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Hardison hasn’t blinked in six hours.
That’s what it feels like, at least.
He’s been staring at these damn diary pages for so long that they keep doubling in front of him. His eyes sting from the chemicals in the air, his hands are shaking from lack of sleep, and he can’t remember the last time he ate something other than orange soda and gummi frogs—both of which he’s getting low on.
He can’t stop, can’t rest, can’t take a break. Nate needs the diary done by noon the next day and Hardison has so much work left to do before then. He’s not going to be the one that makes that con fall apart, so he’s pulling an all-nighter. It’s not his first time pulling one for the team.
Something pokes his side and Hardison yelps, jumps, and fumbles the jar of ink he’d spent two hours painstakingly making out of boysenberries.
“Woman!” Hardison shouts; he takes the time to safely place the jar down on the table before he rounds on Parker. “You can’t creep up on people like that! Do you want to make Nate stall? Cause that’s how we get to needing Nate to stall.”
“I called your name, you didn’t hear me,” Parker says, plucking the tongs he’d been waving around for emphasis out of his hands.
“Look, as much as I love talking to you, I’m kinda busy at the moment,” Hardison says, reaching for the tongs only for her to pull them out of reach.
“Eat.” Eliot appears and waves a plate in front of him carrying a delectable smelling sandwich. Hardison reaches for it on instinct, his stomach growling and reminding him that he’d been neglecting his bodily functions for too long, but Eliot pulls the plate out of reach. “Wash your hands, then eat,” Eliot orders. Hardison is about to follow instructions when he stops and shakes himself out of whatever spell the sandwich had him under.
“Wait, no, I can’t. I gotta finish this.” Hardison pivots back to the table only to find that Parker has wedged herself into the space between him and his tools. He steps back, heart beating double time at her proximity.
“You’re taking a break. Go wash your hands,” Parker tells him. Hardison blinks in surprise, wanting to argue, but at the reminder that he’s human his body starts clamoring for attention and yeah, okay, maybe a break would be a good idea.
Hardison goes to the bathroom, washes his hands extra well—the materials he’s handled today will haunt him forever—and makes his way back to the table.
Having taken care of some of his bodily needs, he is now starving, and devours the sandwich Eliot offers him. He doesn’t know if he stops to breathe between bites.
He finishes his sandwich, chugs a whole glass of water, and sits back in his chair. He’s not tired—he’s had too much caffeine to be tired—but he feels relaxed and full and kind of just wants to lay down for the next century.
Of course he can’t, given the whole diary forging situation, but damn does he want to.
Hardison realizes with a start that Eliot and Parker have been standing there, watching him, the whole time he was eating.
His face flushes and he reaches for his cup, only to find it empty. Which is just as well because the moment he picks it up his hand spasms and he drops the glass.
It doesn’t shatter, just bounces off the carpet and rolls out of sight as Hardison lets out a hiss of pain and clutches his hand to his chest while it cramps like hell. Eliot takes the seat next to him with an exasperated sigh and yanks Hardison’s hand toward him.
“Idiot,” Eliot grumbles. A retort is on the tip of Hardison’s tongue, but what comes out instead is an obscene moan when Eliot digs his thumbs into the meat of Hardison’s palm and it feels so damn good.
Hardison just about wants to cry as Eliot massages his hand, taking the time to roll out each knuckle, and even rub his wrist, hitting some magical pressure point that has Hardison literally swooning.
Hardison holds out his other hand the second Eliot is done, and he would feel embarrassed if he couldn’t see the pleased look Eliot tries to hide.
“Where’d you learn to do that?” Hardison asks as Eliot works his magic again.
“Dated a massage therapist,” Eliot answers with a nonchalant shrug.
Eliot finishes his other hand and stands; Hardison mirrors him after a moment, not looking forward to resuming his work even though he knows he has to. This break has lasted much longer than he had time for. Parker holds out a weird looking bottle, and it takes Hardison a moment to recognize the British version of his orange soda.
“Thank you,” Hardison says reverently. Parker produces three more liters as Eliot looks on in disgust. He forces himself to meet Eliot and Parker’s gaze, both of whom are still just watching him.
“I mean it, thank you. For all of this.” Eliot ducks his head and Parker stands a little bit straighter at the praise.
“Figured you’d need the reminder to take a break,” Eliot grumbles. Hardison grins and downs half a bottle in one go, relishing at the tingling of caffeine that spreads through his body.
Hardison cracks his knuckles and returns to the table, feeling more invigorated than before and ready to produce a flawless forgery in record time.