Chapter Text
Eliot’s been to a lot of places around the world. It’s inevitable when you get his kind of career and reputation. Some places he’d rather never see again, but some places are beautiful enough to steal his breath away and make all the hard work worth it. Like right now.
Buenos Aires is stunning, with wild colors painted across some neighborhoods while others bear the stern facade of fading European grandeur, modern skyscrapers emerging in a cluster much like every other financial district in a major city. The bright colors of La Boca are even more striking under the red glare of the sunset, and Eliot basks in it, just a little. There’s still the rich aftertaste of locro lingering in his mouth, just begging to be chased away with a strong swig of beer, and he’s had a handful of women—and a couple of men—give him lingering looks, silent invitations to come closer. It’s like all the ingredients for a perfect night are in his grasp, and it’s putting him in a good mood.
But before he can let himself have any fun, he has a job to do.
The job is easy: go find the courier, intercept the package, then drop the package off at the predesignated location. He doesn’t expect any trouble.
Everything goes smoothly. He knocks out the courier and takes the package, a small parcel wrapped in yellow paper, then walks half a mile towards the drop-off point with it tucked under his arm. He keeps an ear and eye out the whole way, but nothing happens.
When he arrives at an abandoned office building beside the Matanza River, there’s a man dressed in a sharp-cut suit and a striped tie waiting for him.
“Did you bring the package?” The man asks. There’s a faint hint of a Spanish accent curling through his words, and his tone is relaxed. But the eyes behind the lenses of his wire-rimmed glasses are sharp as they size Eliot up.
Eliot holds the parcel up in response, and hands it to the man, who unties the twine and unwraps the package to reveal what looks like a dusty book. Eliot has no idea how valuable this thing exactly is, but the satisfied way the man smiles indicates that it’s well worth the fifty grand that Eliot’s going to be paid.
“My boss will be pleased,” the man says. He takes out his phone and makes a call, speaking in rapid-fire Spanish once the call connects. The conversation lasts less than a minute; in no time at all, the man is shoving his phone back into his pocket with a curt nod at Eliot. “Expect the payment from us within the hour.”
“Good to do business with you,” Eliot says, already thinking about what to do with the rest of his night. It’s a shame, he thinks, because if this man weren’t working for his client, he’d definitely consider making an overture. He looks a few years younger than Eliot and is well-built, with a boyishly handsome face and curls that Eliot would love to run his fingers through. Eliot’s always appreciated a man—or woman—in a well-fitted suit.
“Pleasure,” the man replies, then turns and walks away. Eliot takes a moment to appreciate the sight, then makes his way out of the building through the other direction.
It’s only thirty minutes later, when he gets a phone call from his client saying that the book in his hands is a forgery, that Eliot realizes something is wrong.
He argues that he brought the package just as he was told to do, and that if the book was a forgery, it must have been replaced before he laid hands on it. And that his lackey in the suit had seemed to think the book was genuine, anyway.
“I didn’t send anybody in my stead,” the client says. “You and I talked directly when you handed me the book.”
Oh, oh. Eliot feels a groan building up in his chest. “Did I happen to have incredibly curly hair?”
When the client says yes, Eliot grinds his teeth together. He can’t believe he fell for such a basic trick. This is the problem when he and the client don’t know each other’s faces beforehand. Whoever that curly-haired bastard is, Eliot’s going to find him one day, and beat the hell out of him.
Suffice it to say, Eliot doesn’t get paid.
-
He runs into the curly-haired asshole again in the bustling aisles of the Nehru Bazaar in Jaipur. The air is thick with the scent of perfumes and leather, saturated with loud words of Hindi intermingling with Dhundari, and Eliot picks out the blond curls and boyish face as easily as breathing, even though it’s been four months since their single encounter.
He makes a beeline for the guy, trying not to be too conspicuous about it, just so he can surprise the fucker with a punch to the face, but the other guy looks up and sees Eliot. His eyes go wide, his whole body twitching upright from its casual slouch, and then he’s dashing off without looking back.
Eliot curses, immediately following after. He’s here to pick up a package that’s worth six figures, and he can immediately tell that this bastard is here for the same purpose. Like hell he’s going to let the guy walk away scot-free with the goods this time.
It’s a trial to run under the unforgiving sun in the ruthless Indian heat, but Eliot’s been through worse, so he grits his teeth and runs. His competition is fast, though; Eliot can barely keep up. The only reason Eliot doesn’t lose the guy completely is because of all the people hindering the guy’s progress, and soon enough the geography starts helping as well, because they’re running towards the Ramganj Bazaar, which is a labyrinth of crooked paths and cut-off streets, which works entirely in Eliot’s favor when the both of them end up running into one such dead end.
“Ready to get your ass kicked?” Eliot asks, and the other guy bares his teeth in a challenging smile.
Eliot charges first, and he’s only half-surprised when the guy evades his punch and instead fluidly counters with a sharp blow to Eliot’s side. He hadn’t been completely sure, but the shift of the guy’s muscles under his linen shirt and his agility had given him the hint that this guy might be a proper hitter. He’s proven right when the guy goes for Eliot’s jaw next, but Eliot ducks the blow and slams a fist straight into the guy’s stomach.
To his credit, the curly haired bastard doesn’t go down for another good five minutes. He’s fast, but his stamina and ability to take a beating isn’t as good as Eliot’s, so he starts flagging fast once Eliot manages to land a solid punch to his solar plexus.
By the time he’s managed to knock the guy down completely, Eliot’s feeling just a tiny bit smug. Sure, one of his ribs might be cracked, but this guy is going to need a hospital for weeks.
At the very least, it means there’s less competition for the job.
“See you around,” he tells the other guy, who wordlessly raises a middle finger at him, which makes him chuckle. Then he walks away, leaving the guy groaning on the ground of the dusty alleyway.
The rest of the day goes smoothly, no sly hitters conning him or the client, the package retrieved and delivered in the span of three hours. He double-checks to make sure that the payment came through, and then he celebrates by gorging himself on spicy laal maas and sweet gajak, then takes a cab thirty minutes out from the city center and checks into the Fairmont Jaipur. It’s a sprawling building with an austere air of 19th century traditional Rajasthani architecture, but the interior is elegant and not overly gaudy. It’s a nice place to unwind for a while after a job well-done.
He takes advantage of the slowly darkening evening to go out to the swimming pool behind the hotel building, the few bruises darkening on his skin from his encounter with the curly haired bastard less noticeable in the dim light. He relaxes in the cool water for a while, taking his time to go a couple laps around the pool. Then he meets the eyes of a young woman with long legs and dark hair plaited down all the way to her hips. When she smiles at him, he smiles back.
For some reason though, his mind lingers on curly hair, short and dirty blond, falling into soft brown eyes. The image doesn’t leave his mind, even when he eventually leaves the city behind.
-
Sydney is a beautiful city. It’s a shame that Eliot isn’t getting to appreciate any of it, because he’s too busy being chased down by a motorcycle gang. Eliot is going to maim his client for neglecting to tell him that the job would involve the Bandidos, because he isn’t exactly equipped to go up against two dozen biker gang members who have motorbikes and guns, whereas he has neither.
He’s trying to sneak his way out of the harbor so that he can make his way back to the crowded streets where he can blend in, but it’s a long way to go. He’s resigning himself to a long night of cat and mouse when he catches movement out of the corner of his eye.
He turns and sees the curly haired bastard from Jaipur glaring at him, like he’s personally affronted by Eliot’s presence. It takes Eliot a moment to realize that his abrupt arrival setting off the alarm with the Bandidos must’ve gotten in the way of this guy trying to do a stealthy job of, well, whatever the fuck he was in the middle of doing.
Well, fuck him. Serves him right.
It takes four minutes for the two of them to end up hiding behind the same corner of a warehouse.
“Thanks for sounding the alarm, asshole,” the other guy mutters. Eliot distantly notes that his accent is very American, slightly on the southern side.
“Yeah, well, it’s not like I knew they were gonna be here,” Eliot grumbles. “So, we can’t outrun ‘em.”
The guy raises an eyebrow. “We?”
Eliot shrugs. “We’re on the same boat right now.”
The other guy thinks about that for a few seconds, then huffs. “Fine.” He pulls out a Beretta from a concealed shoulder holster under his suit jacket, then glances at Eliot. “You got a weapon?”
Eliot hefts a crowbar he picked up a while ago onto his shoulder as an answer.
The other guy sighs, looking like he’s regretting this temporary alliance already. “If I give you a gun, will you promise not to shoot me with it?”
“I don’t like guns,” Eliot says.
“Why, are you a terrible shot?” There’s no genuine mockery in the guy’s tone, though. He seems to accept Eliot’s reluctance to use a firearm easily enough, instead focusing on peering around the corner to check on their pursuers. “Oh, that’s just sad. They’re going in circles like stray dogs.”
“You good enough to shoot out their tires?” Eliot asks, and the guy turns to give him a delighted grin.
Twenty minutes later, every bike in the vicinity has been rendered useless and Eliot’s managed to knock out fourteen of the bikers. His temporary ally is using a Glock—apparently he had an extra gun clipped to the back of his belt and another gun strapped to his ankle—to terrorize one of the bikers into giving him the intel that he originally came here for.
Once the guy is satisfied, he cracks the biker across the face with his gun to knock him out, and then he clips it to the back of his belt again.
“Well, that was fun,” he says to Eliot, and it’s surprising to see how charming he looks with that easygoing smile of his. “I guess I forgive you for breaking my ribs and my collarbone.” He pauses. “Still kinda mad about my wrist, though. That fucked my aim up for weeks, man.”
Eliot rolls his eyes. “Stop whining. That was five months ago.”
“I’m sorry, I should follow your example and just beat the shit out of the guy who screwed up my job last time,” the guy snarks. Eliot kind of likes him, even if he’s still annoying as hell.
“Wouldn’t work for you, since I’d win,” Eliot says, unable to quite hide a grin as he says that.
The other guy definitely sees it, because he huffs in amusement, seemingly not offended. “We’ll see about that.”
They exchange barbs dulled with good humor for a couple more minutes before splitting up in silent agreement. Eliot goes down south, towards the airport, while the other guy heads up north based on the intel he got from the biker.
It’s only when he’s on a plane heading out to Johannesburg that it occurs to Eliot that he still doesn’t know the other guy’s name.
-
He’s sitting at a table in Hospůdka Na Hradbách and drinking cheap beer, enjoying the view of the riverside and the soothing chatter of families and other patrons of the beer garden, when somebody slides into the seat across from him. Eliot freezes at the sight of curly hair and a dark gray suit, but then he sees the glass of beer in the other hitter’s hand.
“Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world,” the other guy says with a mischievous smile curling across his mouth.
“Casablanca? Really?” Eliot raises an unimpressed eyebrow.
The other guy shrugs. “Seemed like a better line than asking what’s a nice boy like you doing in a place like this.”
Eliot can’t help but crack a shit-eating grin at that. “You think I’m nice?”
“Absolutely not.” The other guy grins back. He takes a sip of his beer. “So, is there something fun going on around here that I’m missing out on?”
“Not that I know of,” Eliot says, honest. “I’m here on vacation.”
The other guy hums. “Yeah, Prague is nice for that. Even if all the locals are hellbent on ripping tourists off.” His eyelashes are almost golden in the later afternoon sunlight, just like the stray curls falling into his eyes. “I’m on my way to Dresden for work. You’re not going there, are you?”
“Got nothing lined up for now.” It feels odd to be discussing work schedules with another hitter. Especially a hitter that he’s only met a handful of times. The last time they’d seen each other had been a little over three months ago. Which reminds him: “Huh, it’s been a year since Buenos Aires.”
The other guy blinks, then quirks a sly smile. “It’s a couple weeks late for our anniversary, darlin’.”
It’s awfully telling, Eliot thinks, that his instinctive response to the joke and the pet name isn’t to tell the guy to fuck off, but to say, “Don’t expect any presents from me.”
“Does that mean the honeymoon period’s over?” The other guy teases, and there’s something sly in his tone that has Eliot pausing just as he raises his beer glass to his lips.
He reconsiders the gleaming brown eyes, the upwards curve of his smile, the relaxed slope of broad shoulders. He hasn’t thought about this in a while, but now that he has the other man sitting across from him, looking delectable in a sharply tailored suit and flirting with Eliot like there aren’t several broken bones and jobs gone awry between them, he feels a wordless kind of hunger stir in the pit of his stomach.
“You’re gonna need to take me somewhere better if you want a proper honeymoon.” Eliot raises an eyebrow in a silent challenge as he takes a slow sip of his beer.
“What, Sydney wasn’t good enough for you?” The other hitter drums his fingertips against the wooden table and Eliot absentmindedly wonders how callused they are, what they’d feel like inside of him. “We’re in one of the most beautiful cities in the world right now, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“So this is your ideal honeymoon?” Eliot asks, glancing around them. It’s a nice place with a spectacular view, but it’s not exactly romantic or alluring. It’s a cheap joint, after all.
The other hitter licks his lips, and Eliot can’t help but track the movement. “Ideally, I’d take you to the Mandarin Oriental. The one here is one of the best in the world, you know. Great view. And their suites are nice if vaulted ceilings are your thing.” He takes a brief swig from his glass and continues, “Take you out for dinner in the restaurant there, go on a walk by the river, maybe beat a few thugs up, take you back to the room and make good use of that bed.”
“The Mandarin Oriental?” Eliot asks, amused. He usually sticks to decent motels or mediocre hotels, but occasionally he splurges on the good stuff, because what’s the point of getting paid well if you’re not going to spend well? But going to one of the most historic hotels in the world just to get laid isn’t something he’s ever done. “You’re fucking spoiled.”
“Only the best for you,” the other man deadpans, and Eliot laughs.
He’s tempted to take him up on the offer. Going to a needlessly luxurious hotel and ruining the bedsheets sounds amazing. Honestly, he doesn’t even need the luxury; he’d be okay with a dingy one star hotel, if it meant spending a sleepless night with this man.
But he opts for caution instead. “Maybe you can make that happen when you have time off, instead of when you have a job to get to.”
The other guy shrugs. “Fair enough. I do have a midnight train to catch.”
They chat for a few more minutes, just enough for Eliot to get a general idea of what this guy’s been up to in the past couple months. It’s nice and unexpectedly friendly, definitely helped by the fact the beer is warming his belly and the hint of a southern drawl in the other man’s voice feels a little like home. Then the guy’s standing up, his beer drained, and bidding Eliot goodbye.
“Hey, you might as well tell me your name,” Eliot says.
The other hitter smiles. “I’ll tell you next time we run into each other.” He claps a hand to Eliot’s shoulder and leans in close, his breath warm against Eliot’s ear as he murmurs, “See you around, Eliot Spencer.”
-
Eliot doesn’t find out the other guy’s name in their next encounter, because he’s escorting a client through the outskirts of Chiang Mai when his client gets shot through the head. Eliot curses loudly as civilians start shrieking and running. His client is dead, so he leaves the body behind for now and ducks behind cover to scan the nearby buildings to identify the best perch, and then clocks the sniper’s location. From there, he runs towards the office building where the sniper must still be located, trusting the dark of the night and the flickering lights to be enough to stop the sniper from realizing he’s heading there.
It’s only when he’s busted through the door leading to the roof of the building that he realizes that the sniper might be expecting him, instead of trying to make a clean getaway.
“You just had to come up here, didn’t you,” a voice he hasn’t heard in seven months says, and Eliot takes one look at an immaculate suit and wild curls and a Beretta aimed his way, and thinks fuck.
A bullet tears through his thigh, and Eliot goes down to his knees with a hiss. It’s a clean shot; the bullet didn’t hit his arteries or his femur, but it still hurts like a bitch. Eliot knows, from past experiences rooted in Sydney, that this shot was entirely intentional. It’s meant to keep Eliot down and slow, just enough to keep him from following while the other hitter escapes. There’s no intention to cause permanent or significant harm to Eliot.
“You should get a doctor to take a look at that,” the other hitter says amicably, hitching the strap of the rifle case onto one shoulder. He gives Eliot a wide berth as he makes his exit, and Eliot decides it’s not worth the energy to try to go after him. “And try sticking to nicer areas from now on. I want a better honeymoon than this.”
“You’re the one who’s supposed to take me somewhere, not the other way around,” Eliot yells on autopilot as he rips a strip of his undershirt off to tie it around his gunshot wound.
He hears laughter ringing up the stairwell, and then the guy’s gone.
-
A week later, Eliot is sitting at a terrace overlooking the Ébrié Lagoon in the center of Abidjan, polishing off the last of his kedjenou when he decides now is a good time. He signals at the waitress and asks for a cup of coffee, then rolls his shoulders as he revels in the pleasant heat and clear sky. He loves the Ivory Coast. Great food, beautiful scenery, and plenty of attractive people. Not to mention that Eliot’s always had a soft spot for people speaking French.
Which is why a pleasant shiver rolls through him when he makes the phone call and the other side picks up with a perfectly accented, “Oui, allo?”
“Salut, connard,” Eliot says. “You owe me your name and a hell of a honeymoon.”
“Spencer?” The surprise in the voice quickly morphs into warm amusement. “Dare I ask how you got this number?”
“You can ask all you want, but I ain’t tellin’.”
“Fair enough.” The other hitter hums. “How’s the bullet wound?”
“Still need another week before I can take the stitches out.” The waitress comes back with his coffee and he thanks her with a warm smile. “Merci.”
There’s a pause over the phone. “Spencer, where exactly are you?”
Eliot grins. “Where do you think?”
“Huh.” He can hear the faint mechanical sound of a gun being loaded. “Here to return the favor?”
“I’m here to teach you a lesson,” Eliot corrects.
A nearly inaudible huff of laughter comes through. “And what kind of lesson might that be?”
The flirtatious tone is almost enough to make Eliot revise his plans and go teach this bastard a lesson with his hands and mouth. Almost. “That you shouldn’t piss me off, Quinn.”
He hears a sharp inhale, and then even better, he hears the sound of knocking and a loud voice demanding that Quinn open the door. The aggravated note in Quinn’s voice is just the sweet cherry on top. “Spencer, what the fuck did you do?”
“Interpol can work fast when you give them a big enough fish,” Eliot explains, and enjoys the rapid-fire cursing Quinn directs at him. Quinn is apparently very creative with swearing in four different languages.
“Have fun, darlin’,” Eliot says sweetly, then hangs up.
His coffee tastes amazing. Doubly so when he hears the sound of police sirens from one block away.