looking to spend money to support her spiritual journey—it’s not surprising that Damian (birth name Ted [not Edward, his parents named him Ted]) would push that intimacy on a thirty minute acquaintance. The cult they’re going to bring down sexually exploits their members, as well as draining their wallets.

Parker grabbed Damian’s hand and held it. Parker’s hands are strong, but Damian’s not showing any signs of pain, so Alec tries to stop obsessing and get back to monitoring Damian’s partner, Valenciana (birth name Joan). Valenciana has tucked herself in a corner of the gallery a little bit too close to Eliot. “Eliot, the partner’s at your 2, green t-shirt, black maxi skirt. You need to wander before she makes you.”

Eliot drifts right towards a small mixed media display which is doing a really bad job of trying to make Jesus and Siddharta Gautama seem like the same guy. It puts him a little further from Parker and the mark, but at least they’re still in the same room.

Parker is chattering on about her trust fund and her search for God, in a way that makes clear that “Jessica Grace”  knows very little about the trust fund she just came into control of this year and even less about religion.

Damian is nodding along raptly, inserting a, “We talked about something like that at my group,” whenever she says something especially nonsensical and disconnected from a major religion. He’s closing the gap between them physically, too, trying to mirror Parker’s body language and nudge her into sync with him. “You know, you sound like you’d fit in perfectly at my group. We’re not, like, religious. It’s a spiritual encounter group, and we sit and talk and do a really nice brunch afterward.”

“What do you want to bet they start at 9:30 and don’t start eating until 3? Lure you with free food but make sure you’re hungry to test compliance and make it just that much harder to think,” mutters Alec.

“It’s a little more sophisticated than I expected,” says Eliot, looking deeply into the eyes of the kewpie doll symbolizing Buddha Christ. “The theme of pooling water just deepens everything.”

“No,” says Alec, in response. “Well. They may give them a lot of water and tea to keep them from questioning the lack of food, but they’re not going to try to control bathroom privileges at the first meeting. You want to weed out independent thinkers, not make people associate the group with pants wetting. I mean, that’s a different sort of group.” He snickers a little at his own joke, actually relaxing a little now.

So, of course, that’s when Valenciana comes up fast on Parker’s open side, before he or Eliot can warn Parker, asking, “Who’s your f—” and Parker clocks her for her trouble.

“Apologize!” hisses Alec, remembers he’s turned off his sound to Parker, and corrects before saying, “You can still save the grift if you apologize, Parker. Say something about a big brother who used to startle you, do a little ‘wounded bird’.”

“What? Who? What?” says Parker, which isn’t an apology and wounded bird, but it is better than kicking Valenciana when she’s down, which is kind of what Alec was expecting to see next.

Damian stands motionless. Alec can’t tell if he’s not used to violence or if he’s worried that “Jessica Grace” will walk off if he helps the woman she just punched. Alec mentally downgrades Damian’s competence at the grift; they’ve only been at this half-an-hour and, as far as Damian is concerned, Parker’s just a prospect who passed through the filter of appreciating ugly religious-y art, not a real investment of time or money.

Valenciana is crying, and fair enough. Parker probably didn’t pull her punch. Eliot steps in and pulls her up and away. “Miss, let’s try and find a docent and a first aid kit. She popped you good in the nose. It might be broken.”

Parker and Damian just watch as Eliot pulls the girl out of the gallery and towards the information desk. Neither of them seem to know what to do, so Alec figures it’s up to him. “Parker, tell him, ‘I hate when that happens. I was in a relationship once where…. Never mind, let’s get out of here.”

She dutifully repeats what Alec says, and the intonation even sounds almost in character.

“No,” says Damian. “You’re not right.” He backs away from her, then turns and takes a brisk pace in the same general direction as Eliot and Valenciana.

“Stay cool, Parker,” says Alec. “Eliot can work his way in and pull a Jeeves. The con’s not blown.” He glances at the security feeds. “Uh, but you need to clear the room before the guards grab you. They’re on the way.”

Parker grunts in acknowledgment, then spares a quick glance around the room. There’s truly nothing worth stealing in this uninspired, unimportant exhibit. Hardison sends a loop of her standing and looking puzzled to the room security cameras just before she runs at the wall and into an airshaft.

Long practice means Alec doesn’t jump when Parker plops into the chair beside him, even though he failed to hear the van door open and close. Probably it did, and Alec missed it while he was feeding Eliot info on Valenciana.

“I can’t believe I lost the mark with some basic self-defense.” She’s slouched upside down in the chair, head hanging off the seat and knees off the back.

“You broke her nose because she was trying to introduce herself,” Alec points out.

“On my blind side!” 

Alec sighs. “You need help.”

The furnished apartment they’re renting for this job has an actually nice kitchen—well lit, well laid out, well ventilated—not just expensive finishes. It’s travel knives and borrowed dishes, but Eliot is enjoying cooking in this place.

It’s morning, so Eliot doesn’t cook waffles or omelets or anything he’d want to serve hot. Experience has taught him that Parker’s schedule is unpredictable and Hardison sleeps from two a.m. to ten a.m., if not otherwise obligated. Eliot himself is an early riser. It’s a natural tendency that the military only reinforced in him, and he finds that he enjoys the solitude and the quiet. He can wait for Parker to make strange noises in vents and Hardison tapping a million miles away on a keyboard.

Parker gets granola, because he can add protein to the mix that she wouldn’t get from dry cereal. It’s still crunchy, eaten with a bowl and spoon, and she even gets a sugar rush from the dried fruit.

Hardison gets food you can eat neatly one handed: bagels with lox spread, bacon sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs, along with bananas, apples, grapes, slightly underripe pears.

For himself, Eliot likes porridge: oatmeal, congee, atole, millet. Hot, soft, usually a bit salty. And he can throw in a little of whatever’s been hanging around the fridge too long, to give it some flavor. The end of an onion, a half of a pepper, leftover fish. It’s all eligible to be chucked in and turned to something comforting with a little sesame oil or butter mixed in. He starts the rice cooker before he heads to the shower.

“Your robot sang,” Parker tells him, when he gets back to the kitchen.

He is not surprised to see her, because Parker can appear whenever and wherever she wants. “Thanks,” he says. “I added mango to the granola. Do you like it?”

“Tastes like pennies,” says Parker.

Eliot doesn’t respond to this. It is categorically untrue that dried mango tastes like pennies, but he’s pretty sure that the small denomination means she found it unpleasant. He makes a mental note to keep the mango for himself and starts adding things to his oatmeal.

“That was weird yesterday,” says Parker, hesitantly, like she’s not sure she knows the meaning of the word ‘weird’.

“Switching the con mid-job?” Eliot shrugs. “Stay on target, not on plan,” he says, something a good lieutenant said to him once.

“No. That happens,” she says. “But Hardison was…”

“Twitchy?,” tries Eliot.

“Yeah, twitchy.”

Chapter Text

Alec does not like the way the goons are grinning. It makes him think they know something he doesn’t, and that is always a bad sign. “Marco, your guys look like they plan on taking my cut,” he said.

“Nicky, you wound me,” says Marco, oily and glib. How this guy made a living as a con man is beyond Alec. An enforcer, a thief, maybe even a cutrate ring leader, but this dude sounded fake just giving his own name. (And he is using his legal name. Alec had checked three times!) “My guys know what the deal is and they know we’re all going to live up to it.”

“Yeah, okay,” says Alec. “But I’m not handing over the key until we leave the church. Your guys make me nervous, and I get grabby when I’m nervous.”

Marco’s smile gets a lot toothier in a very unpleasant way. “Like I said, we all know the deal here. And we’re all going to live up to it.”

“That’s it,” Eliot growls in Alec’s ear. “I’m pulling you out at the church.”

“Not a problem,” says Alec to both men. “I know the deal and I’ll play my part, man.”

The drive over to the bank is not, unfortunately, in a tense silence designed to raise “Nicky’s” blood pressure and make him fear for his life. Sal, who does appear to be the dumbest goon, is the driver, and has the choice of radio. He picks conservative talk radio.

On second thought, maybe they are trying to raise Nicky’s blood pressure and distract him. Sadly for them, they picked a cut rate Alex Jones knockoff, and Alec spends the whole drive taking mental notes. Conspiracy theory cons are usually people regurgitating half-remembered James Bond plots, but occasionally these guys go paranoid because they actually saw something. And occasionally they’re doing more than peddling fake vitamins or unnecessary survivalist gear to help you survive the government takeover, and the crew takes an interest. This guy is  loud, boring, and selling anti-nuclear sunscreen.

Alec takes out his phone to make sure there aren’t reports of people dead or dying from whatever the hell you put in sunscreen so you can call it anti-nuclear, but Jack clears his throat.

Jack is Marco’s smartest goon. He might try to salvage the operation after they bankrupt Marco, actually, so Alec looked into his background almost as closely as he did Marco. He’s smart, lazy, and mean, a dangerous combination in a criminal. They’re still looking for specific, individual crimes they can give the police evidence that Jack did. “What are you doing, Nicky?”

“Trying to make a meme about anti-nuclear sunscreen. That is hilariously fake.” Alec makes an exaggerated yikes! face. “I mean, I usually respect the hustle of a fellow con man, but do people even think they need to protect themselves from nukes anymore? If I was going to do the mass market paranoia grift, I’d be making up anti-virus shit.”

The radio conman starts braying about an air purifier for your car, and Alex glances to his right to see the self-same nonsense gadget poking out right in front of him. “Oh,” he says, brilliantly.

Jack doesn’t react audibly for five seconds, ten, then he bursts out laughing. “I told you that air purifier was junk, Sal. And the electronics guy agrees with me.” 

Alec chuckles uneasily and leans a little toward the window. “Looks like a fan to me, man. Sorry.”

Sal doesn’t acknowledge the conversation, but he changes to a classic rock station just as Alanis Morissette spits, “You, you, you oughta know!”

Everything goes more smoothly in the bank itself. Parker took over an empty office before they got there, and the pictures she scattered of her mountaineering and skydiving are enough to keep Jack from questioning the lack of nameplate or other personal effects.

Alec and Parker do their little dance with the loan and the interest rate, and then she sends him back to the lockboxes with an actual bank employee. The key Parker broke in and placed yesterday morning is there, just as it should be, and suddenly Sal and Jack look like much more serious business.

The car is gone when they get outside. “What the hell?” shouts Sal.

“What happened to your car, dude?” shouts Alex. “How am I supposed to get to the church on time?”

“The car’s gone?” ask Eliot and Parker simultaneously, so much earbud noise it blocks out Sal’s cursing.

“I’m at the church,” says Eliot, “I can’t—fucking car thieves, I hate those guys.”

“I’m on a bus,” says Parker. “Rapid transit, so I would get to the church before Alec in a regular car. But…”

“If you don’t have a car, Sal, how am I supposed to get to the church on time?” wails Alec in his most pathetic Nicky voice. Alec really is frustrated. If he doesn’t get to the church before the altar call, their whole scheme falls apart.

Jack points at an approaching pink Chevy. “Here’s our Lyft. Let’s go.”

“I can’t believe you’re making me ride in a pink Chevy,” moans Alec, but he scrambles in as soon as the car pulls to a stop.

“It’s mauve,” purrs the driver, who looks and sounds like a young Harvey Fierstein. And then he floors it, and they’re at the coffee shop before Parker gets to the church, which shouldn’t be a problem, but was definitely not the plan.

What’s weird is that they’re at the coffee shop before the rest of Marco’s crew. Nicky is supposed to meet Marco’s money guy, Bill, and an assortment of goons, before he goes to the church. “If I don’t have the bonds, “ says Alec, “the whole thing falls apart. So, where’s Bill, Jack?”

Jack doesn’t say anything, just pulls out his phone and starts texting. Right this minute, Alec wishes he were in the van, so he could monitor those texts.

“I put laxatives in their coffees,” says Eliot. “A lot. I’ve got the bonds. You just need to keep waiting for Bill until it’s too late to do the trade. And don’t give up the key.”

“You need help,” says Alec.

“What?” asks Sal.

“Your boss needs better help,” says Alec, bowing his head to hide the grimace on his face. He hates when they resort to drugs. You never know when you’re going to run into somebody whose body can’t handle them.

Parker finds herself laughing all night, whenever she thinks of Eliot dosing an entire goon squad with laxatives. It’s not so much that she’s finding joy in her enemies’ misery. (It’s a little bit that, but not mostly.) Mostly, she thinks it’s funny that their hitter took out guys with pills. It’s so unexpected, it makes her laugh. 

She’s sharing a first class row with Eliot. It was clear very soon into their partnership that Hardison’s form of twitchy flying and Parker’s form of twitchy flying were not compatible. Eliot has a way of sinking into his seat, reading a book, and basically turning imperceptible for the length of a flight. He can normally ignore everything she does.

Tonight, he gently strokes a finger on her wrist. “What are you laughing at?” He says it with a smile, inviting her to share the joke.

“Laxatives,” she says and giggles. “Like you’re channeling Nate, or something.”

He scrunches his nose like he’s a little bit embarrassed. “I did ask myself what Nate would do.”

She laughs again, more of a snort than a giggle. “Maybe we should do that more often.”

The smile drops off his face, and Eliot looks thoughtful. “I don’t know. Hardison…,” Eliot shook his head. “He yelled at me for putting people in danger. I broke two wrists and knocked a guy unconscious last week, I don’t know why he’s flipping out over laxatives.”

Parker stops laughing, too. “I think he’s sleeping less than me.” She holds up one finger. She’s been building a list in her head. She doesn’t want to forget anything. “But I don’t think he’s coding anything specific. He’s on his phone a lot, not a computer or tablet.”

“He’s not eating as much as usual. Sometimes he forgets if the programming is hard, but if he’s not programming….” Eliot looks really worried now.

Parker looks at the three fingers she’s holding up. There was one more odd thing about Hardison’s behavior. Another thing she had noted, then dismissed, but since she was sharing now. “He talked to his sister on the phone. With his voice.”

“He only calls his Nana.” Eliot looks back toward the row where Hardison is sitting, and Parker follows his gaze. Hardison’s holding his phone, but he’s scrolling, not typing. “Something’s not right.”

Chapter Text

Grifting is the most fun way to do a con, but, when Alec is being honest with himself, it’s rarely the most efficient, and often not the most effective.

Hacking is still his best thing. It’s so efficient that, honestly, Alec usually has two or three electronic hacks going on at the same time as they’re working in the field. Crooks are naturally drawn to schemes that rely on re-selling to a bigger fool than they are. Alec’s not even sure that the secure NFT for discreet transactions with a coded public ledger that he set up is technically illegal. He does know that he’s funneling all of the real money criminals pay in into their general victims’ fund.

Hacking does require a certain amount of focused attention. But Alec lives with Parker and he’s given his kitchen to Eliot, and that makes the sort of isolation he craves for deep focus work hard to come by. (He is not entirely displeased by that fact. Anytime he catches himself using a techbro phrase like “deep focus work”, even in the privacy of his own mind, he makes himself run a lap.) On a practical level, this means that Alec’s serious hacking sometimes happens in public places: libraries, coffee shops, occasionally a church, in parking lots when the weather’s not vaguely murderous. Places where it is possible for him to be observed, but where he is, deliberately, ignoring his surroundings.

He’s aware, in a visceral way, that this is not the safest choice. He’s been buried alive, kidnapped and shackled, and threatened with more guns than he really wants to think about. And being close to home is no guarantee, either. He’s only had to blow up one headquarters, but they’ve abandoned two others because their enemies searched them out. But he works in public anyway. He doesn’t want to trade his freedom for safety, and he really likes the almond bread at the coffee shop by the paint supply store. He keeps them in business. (He hacked their Quickbooks to check that they were doing alright; there was no way of telling what new owners would buy the place if it went under.)

Today, the coffeeshop is playing pretty chill post-rock over the speakers. For reasons he doesn’t entirely understand, this causes the suits who frequent the shop to linger less than usual. He notes the emptier than usual tables and dismisses it, until someone asks, “Can I take this seat?”

Alec says, “Sure,” without looking up, assuming that someone is asking if they can take the seat to another table. It’s about time for the high school kids to descend on the place in droves, and they rearrange the furniture to suit their social needs. But instead, the person sits down, breeching Alec’s personal space in a way that immediately puts him on high alert. “Can I help you?” he asks, summoning the snooty disdain of a certified sommelier.

“You can, Alec Hardison,” the person, a brown-skinned man in jeans and a plain, grey knit shirt, answers back. He has a general American accent, collar-length brown hair with a little wave to it, and the little finger of his left hand is a tiny bit crooked. He does not have a drink or pastry. He’s not touching the table.

“But will I?” asks Alec. Finding out Alec’s name isn’t impressive, and ostentatiously keeping your DNA and fingerprints to yourself while your face is completely exposed is frankly disappointing. Alec turns his laptop around to take a picture of the guy, not hiding what he’s doing, and then starts the search. “What do you want?”

“We want to locate someone,” says the man.

“I’m guessing he has a good reason he doesn’t want to be found, and I’m going to let the man be. See you never,” Alec glances at his screen, “Tam Osman.”

He takes the van to the nearest library parking lot to go over it for trackers. He finds three, which is one more than he expected, and, honestly, the first thing he’s found interesting about this whole situation. He’s parked in the back corner of the library lot, and he knows from experience that it’ll be at least a week before any of the librarians decide to call a tow for it. If this isn’t wrapped up by then, the van is the least of his worries.

He sends a message to Parker and Eliot, locks his phone in the van, and heads to the restaurant of the nearest hotel with conference space. He eats half of a wildly overpriced and gratuitously truffled burger, before he slips out to the bathroom. From there, he slips to the conference level, scattered with an assortment of non-descript chairs, sofas, tables. He can work here undisturbed for the rest of the day.

It’s time to unravel this net. He starts with the two threads he has: one, Tam Osman, and two, the trackers. What he finds is, at the end of the day, disappointingly mundane: a government contractor seeking to locate a whistleblower who can expose their theft and violence. Alec confirms the whistleblower is in the hands of the U.S. Marshalls and then leaves that end of it alone. He turns his fingers to the contractors instead. 

He goes scorched earth. He flags all of their operatives and executives as terrorists, not just with US intelligence but also with Interpol and Mossad. Whatever he finds in company e-mail to blow up a marriage, he sends to the relevant spouse, except for the three guys with child porn on their computers. Fuck those guys, he sends copies of their whole drives to the FBI. He bricks their corporate computer system, sets up a crypto account for one of the founders, and texts a ransomware demand for 5 million bucks to be deposited in that shiny new account to the whole executive team. While he’s at it, he donates from their personal financial accounts to various charities for peace, war mines removal, and refugee resettlement.

Last and definitely least is Tam Osman. He reports Osman’s rental car as stolen and cancels all of his cards, including his library card and transit passes. “You need help,” he says to himself, and reverses all of that. Tam Osman is not a serious bad guy, just an actor who responded to the wrong casting call. He does send him a strongly worded e-mail explaining that “flash mobs” and “experimental theater in the community” are more likely to be grifters than art, and warning him to be more careful in the future.

Chapter Text

Alec is slouching in an armchair, fingers tapping on his thighs in an irregular, but swift rhythm, reminiscent of typing. Parker is perched on a couch cushion on a bar stool, the highest designated sitting point in the room. Eliot’s sitting in the corner, clear line of sight to the door and the man in front of the desk.

“So, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you three. Did anything in particular bring you back?” Jesus is a light-skinned Latino man in very nice jeans and very nice sneakers, a soft pink button down with the top two buttons open, and sporting a bright blue blazer.

“Hardison,” says Parker. Her voice is petulant and her body language is sulky.

“I thought we could all use a little help because we’ve all been a little on edge and a little cruel lately,” Alec says. “I nearly ruined a guy’s life over an acting gig.”

“Just because I used a chemical instead of physical force,” mumbles Eliot, swiping hair out of his eyes. “I’m not out here giving guys love taps, Hardison. I’ve got control over my force, but not their bone density or medical history. I can kill people with my hands.”

“I was just defending myself,” adds Parker. “She came up on my blind side.”

Alec talks slowly and clearly, as if he’s suddenly unsure how much English Parker understands. “She was talking, out loud, to the person you were walking with. It wasn’t an attack, and you not acknowledging that it wasn’t an attack is why we’re here.”

“But the three of you are solid?,” asks Jesus, the therapist. “You don’t want relationship counseling?”

“My only relationship problem is getting dragged into the principle’s office. No offense,” says Eliot.

“None taken,” Jesus responds, making a note.

Alec grimaces, both because paper notes make him nervous, and because he thought they had already had the argument over counseling.

“That’s not what she meant, anyway,” says Eliot.

Alec turns to look straight at Eliot, who is scowly in the way that indicates he’s really worried, not just annoyed by other people’s nonsense.

“Is that right, Parker?” asks Jesus. “Did you mean something other than the fact that Alec convinced you two to see me?”

“Yes,” said Parker. “He’s twitchy. And hungry. And not using his computer.”

Alec’s stomach does choose that moment to gurgle loudly. “That was a coincidence,” he says.

“No, it’s not,” says Eliot. “You been skipping breakfast and only eating half your usual dinner.” He holds up a hand. “And you’re not making it up at lunch, man. Don’t even try it.”

Parker gets up and comes to Alec, wraps her arm around him. “He’s not sleeping, either. Fix him, Jesus.”

Jesus smiles, because they’ve talked about this before. “I can’t fix him, but I can help him help himself.” He looks directly at Alec. “Alec, it sounds like you may need some individual counseling. Do you want to get started now or do you want to schedule an appointment?”

Alec sighs, puts his head in hands. “Let’s, let’s get started today. They’re right. I need help.”