Chapter Text
I think I’d better go
Before I try something I might regret
I might regret
-Nothing But Thieves
Quentin woke up.
Typically, that wouldn't be noteworthy. Typically, he would be curled up in his room, having finally passed out after an hour or two of visiting Fillory, only to stir awake again with a book resting on his face and his insomnia back in full force. Typically, he wasn't bound to a chair in an unfamiliar room with his lip bleeding and wrists bound behind his back, aching for any give.
Fuck, he was cold.
Quentin couldn't remember how he got here. He sure as hell didn't know where 'here' was. The room was barren. Just a concrete floor with some ominous stains, haphazard wire shelves pushed against the wall, a few fluorescent lights and if the one in the corner didn't stop flickering he was going to scream .
From behind the veil of his hair, sweat stuck to his forehead, he could make out Pete's feet as he continued to pace the room. He hadn't seen the other hedges since waking up the first time, though why Pete would bother dealing with him alone was a mystery. The only thing keeping him sane was the realization that if they actually wanted to kill him, he'd be dead already. If he were a dead man, they wouldn't have bothered moving him to this 90s grunge hellscape of an interrogation site. His body would just have been left in a condemned strip club to be fed on by rats for two weeks before some unlucky demolition crewman stumbled across his gnawed corpse. But he was here, and he was alive. Quentin clung to the thought with the desperation of a drowning man, despite only half believing it.
He peered up as much as he could without lifting his head. Even if he wanted to bring attention to himself by moving, the thought of trying made him want to throw up. Pete had removed his jacket, and was rolling up his sleeves. The flickering made it hard to tell, but the scuff on his knuckles from where they had come in contact with Quentin's jaw still looked fairly fresh. He probably hadn't been out long this time
"You can stop pretending you're not awake. Jesus, it's like you've never even heard of breath control." Jackass. His words were clipped, sharp, and there really wasn't a point in responding to them. One, Pete didn't seem to be interested in what he had to say, and two, Quentin was having a hard enough time keeping his assailant from blurring out of focus, let alone trying to talk his way out of this. What had he even been asking earlier? Quentin slumped further forward, as far as his screaming shoulders would allow. His head wouldn't stop pounding. There was a stain on the ground by his shoe and- was that blood? Wait, was this a meat locker? How did he get here?
A hand gripped the back of his hair, yanking his head up. Quentin yelped in equal parts pain and surprise. Right, Pete. Pete was his current priority, not the possible bloodstain. Did it have to be so fucking bright in here? "Now," Pete hissed, "are you going to tell me what your insignificant little coven was after, or do you really expect me to believe that you don't know what I'm talking about."
Wait, when had the coven gotten involved? "I- I don't-" He tried to screw his eyes shut, grit his teeth so hard he swore he heard one of them crack. How could fucking light hurt?. Pete threw his hand down, still attached to Quentin's scalp, and the room spun.
"Christ, you're pathetic," he exhaled. "Alright, don't say I didn't give you a choice."
Pete took a few steps away, and went back to rolling up his sleeves. His shoulders tensed, and Quentin realized he was about to get hit. If the throbbing of his temple was anything indicator, he was about to get hit again. He tried to brace himself, tensing his shoulders and clenching the muscles of his stomach. Instead he lurched to the side, only staying upright by the grace of the zip-tie cutting into his wrists and the bolts keeping the chair affixed to the floor. Pete took a half step forward - and Quentin almost yelped again at the screech of the steel door sliding open. The sound echoed through the concrete box long after the sliding stopped, or maybe Quentin's ears were just ringing. At this point, he'd gladly take another punch if it meant he could be unconscious for a few more moments.
"Pete. If you're going to call me out this late, you'd better make sure there's something left I can interrogate." A new voice commanded from the doorway. Even the clack of her heels was intimidating, let alone the tone of her voice. Yet there was a lightness to it, one that didn't demand respect. It was the voice of a woman who was fully aware she was in complete control, and if you didn't recognize as much she would make it your problem. It wasn't hard to deduce exactly who she was, even before Pete confirmed it.
“Marina! I was- I was just getting him warmed up for you.”
From what Quentin had gathered from the few people willing to talk, the reputation carried by Marina Andrieski was one even Atlas might consider cumbersome. She was among the highest ranking hedge witches on the Eastern seaboard, the top bitch in New York, and by all accounts, a ruthless force of nature. The woman before him had her auburn hair pulled back in a tight, high ponytail, with a few loose strands in her eyes. Her eye-shadow was smudged, and while her leather jacket said business she also seemed to be wearing slippers. She still managed to look every ounce a commander, and Quentin asked himself for the fiftieth time what the actual fuck he had been thinking?
“I mean, there’s not much to find out." Pete replied. "I ran into this idiot at that safe house you wanted to bring in, maybe a week ago? They obviously sent him to get a better look at the inside of the operation.”
“And did he get a better look?” Her question was pointed, and something about her reminded him of Julia. A much scarier version of Julia to be sure, but they possessed the same undercurrent of competence and tenacity hidden underneath soft smiles and femininity. Quentin found himself momentarily grateful that Julia had no idea there was magic in New York. If she and Marina were to ever meet, the repercussions would be equal parts incredible and horrifying. The thought alone made his headache suddenly spike.
Pete scoffed, the roll of his eyes clearly audible. “No, he only got past the first set of wards. He’s a total rookie, what, level two?”
“Five” Quentin managed to cough. His tongue was heavy in his mouth, and he knew on some level that drawing attention back to himself was a terrible idea, though somehow not in his top ten for worst decisions of the night. Also, fuck Pete.
“Same difference," he retorted. Quentin tried to glare up at him, but only maybe managed a wince. At least the two had blurred out of focus enough that he couldn't make out their expressions. The pause in their conversation was unnerving enough without visuals.
"Wait, is he crying ?" Marina finally asked. Pete, who seriously could get fucked, laughed.
"Yeah he really can't take a hit. Anyways his casting's pretty unimpressive. He barely made it past the door.”
From what Quentin could make out, Marina seemed to tilt her head to the side, sizing him up like prey. He felt cold, off balance, unfocused. In short, he felt pretty fucking helpless. "Mhmh, Got it, so let me get this straight," she turned her gaze back towards Pete. "An absolute nobody who can't take a hit tries to get in, doesn't see anything, gets caught by you no problem and hasn't made any move to get out, and you felt the need to drag my ass out here?"
Pete choked down the half-laugh he had managed before realizing that the tone in Marina's voice was pure murder. "Yeah- wait-no!" He stepped back, panicked but under a veneer of control. "Listen, a breach is a breach, I figured it was important for you to be here." He placated. His boss wasn't biting, and were Quentin's ears not ringing so loudly, he might have enjoyed the show.
“Yeah, don’t do that." She cut off his attempts at excuses with a cold efficiency. "He’s one fucking baby hedge, you know what you do with them? You lock them in the freezer and let them wait, and deal with them in the morning . What exactly makes this one so urgent?”
“Come on Marina, the whole covens gotta be in on it,” Pete pleaded. At least, that's what Quentin imagined the slight whine in his voice meant. He dropped his head back down, at the protest of his strained shoulders. Maybe if he closed his eyes for just a minute everything would stop spinning.
The clicking of heels let him know that Marina was pacing the room, moving further in and past where Pete had been standing. “Right, absolutely, Ramos is going to send one level five hedge who can’t even get past the second set of wards to fuck with us on his own. Come on Pete, I know they’re third rate magicians at best but even they could do better than this.” Quentin considered voicing his defense, but, he was the one tied to a chair. He groaned nonetheless, though it went unnoticed.
“I- okay that’s fair but, when I found him he was on the phone with whoever sent him on the job. So, once he was out I told him to come and we could negotiate terms for handing him back alive.”
Pete did seem to have some of his particular brand of sleazy confidence back, and Marina hummed in something that might have been approval. "Alright. And you confirmed that’s who he was talking to?”
“I mean, no, but who else would he have called?”
And the sound she made next made it clear any approval he may have garnered was gone just as fast. Her footsteps traveled across the concrete again, stopping closer to Quentin than he would have liked. Fuck, maybe he should have kept his eyes open, brightness be damned. He could feel her breathing by his ear. As far as intimidation checks went, she had definitely rolled high on hers, and his AC was woefully outmatched. “You’d better be worth the fucking effort, Five.” She exhaled.
Marina moved behind him, Pete trailing close behind with an exasperated "Marina, come on-". The pair possibly rounded a corner. Their voices were muffled regardless. Wait- did Pete just say he'd taken his phone? He'd- oh god, he'd talked to Eliot. Quentin's mouth went dry. He felt like throwing up.
Their conversation continued, but Quentin couldn’t make sense of their discussion from the few words he was able to piece together. It was like playing reverse mad libs, where instead of the story having a few blanks here and there, he was trying to build a story around “the” and “but” and “you’d better not have fucked this up”. Quentin pulled at his wrists again, though he wasn’t sure why. They hadn’t shown any give yet, and all he had accomplished was adding chafing to his list of injuries. Over his shoulder, he heard Marina ask “So do you think he’ll show up himself, or send a middle man?” Right, they were strategizing, that made sense. These were people who actually made plans, and they wanted one for when Matt showed up. Except he wasn’t coming, and if Eliot had any sense whatsoever, he would follow suit.
Knowing that did nothing to negate the yearning he felt, the pathetic hope that Eliot would show up anyways.
Without warning, something in the room snapped like a rubber band. The lights blinked in unison, and Pete and Marina shuffled about behind him. The charge of magic that had been in the air, imperceptible once one was accustomed to it, had dropped out. “Did someone just drop our fucking wards?” That one was Marina, sounding more annoyed than worried, though both emotions were present. At least, he assumed they were. The ringing in his ears had gone down, but the distortion was still there.
“Yes, that would be me.”
Quentin snapped his head upwards. He was half convinced he was hearing things, but- Eliot was there, standing in the steel framed threshold. His vest and tie might as well have been armor to Quentin’s disoriented brain, his unaffected stance and steely gaze a magnificent steed. Without thinking, he pressed as far forward as his binds would allow, strangely unashamed of how glad he was to see Eliot, how much he needed him here. “El-” he exhaled, wincing at the strain in his shoulders, and Eliot-
Walked right past him. He didn’t even look at him.
He reeled back, craning his neck and desperate to ask ‘hey, what the fuck Eliot?’ Eliot himself stopped to his side, close enough that Quentin could smell the smoke and spiced cologne of the man and far enough that the ocean of confusion he felt could go unnoticed. He could just make out Marina stepping forward out of the corner of his eye. Her hands were firm on her hips. It reminded Quentin absently of a lecture Julia had gotten really into in their freshmen year, about how body language could shape character and how appearing confident was a step towards being confident. She had tried pushing him with this newfound knowledge; stand tall, puff out your chest, stop hiding, walk like you’re Han Solo and then you’ll be Han Solo . Only, that study had turned out to be complete horseshit, and Julia’s anecdotal evidence that it worked for her had failed to account for the fact that she had an ounce of self worth to begin with. Posturing like you commanded the world was no basis for actually commanding the world, a conclusion which had been obvious in hindsight. But Marina’s stance was making him reconsider.
She stared Eliot down, concluding her assessment with an unimpressed sound. “Was that supposed to be impressive? Because all I see is a guy who brought a sledgehammer to do a scalpel’s job.”
“Please, if I wanted to take down your shitty little wards without you noticing, I would have. Being a sledgehammer was the point .” Eliot chided. Quentin choked down a hitch in his breath as the two magicians stared each other down. He wondered if he was about to witness the proverbial match between unstoppable force and immovable object, and what it meant for him to be caught in the middle. He also wondered, feared, that Eliot had seen enough and decided Quentin wasn’t worth his trouble.
Marina broke their silence first. "Well you're clearly not Ramos."
Quentin looked back towards Eliot, hoping for; he wasn’t sure. A flicker of recognition, some reassurance that he wouldn’t just walk out, for him to even fucking look at him . He kept his gaze locked on Marina. "I'm not even going to pretend I know who that is."
There was a pause. Quentin assumed Marina was assessing Eliot, calculating something, though he couldn’t be sure. After a moment, she exhaled, audibly amused. "Oh, you're from-"
"That's really not the point, can we get to why I'm here?" Eliot interrupted. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously. Or maybe Quentin’s malfunctioning brain was just trying to justify his staring. Anything could go at this point. For all his posturing and cold steel stares, Quentin couldn’t stop himself from being afraid for him. His display with the wards was impressive, sure, but he had no idea what Eliot was capable of; what level was he, what spells had his fucked-up mind wiping coven covered, what if he got seriously hurt coming here?
Pete finally rounded the corner he and Marina had been planning from, interrupting Quentin’s train of thought with his very existence. He started to say something to Marina, before taking note of Eliot, doing a double take between the two, and brilliantly concluding- “ Wait, you're not Ramos." His boss scoffed, and if Quentin were a better man, he might have felt sorry for him.
"We literally just covered that Pete. You’ve done enough to fuck tonight up, go home."
"But we're still waiting for-" He faltered, but Marina cut him off. "No, we're not. Go home Pete," she hissed. Her partner, looking more lackey than right hand, huffed. Even Quentin could feel Marina’s stare boring into his skull as he left. Neither standing party spoke again until his footsteps had disappeared from down the hall, and they heard another door open and close. Considering that he was half unconscious and still tied to a chair, the lapse in negotiations felt extremely rude. Considering that he was half unconscious and still tied to a chair, he opted not to say anything about it.
To say that not being able to see what his captor was doing behind him was frustrating would have been the understatement to end all understatements. Eliot made no indications of moving, so it was unlikely that Marina had shifted from her position over his shoulder. Predator, meet prey. She made a clicking sound that was equal parts unimpressed and dismissive. "He doesn't know, does he."
"I couldn't say what he does and doesn’t know.” Eliot replied, his voice honey smooth and unaffected. Honestly it was kind of pissing him off. And who didn’t know what? Could the two of them be more vague and ominous if they tried? “Not to rush you, but can we get to the part where you tell me what the fuck I’m here for? Not to kink shame, but your little dungeon is pretty shit. This setup doesn't look very safe, sane, or consensual." And- that fucking did it. Quentin’s fears that Eliot would decide he wasn’t worth the effort and would leave were replaced with fears that he had called the most useless person alive to help with a crisis. He hadn’t actually called for help with a crisis per say; why had he called Eliot? Desperation? Fear of dying alone? Just wanting to hear a friendly voice? Each conclusion felt dumber than the last, but none were as dumb as whatever conclusion Eliot had just come to. He looked up, squinting as his head spun again. Had the room always looked this fuzzy? Regardless, he grumbled. "What the actual fuck El?"
Finally, finally , Eliot looked at him. It was a split second thing, hardly a side-eye, but it had happened. As soon as any recognition, any reflection of ‘we’re going to get out of this alright, ‘kay?’ could pass through his eyes, it was blinked away. He turned his attention back to Marina. "Why don't we talk somewhere a little more private?"
Sight be damned, he could practically hear Marina grinning. "And leave your friend bound and unsupervised? Now who's practicing bad top etiquette?"
Eliot smirked, but it was all wrong; forced, strained. "Fine. So what am I doing here?"
"You're here to save your boy, aren't you?" she replied with a pout.
Eliot’s eyes narrowed. "He's not my boy."
"And yet you're here."
There was a moment where Quentin swore he could see Eliot’s eye twitch, nearly imperceptible but there nonetheless. He stared forward, and Quentin could only assume Marina was staring back. The clack of her heels informed him that his assumption, as per usual, was entirely off. "Alright, I’m slightly impressed. Though, you classic assholes always did emphasize keeping cool even when running into the unknown, guns blazing. You have no idea what you’re doing here, do you?”
Maybe the echo in the room had gotten worse, or maybe he was disoriented from his adrenaline finally crashing. That seemed unlikely, since he still felt like a bowstring without an arrow, pulled by someone careless who only wanted to see how far he could go before he broke, but that was beside the point. The actual point was that he had no idea if Marina was pacing, or moving closer. The actual point was that he couldn’t tell if that was more or less frustrating than not knowing what Eliot was thinking, or what to say to him. “That’s quite an assumption.” he deflected almost immediately, in a way that seemed so natural it almost hurt.
Marina snorted. “Please, it really isn’t. Everything you’ve got going on screams Brakebills. So sure, you’re smart, but everything you know was handed to you. You’ve never had to plan for shit.”
“Maybe, but that doesn’t change that I know more than enough to leave your safe house defenseless, or did you already forget that little demonstration?” He replied with a shrug, as though the destruction he had wrought was inconsequential, as though it hadn’t left a feeling of static in the air that Quentin could still taste. Marina actually laughed out loud, further assuring Quentin that what he considered impressive must actually be pretty mundane.
“Please, Pete’s already got those wards halfway back in place. And sure, you’ve got magic out the ass, but let’s not pretend you’ve got the upper hand here.”
“And let’s not pretend you know why I’m here. Maybe I’m just curious.”
“Curious would be a phone call tomorrow, not portaling in from upstate. Speaking of, any idea why Captain Incompetent would be breaking in here when he’s clearly got an ally with you?”
The break in their rapid fire was visible, as Eliot jolted back. He snapped his head to look down at Quentin, anger plain on his face. “You did what?” Quentin froze. He wanted to reply, to defend himself, to ask what the fuck sort of ally Eliot was supposed to be, and just how far his coven’s reputation apparently had spread. Only, he was already easily distracted on good days, and this was not a good day. Eliot was angry, clearly, but was he worried too? Quentin swore he saw concern, especially when he tried to vocalize- something, anything, and all that came out was a groan. What were they talking about again? Before he could ask, Eliot turned his focus back towards Marina and cleared his throat “Sorry, he did what?”
“Well, he tried, didn’t get very far-” She started, but Eliot cut her off nearly immediately.
“Actually, new question, why the fuck should I believe anything you’re saying?”
He heard her make a sort of thoughtful hum from behind him, or perhaps it was just ambient noise. “You shouldn’t,” she continued, “but I’m being straight up with you. Chucklefuck over here tried to get in, got caught, and ran. His entire safe house is on the line-”
“You don’t really think they sent him-” he interjected again, only- he stopped with a rasp mid sentence, his eyes widening for a split second. Quentin turned his head around as far as he could, ignoring the lurch in his stomach, to see Marina stepping closer. Her hands were twisted before her, finishing the last few micro-movements of a series of tuts he didn’t recognize. “Don’t interrupt me again, ‘kay?” she replied, dropping her hands with an air of composed confidence.
Eliot narrowed his eyes in response. He raised his own hands and performed another tut that Quentin didn’t recognize, shorter and harsher than the one Marina had performed. It was deceptively simple, a twist of a single hand paired with a crossing of the middle and ring finger, but its effect was immediately apparent. She stopped mid step, gasping. Her hand started to make its way towards her throat, but she stopped the movement halfway. Instead her energy went towards staring down Eliot. Eliot, who hardly even blinked. Which was pretty damn impressive, given that Quentin wasn’t in the line of fire and even he wanted to wither away. Though he probably wasn’t a great judge right now. A few seconds passed, and Eliot dropped his hand, and his spell. Quentin’s own hands were shaking, he was getting lightheaded.
“Oh, you really want to threaten me?” she coughed, still somehow sounding commanding despite the shake in her voice. Eliot turned his hands again, performing what Quentin could only guess was a counter spell to whatever had muted him. “If I wanted to threaten you,” he retorted “you’d know. So how about-”
Whatever scathing barb Eliot had prepared was lost to Quentin’s ears. Without warning, he lurched to the side, the bolts on the legs of his chair the only thing keeping him upright, and heaved, bile and the blood he had swallowed earlier spilling onto the concrete foundation between coughs. His shoulders wanted to curl forward, to protect his exposed underbelly from whatever threat was next, his wrists wanted to snap under the pressure of being pulled forward. Overall, he wanted to sleep for a month, and maybe cry. His ears were ringing again, but just under the high tone he could swear he heard Eliot shushing in his ear, low soothing noises. He definitely felt his hand stroking back and forth across his shoulder. Quentin wanted to lean into the touch, he wanted everything to stop hurting more. He may or may not have whined “El” breathlessly at the contact, the jury was out.
Marina scoffed, bringing his mind back to reality. “If you’re done coddling your dipshit, the point is that it doesn’t really matter whether or not they sent him. He’s their pledge, and right now his ass is ours, so they’re all on the line. Examples have to be made, I’m sure you’ve seen Fogg make more than a few yourself.”
He felt Eliot flinch, but his hand stayed in place at least. “You talk a lot of shit about classical training for an alumnus. ”
“Except I’m not, I got kicked out. I’m sure you can see where this is going.”
“You can’t be fucking serious.”
And Quentin couldn’t take it anymore. His forehead was pounding, his throat burning with the acid he couldn’t quite spit out, and he’d felt like someone had cast daze on him and he’d failed every last one of his will saves since waking up. On top of that, it seemed more and more like Eliot and Marina were speaking in fucking code; fog? Classical training? Break bills? “What the fuck are you guys talking about?” he interrupted with a cough.
There was a pause. A single moment of excruciating silence while Eliot and Marina stared at him. For Marina, it almost seemed like she was only just remembering that he could speak. Fair, he was only just remembering himself. Then she laughed, bright and ringing and completely tonally inconsistent with this cold ass room- which was strangely tonally consistent with all the rumours he’s heard of the top hedge in the city. “Wait, he doesn’t-, holy shit, and I thought he was way out of his depth before.”
“Yes, it’s hilarious,” Eliot deadpanned as he stood back up. If he heard Quentin whine at the loss of contact, he didn’t show it. “I always thought a little humor made any extortion better, now back on topic are you insane ? We both know I can’t get you on site.”
“What, your boyfriend’s life isn’t worth it?” She cooed innocently, despite her demand being enough that Eliot was clearly shaken, though he was playing at composure rather well. His only serious tell was the way he brushed his curls out of his forehead; he typically hated anyone or anything touching his hair after it had been styled.
“Please, if you wanted him dead I’m sure you have a dozen vivisection spells on hand.”
“You really want to try me?” Marina continued, and- when had she circled around him? She stalked across the small room, just as predatory as before and just as in control. He shuddered. “If anyone from McNaughton's had shown up, I would have put them in their place and gut him to prove a point. You’ve just made him more valuable as leverage.”
Eliot sighed, deflating slightly. “My previous point still stands, I can’t get you past those wards.”
“No, you probably can’t.” She hummed. “Hell, I probably couldn’t and I was bringing in a whole team to fuck them up from a half dozen different points. ButI don’t need to get back in, I just want my fucking memory box.”
“That’s still a pretty big ask.”
“But is it really? Here’s my offer; you get back what Fogg took from me, and I let you two leave.”
“Or I just leave with him now.” Eliot snapped. He actually sounded worried, finally, though the response he was met with was an unimpressed laugh.
“Yes, but then we’d come after him, and you, and you’d get to explain to the Dean why a group of angry hedges want your head. I’m sure whatever explanation you could come up with wouldn’t end with you out on your ass, wouldn’t you agree?”
Eliot’s jaw tensed. At least, Quentin thought it did. It was getting hard to focus. He stepped towards her, taking full advantage of his height to paint an intimidating portrait. She didn’t even flinch. “What makes you think I won’t kill you?”
Her reply was a dismissive hand wave, one that pushed him a few inches back. “You don’t have it in you. You couldn’t even hold a choke for five seconds.”
Eliot stepped back, turning to pace the room. He felt like he could hardly breathe; stuck between the need to ask what the fuck was going on, to ask Eliot how he could help like this wasn’t all his fault to begin with, and his fear of saying something stupid and making this situation even worse. El was getting even worse, subtle lines of worry appearing around his eyes. This was never supposed to happen. What the fuck was wrong with him? It was one thing if Quentin ruined his own life, got caught crossing another safe house and had to face the consequences, but now Eliot was paying for it, all because he’d been dumb enough to call him. He still wasn’t even sure why he’d made that fucking call.
Now, Eliot was just a few feet away, his back to both himself and Marina, his hands locked in place at his hips. Despite his demeanor; his artfully disarrayed hair, his stylish vests and the determined set of his shoulders, he looked like shit. He looked like shit and it was all his fault. “El, I’m sor-” he started, but was interrupted by Eliot turning back around.
“Quentin, stop talking.” he snapped, before putting his attention back on Marina.
“I’ll see what I can do, but you know I can’t promise anything. And I’m leaving with him tonight.”
“Fine. I want a word as bond.” She hummed. Quentin had no idea what that meant, but given Eliot’s stagger, it had to be way more serious than her nonchalance suggested.
“That’s not fucking happening.” he balked.
“Then you’re not leaving with him.”
They stared at one another for a moment, Quentin caught in the middle. Was being stuck in a tug-of-war, possibly over his life, supposed to be this exhausting? Maybe he could close his eyes, just for a moment. “Look, I can wait all night, but the longer you hesitate, the worse your boy gets, You know what you have to do.” Marina said. Who was getting worse? What had she been talking about again? A moment passed, and he might have heard Eliot say “Fine, let’s get this over with-”. Eliot was- right, Eliot was here, everything was going to be fine. There were footsteps around him, echoing off the walls of the room- wait, was this a meat locker?
That didn’t really seem to matter much, in the grand scheme of things. He was exhausted. Maybe he could close his eyes, just for a moment…
“Come on, get up, I’ve got you.”
The voice in his ear was strained, tense. It ripped him from the quiet comfort of the backs of his eyelids, and- where- where was he? Quentin blinked, then squinted against the lights. There was one fluorescent fixture flickering in the corner, and each flash of it felt like a knife in his eye. He was- he was being pulled upright. He was being pulled up by Eliot, what was Eliot doing- Marina. The safe house. God his head hurt.
Eliot pulled Quentin’s arm over his own, much taller shoulders. Maybe it was the scream along his deltoid, or maybe it was the sensation of glass shattering under his skin when he put any weight on his ankle. One or the other, El pulled him up and his body tried its damndest to crash down. He yelped, only remaining upright thanks to Eliot’s steel grip on his waist. He might have heard a whisper of ‘shh, it’s alright, it’s going to be okay’ in his ear as he whimpered. He might have been lost in his own wishful thinking.
“Well boys, it has been a pleasure doing business with you.” A voice behind him remarked. Right, they were still at Marina’s...interrogation room? Freezer? Back room of the safe house he hadn’t seen initially? Did it really matter? He was getting out of here, he wasn’t alone- what was a word as bond?
“Yeah, yeah, go to hell.” Eliot grunted, half dragging-half carrying Quentin to the door.
“Don’t worry, I’ll see you there soon enough.” she replied with a grin.
The hallway was dark. Too dark, but at least the flickering was gone. Maybe he could just lean into Eliot and disappear, worry about all of his questions later. That would require a full personality transplant, but it was a nice thought. They stumbled through the corridor, Eliot alternating between soothing and ignoring his winces of pain. He kept trying to help, to not be entirely dead weight, but his ankle kept screaming whenever he stepped on it and he couldn’t recall how he injured it to begin with. He just remembered running. Actually, that tracked, he’d always hated running. They might have turned a corner or two; it was hard to keep track, and all the walls looked the same. How long had they been walking? Whatever the answer, it was long enough for Eliot to round one more turn, putting them face to face with a set of open, corrugated steel rolling warehouse doors. Definitely not the safe house, then. At least the outside air was helping to clear his head, he hoped.Everything was still a bit fuzzy, but it was dark, and only a few street lights outside the warehouse were working.
Eliot pulled them along the street, Quentin struggling to keep up. “Just a little further” , he muttered, more to himself than to Quentin it seemed. There were a dozen questions on the tip of his tongue; a little further to what, why did you come, what did Marina want from you, how much worse did I make everything ? But, he had yet to get past “what” or “why” before another groan or stumble would overtake his senses.
"You've got to be kidding." Eliot said- wait, that wasn’t Eliot’s voice. It was too rough, too irritated, and most notably, coming from several feet ahead and not right next to him. Quentin looked up, drawing his attention away from Eliot’s grasp for the first time since they got out of the building. The man before them was- well, the first thing that came to mind was that he looked annoyed. He was among the rare humans who could make a paisley shirt open enough to expose the tan expanse of his chest and a scarf look somehow intimidating , or maybe it was just that he was tall.
“I don’t want to hear it.” Eliot replied. He didn’t still or falter, so the new guy was probably a friend? His tone was clear, he wasn’t open for a conversation, but the stranger showed no signs of caring.
“Like hell you don’t want to hear it, you did not just drag me out here for- for whatever super secret meeting this is. What the hell even is this?” He stepped back, turned away in frustration, and turned back to resume yelling. Quentin was dizzy just watching him. “You go in and some guy comes out and wards the place to hell and back, and I’m just supposed to stand here like a jackass? The fuck?”
“It’s a hedge safe house Penny, please drop it.”
The newcomer, Penny’s, eyes widened. “A- No, fuck you. I get it, shits fucked, but do not tell me to drop it when I’m out here because you can’t handle your own shit. I’m not getting expelled for you man.”
If Quentin had one talent, it was not knowing when to shut up. Still, everything about this guy screamed ‘ I don’t give a fuck about any of you ’, and here he was talking about not wanting to get expelled . He chuckled, even though the movement made him feel like someone had shoved a pipe in his sinuses. “Okay Hermione.” he quipped.
“I’m sorry, was I talking to you nerd?”
Under any other context, Quentin would have wilted under the look possibly-Penny gave him. It was a perfect combination of scrutiny and disappointment and exasperation, one that would have put any of his high school bullies to shame. But right now, he couldn’t quite find it in himself to be bothered. “You’re the one who got the reference” he slurred, his head lolling slightly to the side.
“Yeah, it’s a cultural touchstone, and- nevermind why am I even talking to you?” he snapped, before looking back at Quentin’s current physical support structure. “Eliot, we need to get him to a fucking hospital.”
“Right, that’s a great idea, a police report is exactly what we need right now.”
Eliot and Penny continued to argue, or maybe they didn’t. All Quentin knew was that a switch within him had been flipped. He felt frozen. Hospitals were- it was one thing when he checked himself in to one. He knew where to go and what pills to take and to talk just enough at group that he started feeling human again without saying so much that they reviewed his case and started pushing for him to stay indefinitely. And now- nothing felt right . His thoughts and vision were both fuzzy around the edges, and nothing was coming together quite right, and where was he again? What if his brain really had broken this time, and they never let him leave? Quentin’s head spun. He was hyperventilating, had been hyperventilating. Something shifted under his hand. It was Eliot’s arm; had he really been clutching it that tightly? He couldn’t go back to the hospital, not now, not when- “I- I can’t” he wheezed out.
He couldn’t tell how long he stood there, clinging to Eliot’s forearm and reminding his lungs that they weren’t supposed to function like malfunctioning pistons. It was probably only a few seconds. He probably didn’t really care. At least Eliot made no show of moving, and Penny only shifted uncomfortably.
“Alright, no hospitals,” Penny said a moment later, breaking their silence. “You got a place in mind?”
Eliot tensed. “I’m- I’m thinking alright? I don’t- there’s- no that won’t- I-”
He was panicking. And if Eliot was panicking, they were all fucked. They were all fucked and it was his fault and now he was dragging Eliot and his friend down with him. Maybe they could all share a room in whatever ward they were placed in. Suddenly Quentin was lurched forward, pulling him from his thoughts. Penny had grabbed his shoulder, Eliot’s too by the look of things. He closed his eyes, brow furrowed in concentration. Quentin blinked, but before he could ask what he was doing, Penny spoke. “I got it.”
The ground was ripped out from underneath him. He was a little plastic cartridge, trapped in one of those pneumatic vacuum systems he had thought were so cool when he was a little kid being dragged to the bank drive-through with his dad. Only he was being pulled apart in every direction, on a level that felt practically molecular. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t breathe, he-
It was over as soon as it started. He collapsed in a heap on a hardwood floor in a dark entry.
Eliot stumbled slightly, but stayed upright. “We’re at-”
“Margo’s apartment,” Penny interrupted. “Yeah,I pulled the location from your head.”
“That’s...a little invasive.”
“Whatever, you’re welcome.”
The ground may have returned but everything was spinning again, and it was so much worse than before. This wasn’t the disorientation of a few too many drinks, or even the aftermath of the one and only time he had gone to the New Jersey State Fair; the fateful day where Julia had talked her group of friends into including him when they got their unlimited ride wristbands. He had been successfully pressured into going onto each and every whirling behemoth, subjected his body to more poorly constructed g-forces and high dives than was likely safe for anyone, and only cried once despite what other sources would say. That night, he hadn’t been able to sleep for the feeling that everything was still turning about him. This was so much worse. This was his gravitational pull moving sideways and trying to press him to the wall, while weights dragged his limbs down to the core of the planet and lights spun about his head for good measure. This reminded him too much of how he imagined it felt to die. This was hell.
At least he managed to roll onto his forearms before heaving all over the floor. Absently, he noted that the floors looked nice, well maintained- probably expensive. Hopefully the owner- Margo?- would be forgiving of the situation.
He heard a murmured “oh fuck” over his shoulder, then Eliot moving to the ground with him. His hands trembled as they pulled Quentin's hair from his face. They were so warm, and he was shaking. Spending the last… however long in a freezer must have been catching up with him. That was definitely the only reason he leaned into the touch. Still, the hand across his forehead and gentle strokes across his shoulders were more than worth the intermittent demands of “What the hell were you doing?” and “Do you even know what you've gotten into?” It felt- about as safe as anything had in the last week, and he was pretty sure Eliot wasn’t looking for an actual answer, even if he had known what to say. Now he just had to remember how to breathe.
After a few minutes; ten or fifty, did it matter?- Eliot was warm and he was safe and maybe he could burrow his way into Eliot’s chest and never leave, and that would be fine, new footsteps entered his field of vision. Right, Penny was still here. Eliot stood up, and Quentin only barely swallowed his instinctive whimper. At least he didn’t seem to expect Quentin to pull himself from the protective shell his spine had become. There was the sound of rustling papers, Penny handing something to Eliot? Actually, shoving was probably more likely.
“What’s this?” Eliot asked, the familiar comfort of pages being flipped through audible.
“Modified Mann Reveal. I asked a friend to come up with a version for checking head trauma.” Penny replied. Quentin had yet to get a good read on him, and found him- mostly confusing. He was frustrated, irritable, and standoffish. He clearly didn’t want to be here. But, they were somewhere safe- at least he assumed they were- and he was still helping. “It’s a homebrew, and she literally just threw it together, so you’ll need to double check the circumstances, but she knows her shit, I’m sure it’s solid.”
“This...this looks pretty good...thanks.”
“You’re welcome. If anyone asks, you fell and I’ve got you at the Consciousness Building for observation.” His response was firm, like he really didn’t care if Eliot had a protest towards his cover story, and that no one would question it by sheer force of his personality. Quentin had no idea what a consciousness building even was and he didn’t want to question him. “Also, you’d better have paid attention to Lipson’s unit, I already checked the whole place out and they don’t even have fucking bandaids in the bathroom. I do not understand rich people.”
“Noted.” Eliot replied. Which was- well, it was an answer, if not a helpful one, as Quentin had understood maybe half of what Penny had said.
“And one last thing-” He continued, cutting into any additional dead air Eliot may have had to speak. “I don’t know what you’re up to and really I don’t care. But once he’s up again you need to teach him some fucking mental wards.”
“I’m not teaching him anything-”
“Bull. Shit. What part of ‘he doesn’t have any wards’ are you missing? Also, his ankle is all sorts of fucked, fix it.”
Quentin blinked. Had he told Penny about his ankle? Come to think of it, had he even mentioned it to Eliot? And what did he mean by ‘mental wards’- oh. Could Penny read minds? Was mind reading actually a thing? Were all his irrational fears that everyone around him could hear what a loser he was at all times actually somewhat valid? As if his night hadn’t been exciting enough already.
“Are you going to help?” Eliot retorted.
“Nah man, I’m not your fucking uber. I’m outta her, and I am not getting dragged any further into whatever this is.”
“Penny, I-” Quentin looked up, not sure what he hoped to see. Maybe Eliot coming back down to lie with him on the floor, puddle of bile be damned, or hell maybe Julia, fresh out of nowhere with her first aid knowledge from Girl Scout camp, willing to be there and help like she had so many times before, and to ask why later. Would Julia and Eliot get along? He couldn’t decide.
Regardless, all he saw was Eliot, still facing the doorway, looking at a Penny who disappeared a blink later. Great, he was probably a mind reader and he could teleport.
He probably stayed there, barely balancing on his knees and forearms, staring at Eliot’s back for an inappropriate amount of time. It was one of those things that was easy to lose awareness of, until the subject of your gaze turned around, watching with equal parts frustration and concern, and stepped back towards you. Quentin flushed, though out of embarrassment or sheer neediness he couldn’t say. At least, he hoped, it was dark enough that Eliot wouldn’t see.
Eliot knelt next to him, still somehow moving smoothly despite the tremble in his hand. Quentin didn’t know whether to laugh at the absurdity of it, or cry at the thought of what he must have seen before to still be so calm. He stilled by Quentin’s side, exhaled, his fist just barely relaxing by Quentin’s own hand.
“Do you think you can walk? Just a little further?”
Could he? It was a pretty big if , but- he nodded. It was a short gesture, not enough to make the room spin again, but enough that Eliot noticed. He gripped Quentin’s bicep again, slowly pulling him halfway upright before draping said arm back across his shoulders. Getting his feet back under him was a process, to say the least. Quentin stumbled, dizziness and Eliot’s stupid comforting height working in tandem to throw him off balance, but he stayed upright by some miracle. God , Eliot was warm. This was easy, he just had to take a few steps. Eliot was even holding most of his weight and- was he wearing a different cologne? He smelled earthy, muskier, faintly like the drinks from whatever party he had left to come save him. It was hard to ignore how much he wanted to stop and wrap himself in that scent. It was harder to ignore the pit of guilt reforming in his gut.
Side by side, they eventually made their way from the living room and into the nearest bedroom. Quentin looked up from Eliot’s feet- and stopped, realizing that this place looked way more expensive than the loft Julia has acquired for their ragtag trio. Everything was clean white walls and delicate crown molding, dark hardwoods and furniture that was probably all vintage, and massive windows, which had their curtains not been closed, he was sure would look out onto the Harbor or the city skyline or some other view he could never afford.
“Q?” Eliot asked to his side. Quentin shook his head.
“I- I really shouldn’t be here, is my nose still bleeding? I need to- I need to go, I’m going to-” He was shushed mid spiral, his words miraculously stopping despite having been pouring from his mouth at approximately a dozen words a second it seemed.
“It’s alright, I promise,” Eliot reassured him, in a sort of tone Quentin usually associated with calming spooked animals. “Trust me, my friend never stays here. She really only keeps the place out of spite, because her father is willing to pay for it. She’d probably consider you bleeding on the sheets a bonus. It’s okay, I’ve got you.”
He wasn’t quite sure he believed it- but this was Eliot. He’d already done so much, why wouldn’t Quentin at least trust him with this? He nodded. After a few stumbles and missteps, and only almost tripping over his and Eliot’s feet twice, Eliot helped lower him onto the bed. He was trapped in the confusing space between wanting to complain that he could take care of himself, and the acute awareness and all he wanted was more of Eliot’s grip on the back of his neck as he lowered him into an approximately seated position on the abundance of pillows. Fuck, was everything on this bed memory foam? He turned back towards Eliot, ‘ are you sure this is really okay?’ on the tip of his tongue, only Eliot was already turning away.
Quentin could feel his brain stall. He was- fuck, Eliot was leaving him. He had gotten him somewhere safe and now he was cutting his losses, because Quentin had already ruined his life enough, and he was going to go anywhere else and find a way out of whatever deal he’d made with Marina, and Quentin was going to be left here on his own, and he wasn’t going to get better, and whoever really owned this apartment would come back and find him and he would be arrested for breaking and entering and his dad would die with his only kid in prison and-
And Eliot reappeared in the doorway with a glass of water and the spell Penny had handed him earlier. That made more sense. His shoulders were tense, his entire body like a guitar string ready to snap. There was a fire in his eyes, an unmistakable anger. Whether it was directed at Quentin, the universe, or for some unfathomable reason, himself, he couldn’t say. But it did seem to extinguish when he saw Quentin was staring at him. Exhaustion wasn’t necessarily the best replacement, but Quentin could relate wholeheartedly. He crossed the room in two strides and pressed the glass forward in silent command to drink. Quentin swallowed. This felt so close to that first- how did one categorize an ill planned outing to a nightclub where one got fucked up on what were in hindsight probably magic drugs? Not a date, but not quite a casual get together either. That first, outing , he guessed. He had been completely out of his mind, and Eliot had been- he’d been better than most anyone Quentin had known before, but it was all off now. He was too quiet, too firm, and Quentin was probably too eager to fix what he had inevitably broken. He just didn’t know how.
He managed to finish about half the glass before Eliot took it back and placed it on the end table. Who the hell kept coasters on their bedroom end tables? Eliot’s friend, apparently. Once the glass was down, he brushed Quentin’s hair from his forehead. It must have been disgusting, still sweat slick and bloody, but if Eliot minded, he didn’t show it. Or if he did, Quentin didn’t notice because he had to close his eyes and lean into the touch like the needy creature he was. Almost as soon as he began, Eliot pulled his hand away. And- he couldn’t go again, not yet, not now. He didn’t think, he just grasped onto the first thing his hands could find- Eliot’s forearms, as it so happened.
“Please- please don’t go.” He pleaded. The rasp in his voice was terrible. And he was grateful for the absence of mirrors before him. At least he wouldn’t have to confirm whether he looked or sounded more pathetic. Eliot swallowed, mouth taught and eyes almost- sorrowful, before nodding gently.
“I’m not going anywhere Q. But, I do need my hands now, alright?”
Right. Magic. Quentin gripped tighter for just a second before dropping his hands. He wanted to drop his gaze too, but couldn’t. He didn’t deserve to watch Eliot cast, not after dragging him into- he didn’t even know, but clearly nothing good, but there was something mesmerizing about the way he cast. Maybe all magic was like that, or maybe it was just Eliot. Maybe it didn’t matter, he could try to enjoy it while it lasted.
He twisted his hands gently, once, twice, then formed a rectangle with his thumbs and index fingers and peered through them. His gaze was scrutinizing, to say the least. After a moment he hummed in frustration. “Christ, this is bad. What the hell were you thinking Quentin?” He spat.
Quentin balked, finally lowering his eyes. “I was desperate-”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?” Eliot interrupted, his agitation growing. He blinked, turning back to Eliot. For a moment, he swore he saw his own fear reflected back at him. He hesitated. “El, you- I- I’d only just gotten you back. What was I supposed to do?”
Eliot’s response was silence. It seemed for a moment like maybe he was just as lost as Quentin, which- realistically, made sense, but felt impossible. After a moment, Eliot sighed, before beginning a new series of tuts.
“I’m going to take care of your smaller injuries first. Your cuts, abrasions. They’re superficial, but I haven’t done much healing magic, so I’d rather warm up a bit before I do anything about your concussion.”
He nodded slowly. Concussion, that- that made a lot of sense, in hindsight. After another look, Eliot began casting. It seemed to be tedious work, gently pulling and pushing at threads of magic and coaxing the tissue to knit back together. Quentin winced as he moved from injury to injury, starting with the split in his lip, the cartilage in his nose he hadn’t noticed was displaced, the bruising along his shoulder; but with each flinch and grimace, there was a following warmth, a soothing push that seemed to seep through to his bones. His world was still mostly fuzzy edges surrounding a black and blue core, but the unfamiliar hum of Eliot’s magic was a welcome addition. Despite the injuries that made this necessary to begin with, Quentin could himself relax into Eliot’s casting. It was the one thing he could focus on that felt good.
Still, he barely bit back a laugh between his involuntary winces. Here he was, finally getting to see some of those thrice damned healing spells he had needed so badly, and all he’d had to do was get the shit beaten out of himself and possibly ruin someone else’s life in the process. Brava, well done, gold star for Coldwater.
There was a rhythm to Eliot’s work, a clear pattern. Assess, hum noncommittally, cast, repeat. The quiet had been comforting when his pain was keeping him on the edge of awareness, but the longer it went on the more unnerved it left Quentin. Eliot had barely so much as looked from his own hands since starting. Not that he could entirely blame him, they were incredible hands, and- that was a really strange thought to be having right now. Quentin shuddered as those hands made their way to his ankle. He was finally crashing enough for the discomfort of the silence to set in.
“So, um, how much trouble did I just get you in with your safe house?” He managed, knowing the question was pointless before it even left his lips.
“To be determined.” Eliot clipped. He drew a line along Quentin’s ribs with his left hand, then did some precise tut with his right that Quentin couldn’t quite follow, and- “fuck!” Quentin hissed. Whatever had happened under his skin, some snapping of tendons or realigning of bones left the entire right side of his body recoiling. Eliot winced sympathetically, pulling his hand away as Quentin tried to ease into the aftereffect of the casting.
“Healing isn’t exactly my discipline,” he laughed humorlessly. “Could be worse though, at least you’re not stuck with an illusionist trying to treat you.”
Quentin frowned at that. Discipline was just another term that would have to go on his growing list of ‘things to ask Eliot what the fuck he was talking about once his brain felt less like a scrambled egg ’. He just had to wait for the right time. Only, waiting for the right time had been half of what had gotten both of them into this mess, hadn’t it? He swallowed. The gentle heat of Eliot’s spell was starting to seep in, leaving a gentle tingle in its wake across his bones. It should have felt weird, it should have felt extremely fucking weird. Instead, it was somehow grounding. He could do this.
“What’s Brakebills?” He finally asked. Eliot paused.
“That’s...Quentin I-” He trailed off. He still wouldn’t look at Quentin, but at least he was looking up now. Quentin deflated.
“Right, you can’t tell me, got it.” He pressed back into the headboard, tucking his knees towards his chest. His head still felt too heavy for his body, but at least everything else seemed to be moving correctly.
“That’s not fair.” Eliot exhaled. He turned and half sat, half collapsed into the space between the edge of the mattress and Quentin’s feet. For once, all his pretenses were gone. He wore his weariness on full display, like it was something familiar. The lines of his face were ever graceful, but the depths of them spoke of having been down this road before, of almost welcoming the journey for its familiarity. Quentin was almost grateful for Eliot’s lack of eye contact. He didn’t know if he could handle the full force of whatever Eliot bore. He also knew he was still more out of it than he thought if he was really going to wax poetic over a few creases around Eliot’s- frankly, stupidly perfect mouth.
“What is?” he chortled about as humorlessly as Eliot had earlier, then paused. “Are you mad at me?”
Eliot’s hands tensed for a moment, before he continued. “I’m mad at a lot of things right now.” The calm of his voice was in opposition with his words. Though, perhaps his anger just came in the flavor of exhaustion, as opposed to the near-frenetic mania Quentin was so accustomed to. “I suppose I am, a little, but you really didn’t know what you were doing and I suppose I didn’t help. So, I’m mad at myself more. I’m fucking livid with Hedge Bitch back there and her demands-”
“About that, what’s a word as bond?” he interrupted before he could stop himself.
“Exactly what it sounds like.” Eliot sighed, shifting his position to face Quentin fully. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week, like time was an illusion meant only to drag on as long as possible for it’s chosen victims and the universe had set its eyes on Eliot for reasons unknown. Quentin wanted to lean forward, to ease that exhaustion from under his eyes. Would Eliot even let him? The thought was a stupid one, he let it pass. “It’s a spell binding two people under a set of terms and conditions that has thus far been impossible for any master magician in history to break. You can find loopholes, sure, but this one was pretty straightforward and I didn’t exactly have much time to set any of my own terms.”
Quentin looked down, his selfish need to fix this turning to acid in his throat. “I’m sorry-”
“Don’t.” Eliot cut him off, finally looking him in the eye. “ You didn’t ask me to show up.” Something passed over Eliot’s eyes. Quentin wanted to call it sincerity. Maybe for a minute, he could believe he wasn’t imagining it. Eliot cleared his throat and moved his attention to Quentin’s ankle. “This is going to hurt a bit, brace yourself.”
And- yeah, it did, but no more than anything else had since they had dropped into this apartment, which would have felt like walking into a five star spa even without the contrast of his earlier- was it an interrogation if you captor didn’t want any information out of you, and didn’t care what you said? The process was much the same as it had been when Eliot cast on his ribs; draw, tut, snap. The resulting snap was stronger, and Quentin’s yelp a bit louder, but at least he felt like he could walk again if he had to. Eliot’s silently mouthed ‘sorry’ and soothing touch were appreciated nonetheless.
Quentin sighed. “I...I don’t actually know why I called you. I was just- I was just scared.” It was the truth, and the worst reason he could think of.
“I know.” He replied plainly.
The silence that befell the room was still palpable, but less uncomfortable. Eliot finished a few additional tuts, their effects unknown to Quentin but their charge flickering between them nonetheless. Maybe he was just sensitive to any casting in this state, or maybe Eliot just had that effect on him. He suspected he already knew the answer regardless of willingness to admit it. Eliot scooted closer to him, his hip very nearly touching Quentin’s own, his hands just inches away. Eliot was always so carefree, so casual with touch. Why wasn’t he touching him now?
He leaned a little closer to where Eliot sat; that was-probably an invasion of personal space or something, but- he wouldn’t mind, would he? Unless he did. Quentin started to shift back, but Eliot looked up first, pinning him in place with his stare. “Alright, I can’t make your concussion go away, but I can alleviate a lot of the symptoms, make the recovery easier.” He paused, as though he were waiting for some affirmation. Quentin nodded a little absently. “It’s cooperative magic, but your part is easy,” he continued. “You just need to repeat poppers eighteen and twenty-one while I take care of the rest, can you do that?” He shifted back, giving Quentin a little more room to observe as he demonstrated the two movements. It took a couple of attempts, and Eliot corrected the placement of his fingers once, but after a few minutes of practice he seemed content. “Good, you’re set.”
Eliot nodded his affirmation to start, and Quentin moved back into the repetition. The two tuts were a comforting, sort of circular gesture. They reminded him a lot of some of the stimming he used to do in his early college years, before anyone had found quite the right cocktail of medication for his anxieties and moderate ADHD. Once his hands were settled in their rhythm, Eliot began to work. And it was-
Quentin had done some cooperative casting back at the safe house. Only a few times, and never for anything significant. Mostly, he just provided some extra juice for a few small rituals, and used an assist sometimes when learning a new spell. While this was new to him, he wasn’t exactly a stranger to the ways that magic and sensation intermingled during a cooperative cast. He knew that after accomplishing a minor levitation with Thomas’s help, he could smell worn leather and old dry erase markers, and when he’d helped Kim with a spell to not lose her motorcycle keys again, the floating sensation he’d been left with was accompanied by the taste of something floral. He hadn’t had the nerve to ask what they felt from him, but he wasn’t entirely unaware of how weird cooperative spellwork could be. He was entirely unprepared for the ocean that was Eliot Waugh to come crashing into him.
As soon as Eliot tapped into his magic, Quentin closed his eyes reflexively. It didn’t make any difference, everything was so- it was so bright. His eyelids were flooded with warm amber lights, but the lights had nothing on Eliot’s hold over the rest of his senses. This oversized, overpriced apartment bedroom suddenly smelled like expensive wine and lingering smoke, and the Earth after the skies had poured their rage over a barren and dry expanse. Petrichor , his brain supplied. The tip of his tongue was laced with scotch and sweat, and he could swear the thrum in his veins was pounding in perfect time with Eliot’s heartbeat. He was spinning, he was fucking floating , his ears were ringing with an indecipherable sound that he could only describe as ‘El’, and-
Quentin’s eyes flew open. And he felt safe. How could he have expected anything else, this was Eliot for fuck’s sake. The room spun around him, from his concussion or their casting, Quentin didn’t know and frankly, he didn’t care. Eliot lowered his hands, the hum of magic around them still running strong despite the spell's completion. He was- he was so strong, and brave, far braver than Quentin knew he could ever be. And for a moment, he grinned, just as caught in the euphoria of his spell as Quentin. Quentin’s chest ached. For a moment, everything just felt right, and maybe- maybe that moment could go on a little longer.
Before he could stop himself, he pushed forward, and pressed his lips against Eliot’s. They were
dryer than he expected, a little chapped, not that Quentin suspected his own were much better, and Quentin felt him still. He panicked, but before he could pull back Eliot gripped the back of his neck, pulling him in closer. Eliot licked at Quentin’s lips, and he melted, parting them open with no resistance, inviting that tongue to trace along his teeth. His hands floundered at his sides for a moment before settling onto Eliot’s forearms, gripping for what felt like his life. Quentin had no doubts Eliot could feel the heat of his flush where his grip remained at the base of his skull, where his nose pressed into Quentin’s cheek, just as easily as he could feel Eliot panting against the side of his mouth when he inched back for breath. He keened into Eliot’s mouth when he came back to reclaim his lips, and only stopped himself from melting further long enough to push Eliot back and climb into his lap. He was warm, god he was so warm, and Quentin hoped he knew how much he needed him. Eliot’s hand moved from his neck, his thumb stroking across Quentin’s cheek, wiping away tears he hadn’t realized he’d shed, eventually stopping on his shoulder. Quentin eased into the touch, tried to press closer. He- fuck , he needed to be in contact with as much of Eliot as possible, he needed-
He needed Eliot to not pull back, to not use that damned grip of his to keep him from moving with him. Quentin blinked. Had he done something wrong? All he’d done was- dread sunk in, snuffing out the bliss that had filled his lungs seconds before. Right, he hadn’t done anything wrong, just dragged someone who was supposed to be his friend out in the middle of the night to a hostage negotiation, got them caught in an unbreakable vow, and kissed them without their consent. Could he have been more selfish if he tried?
Flinching, he realized he was afraid to look Eliot in the eye. Quentin wasn’t sure what he expected to find; disgust, pity, or possibly worst, apathy. Maybe he could be a coward just a little longer. Maybe he should just rip the bandaid off and get it over with. After a moment, he opted for the latter. But Eliot seemed- not upset, thankfully, just caught off guard. Quentin flushed again when he realized Eliot had kissed him just as desperately. He hadn’t imagined that, had he? The tremble of his lip where he could still feel Eliot’s gentle bite said otherwise.
Any surprise Eliot’s expression held was blinked away a moment later, replaced with his signature cool affectation, the one Quentin was rapidly beginning to recognize as the mask it was. He just wished he knew what he was hiding.
“Well, you seem to be feeling better…” Eliot stated with a soft grin. He pushed Quentin back, began to stand up and- wait, he wasn’t leaving, was he? ““I’ll be- I’ll be right outside. Don’t worry, I’ll come wake you up every few hours..Unless that’s a misconception, I should probably look that up.” He continued towards the door, and Quentin’s chest seized again, though with an entirely new context.
“Wait, I-” he called. Eliot stopped in the doorway, turning halfway back. Maybe Quentin should have been more embarrassed about coming across as desperate, but fuck it, he had crossed that line hours ago, and if he was right, Eliot wanted this too. If he was wrong- well, he and his self loathing were great friends, they could settle in for the night no problem, “Please stay? I won’t- I just don’t want to be alone, I’m sorry if I-”
“Quentin-” he sighed, stopping him from going down a full rambling spiral. Still, there was a fondness to his voice, and he came halfway back “It’s alright, cooperative magic is- it’s intense. But I can go, I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
He blinked. That didn’t make any sense, Eliot wasn’t the one who had-. “Why would I be uncomfortable?” He asked.
If Eliot had a response, he didn’t seem inclined to share it. But after shaking his hands out, he did stride back, so Quentin wasn’t inclined to push either. He took off his vest and tie, draping them over the edge of a dresser Quentin had somehow managed to completely ignore the entire time they had been in here. After fumbling with his shoes, Eliot climbed in next to him. The room was warm enough, or maybe that was just Eliot’s presence, that they didn’t need any blankets, but Eliot charmed one to float over them from some unseen corner nonetheless. It was almost enough to bridge the gap of several inches Eliot had left between their bodies.
The gap between them was a shallow one- literally the few inches between chest and mattress, and it felt deep enough for Quentin to try and drown in all his thoughts. He stared at the ceiling, circling through choice after choice, mistake after mistake; he could have double checked his research on Marina’s, he could have been honest with Matt about what he was trying to learn, he could have called Eliot before trying to raid a top safe house, he could have called Eliot before joining a fucking safe house, he could have acted like a god damned grown up for once and done his due diligence before jumping in headfirst. Now, he had his thoughts, the ceiling mocking him with hopes of rest, and Eliot’s voice ringing in the back of his mind, repeating “what the hell were you thinking?” over and over.
He swallowed. Quentin knew exactly what he was thinking, and fuck it, Eliot deserved to know. Besides, if his breathing was anything to go by, he was just as awake as Quentin. He paused, exhaled, and finally said what he’d been avoiding for weeks. “...My dad’s dying.”
Eliot stirred beside him. “What”
Quentin nodded at the ceiling, at himself, at- it didn’t fucking matter, did it? “My dad. He has...fuck I haven’t actually said it yet, you know?” He bit back a sob, and was half successful. “He- he has cancer. A brain tumor? It’s, um, it’s pretty far along apparently. And I was- I was looking to see if I could find any healing spells. McNaughton’s didn’t have any, and Marina’s is supposed to be the best, so I- I-” He shook with everything he wasn’t letting his body feel. Rage, hopelessness, disappointment, resignation that of course this was the best he could do, despite having literal fucking magic , it didn’t matter. He couldn’t even get out of his own messes, how was he supposed to save anyone else?
“Oh, Q.” Eliot whispered beside him. There was no judgement in his voice- why wasn’t there? He fucking deserved it. There was just sympathy, and concern, and- a million other things that made Quentin want to curl into the smallest ball he could and just- disappear. Eliot rustled besides him. Maybe he was finally cutting his losses, making his way to the couch in the other room he had been so intent on earlier.
Only, he didn’t get up. Instead, he turned to his side, draping an arm around Quentin’s waist and pulling him in closer. Quentin couldn’t help himself anymore; as Eliot tucked him under his chin, he sobbed. They were small, pathetic barks, less than the wailing he had been expecting since he’d received that first phone call, but it was the most he had let himself feel so far. Eliot’s fingertips trailed up and down his side, in a way that said he was prepared to be composed enough for both of them. “It’s alright, I’ve got you.” he murmured in Quentin’s ear, and Quentin even believed him. Maybe this could be okay.
Maybe this could be okay.