Chapter Text
Eliot woke to the sound of Hardison panicking.
It was a slow awakening, the gradual trickle of consciousness returning after one too many hits to the head. An all too familiar feeling, as was the whole-body ache that accompanied it. Pain flared in his left shoulder with each breath, spreading across his back and down his arm before disappearing into numbness. His head throbbed, and he swore he could feel his pulse in his temple. Each breath he took felt heavy, difficult, ribs protesting the movement of his chest and back.
The pain was expected, if he was waking up from being knocked out. The ribs, the shoulder, all casualties of a difficult fight. But the crushing weight on his left side – that was new. It felt like something was lying on him, something heavy and cold. When he took a breath through his nose, he smelled the dust and grit of old buildings, and the faint scent of blood.
And over it all, some feet to his right, Hardison’s voice, soft, shaky, panicked. Hardison panicking wasn’t a new sound. Hardison panicked often. But not like this, too quiet, unsure, desperate in a way he so rarely was. Eliot didn’t like it.
What the hell happened.
“… just gotta breathe, they’ll get you out, they always – always get you out –“
“Hardison,” Eliot whispered. His mouth was dry, tacky. The babbling continued, Hardison’s voice stuttering softly, not seeming to have heard him.
“ – they’re okay, they know – know you’re here –“
Eliot licked his lips, ignoring the faint taste of blood, and tried again.
“Hardison.”
Hardison’s voice cut off, the weight of a held breath and sharp attention. Something in Eliot’s ear crackled to life, a faint voice, breaking in and out.
“Eliot? Eliot … okay, where … you –“
Sophie.
A few feet away a body shifted, someone turning, searching for him in the darkness.
“Eliot? Eliot, please – tell me I, I ain’t hearin’ things –“
Not so far panicking that he can’t hear me then. Good.
“Yeah,” Eliot rasped. “Yeah, I’m here.”
There was a shaky sigh of relief, and more scrabbling against concrete.
“Oh, thank God, Jesus, I thought – the building collapsed, and I didn’t hear you, and I couldn’t feel you and –“
All at once, he remembered. Not all of it, but bits and pieces, flashes of the sound of a structure collapsing around him.
The building. Fuck.
They were running a con (they were always running a con, these days), but it had gone south too quickly. He couldn’t remember why, not exactly, but he remembered running, and the deep, resounding knowledge that they wouldn’t make it in time but they had to try goddammit –
And then nothing.
Eliot turned his head towards Hardison’s voice, grimacing at the pain in his neck, the sharp ache in his temple. The concrete under him was cold when he resettled, cheek pressed against it, grit biting into his skin.
We must be buried.
The crushing weight on his hip and leg suddenly made sense. Of course he’d been trapped underneath a pile of rubble.
Better me than Hardison.
“- can … hear me? Eliot … okay, is Hardison … where are –“
He craned opened too heavy eyelids and tried to look around. It was pitch black, not even light enough to give him vague outlines of shapes. There were two voices talking now, Sophie in his ear and Hardison across the room. And then there was another voice over the earbud, staticky and too damn loud, and he couldn’t make out anything with so many damn voices speaking all at once.
“Shut up,” he breathed. The voice in his earbud went quiet, but so did Hardison’s, and that wasn’t what he wanted. “Not you,” he said to Hardison, “Soph – wait. Okay? Gimme a minute.”
She exhaled in his ear. “Alright.” But then she went quiet, and he could focus on Hardison, who was talking again.
“Sophie? Your – your earbud is working? Eliot – they gotta find us, man –“
Eliot’s head pounded. He forced himself to focus, but it was like trying to swim through sand.
“Hardison. Alec.” Hardison cut himself off, but his breathing was too shallow, too quick. Eliot pitched his voice as gentle as he could, with ribs aching and something crushing his leg and hip. “Breathe. We’ll be okay. Alright? We’ll get out.” He paused to breathe, to slow the spinning in his head that came just from speaking. Hardison mimicked him, one shaky breath, then another. “You hurt?”
“… a bit. Not, not bad. Some bruises, and I think there’s a cut on my leg. I can’t – can’t move much, there’s a wall or something, it’s trapping me –“ he sucked in another breath, and Eliot could practically hear the panic flood back in. “Eliot, the air –“
The grave. Shit.
“Hey, hey.”
Hardison’s voice cut off again into panicked gasps, trying to calm his breathing with little success. Eliot tried tentatively to move, shifting the arm that he could still feel. He was lucky that it was the one closest to Hardison, that he could try and reach for him. It still hurt, more than it should, ribs and shoulders screaming with the movement. But he hid it, like he always did.
“We’re okay. This ain’t that.”
“But the air, man –“
“Shhh.” Eliot focused back on the space around him, and felt the tentative drift of something cool against the skin on his arm. “I can feel air moving. We ain’t gonna suffocate.” Speaking hurt, but he could bear it. It was worth it, to keep Hardison calm. Eliot strained to see in the darkness, then reached again, patting around for Hardison’s hand. “Come on, man, reach for me.”
There was a scuffle, the shush of clothing on grit in the darkness, moving closer, almost there –
Hardison’s fingers patted his hand. His breath hitched, and then he was clinging, long fingers wrapped tight around Eliot’s, hard enough to hurt. Eliot gripped back, clasping his hand just as tight. Hardison needed this, a hand to hold, someone to touch, to reassure him that it would be alright. He’d always been so tactile.
Eliot ignored the part of himself that said that he needed it, too.
“Feel that?” he rasped, pulling Hardison’s hand towards the draft. “There’s airflow.”
Hardison took a breath. “Yeah. Yeah. Okay.” He exhaled, and the sound of movement came again, a body shifting closer in the dark, displaced air speaking to his proximity. The strain on Eliot’s arm and shoulder eased, Hardison’s hand shifting them both towards his body. His voice, when he spoke, was closer too, and something in Eliot settled. “The others? My earbud is gone.”
Eliot hummed. That explained some of the panic, at least. He was sure Parker would’ve tried to calm Hardison down long before he woke up, if she’d been able to speak to him. “Soph?”
His earbud crackled again with a staticky sigh of relief. “Yes, I’m … all here. We … out. You’re breaking … can you … me?”
“Yeah. You’re breaking up, too. Earpiece must be damaged.” He knew he’d been hit on the head, with the sickening way it throbbed. It was all too plausible that the earpiece had been hit at the same time.
“It could be the signal too,” Hardison supplied helpfully. His hand flexed in Eliots. “We’re under a lot of layers of concrete.”
“… you alright?”
Sophie sounded so goddamn worried, even through the earbud. Eliot tried to make his voice as firm as he could, reassuring. “Hardison’s fine. We’re alive. Can you get our location?”
“We’re trying. Parker … on’s computer, but … trouble with ...”
He switched back to Hardison. “Think Parker’s tryin’ to use your gear.”
“Okay, okay, can you tell her –“
Eliot closed his eyes. If Hardison wanted him to play go-between and try and tell Parker how to use his stuff, that wasn’t gonna happen. He could barely give instructions on tech shit on a good day, let alone crushed under a building with his head spinning.
He let go of Hardison’s hand, ignoring the drawn in breath that followed. Hands scrabbled for him, landing on his side, fingers curled tight into his t-shirt. Pain skittered down his side at the touch, light as it was. Fumbling for his ear, Eliot’s fingers grazed over a cut on his temple and came away sticky with blood.
That hurt, too. But it was fine, it was fine, it didn’t matter. Not now, with Hardison panicking beside him, with Sophie and Parker and Nate yapping in his ear.
“Here. You tell her.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah, alright –“
Eliot groped for Hardison’s hand, prying it gently off his t-shirt and pressing the tiny earbud carefully into his palm. Hardison’s soft voice cut off, just for a moment.
“El. Eliot. Why is your hand wet. Wait, is this blood? Are you bleeding?”
“It’s fine,” Eliot grunted, wincing as Hardison’s voice got louder, more demanding. “Just a cut.”
“Just a cut on your head –“
“Hardison.” Eliot stopped, tried to take the bark out of his tone. “It’s fine. Tell Parker how to find us.”
Hardison took a breath, then the hand under his disappeared. Just for a moment, then it returned, fumbling for his, gripping it tightly.
“Mama, you there?”
Good. Eliot let himself relax, hand warm in Hardison’s, proof that Hardison was alright. They’ll figure it out. They always do.
He could feel it now, the blood trickling down his face. Head wounds always bled so badly. He was getting cold, which he knew wasn’t a good sign. But there wasn’t much he could do about it, trapped as he was. And there was no point in adding to Hardison’s panic. The others needed to focus on getting them out, not on injuries they couldn’t even do a damn thing about.
It’ll be fine. It’ll be fine.
He closed his eyes, listened to the lilt of Hardison’s voice, and drifted.
“Eliot.”
Eliot roused with a groan, blinking open sticky eyes to the darkness. He shifted his head, trying to remember what had happened, the gears in his brain grinding slowly.
Where -
“.. Eliot?”
The hand holding his moved, jostling his arm, sending a wave of pain up through his shoulders and down through his ribs. Eliot shifted with a bitten off curse, trying to ease himself into a better position.
All too late he remembered the rubble lying on him, and the building that had fallen down around them. Something creaked ominously by his feet. Eliot froze.
Fuck.
“Hey, you alright?” He could hear the frown in Hardison’s voice. But he didn’t seem to have heard the creaking, which was probably a good thing, all things considering.
Don’t need to make his panic worse.
A beat passed, then the creaking disappeared. Eliot exhaled. Slowly, cautiously, he relaxed, letting his muscles ease into place.
“Just peachy,” he rasped, giving Hardison’s hand a reassuring squeeze, hoping it would be enough to sell the lie. He didn’t need Hardison fretting over him.
“… you don’t sound peachy,” Hardison pointed out. “Are you hurt?”
Eliot choked down a laugh. “It’s fine.”
“Now why the hell don’t I believe you? You –“ Hardison’s voice paused, and Eliot waited, sure he was listening to whoever was speaking over the earbud. “Yeah, mama, I’ll check, since someone is a goddamn stubborn-ass fool –“
More shifting of fabric, the squeeze of a body turning over in a too-small space. Hardison’s hand holding his moved, grip shifting into something more solid.
“C’mere, man, lemme look you over –“
Before Eliot could stop him, the hand holding his pulled, dragging him towards Hardison as another hand started patting up his shoulder. Far too late, Eliot remembered that Hardison was much stronger than they often gave him credit for. Strong enough to move Eliot, certainly. And even with the rubble lying on him, with Eliot a dead weight and Hardison lying down, he was more than strong enough to pull Eliot’s torso a few inches towards him.
A few inches was all it took for the simmering pain to explode into something fiery and hot, shrieking up and down his shoulders, his ribs and hip. The creaking from the rubble was back, barely audible over the rushing in his head and the wounded noise he couldn’t manage to keep in. But worse by far, drowning out everything else, was the vicious, grating pain in his leg. It felt like it was breaking, tearing, rending him apart -
“Stop,” Eliot gasped, resisting the pull. He scrabbled with what little purchase he had to stay still, to keep himself from being moved, from making everything worse. “Fuck, Hardison, stop –“
The hands touching him disappeared. Eliot jerked back on accident, overcompensating for the lack of force. That hurt too, something in his shoulder pulsing at the movement. He made another noise, almost too quiet to hear, small and strangled. Hardison moved further away, cloth moving against concrete, his voice going high and panicked once more.
“Oh sweet Jesus, oh god, what did I do –“
Eliot let the sounds wash over him, pain wracking him in waves. As much as he didn’t want Hardison to panic, he knew that Hardison was fine so long as he was talking, physically at least. He dug his nails into the concrete and grit underneath him, trying to breathe, trying to keep as still as possible. It was a necessity, the only way to let the rubble settle back into its place. The only way to keep what little bit of the building was still standing from collapsing on them, and doing far worse than trapping them. Eliot closed his eyes, and willed the stirring dragon to resume its slumber.
A louder groan of wood and metal and concrete echoed throughout their tiny space. Hardison’s voice fell silent, and oh, that was so much worse -
“You’re okay,” Eliot panted, smearing his cheek in the dust underneath him, “you’re fine, just gotta stay still –“
Something else groaned, long and loud. Dust and gravel rained down, and he heard Hardison let out one strangled cough. A creak snapped throughout the room, Hardison made a terrified noise, and the rubble lying on his leg shifted. And oh, god -
Something in his lower leg gave way, the whatever that was lying on it crunching down into his flesh. His stomach flipped as the feel and sound of it echoed up his body, accompanied by a fresh wave of fire that whited out everything else.
Can’t scare Hardison and can’t fucking pass out, he thought, biting back the scream that threatened to emerge on instinct. He needs you.
He clung to consciousness by the skin of his teeth.
When the haze that followed settled, everything was quiet. No Hardison talking, and no building making terrifying creaks and groans above them. Whatever had shifted must not have moved much, which was reassuring. The last thing they needed was whatever small amount of shelter they had to collapse down on top of them. It was a frightening reminder that their safety here was precarious at best.
The building being quiet was good; Hardison being quiet was not.
Eliot focused outside of himself, willing the pain into the background. He was only marginally successful. His leg hurt too goddamn much to properly mute, pulsing in tune with his heartbeat.
C’mon, this ain’t the worst you’ve had.
While this was certainly true, he also knew enough to know that this situation was bad. If he was lucky, the rubble on his leg and hip hadn’t crushed anything, and he wasn’t bleeding out. But the shock alone could still spell trouble, especially with no possibility of rescue anytime soon.
He licked his lips and tried to speak.
“Hardis’n?”
The shaky exhale that followed was more relieving than it should have been. Cloth shifted, and he could just imagine Hardison starting to move closer, then stopping himself. Eliot looked out into the darkness, knowing that he couldn’t see anything, still needing to try.
“Jesus, Eliot.” Harison’s voice was quiet, that small, terrified thing from before. Guilt bloomed in Eliot’s chest, knowing that he’d been part of the cause of it. “I, I thought – you stopped making noise, and – are, are you okay?” Before Eliot could speak he was tripping to push more words out, voice gaining some small bit of strength. “And no bullshit, you ain’t fine, I ain’t stupid –“
“C’mere.” Eliot could hear the slur in his own voice now, but ignored it. There was nothing he could do about it anyhow.
Hardison stalled. “I, I can’t, I’ll bring the building down. Or hurt you, again.”
“Just don’t try an’ move me an’ it’ll be fine.”
“Eliot…”
When Hardison didn’t move Eliot tentatively stuck his own arm out, grimacing at the pain moving brought. He felt the ground, listening carefully to see if even that movement could cause the rubble to move. To his relief, everything stayed quiet and still. But he couldn’t feel Hardison, couldn’t find him in the darkness.
“Dammit, Hardison,” he muttered. “Stop worryin’. C’mere."
Finally a hand touched his wrist, tentative at first. Eliot shifted until they were holding hands once more, squeezing it reassuringly.
Hardison clung to him, his breath doing that stuttery, shaky thing that Eliot had only heard once or twice before. Like the panic from before, this wasn’t the funny, shove Hardison off a building sort of stress. This was the too-quiet, trying not to fall apart Hardison that he remembered mainly in shaking sound clips that played over and over in his mind.
“We just gotta be careful,” Eliot slurred, trying and failing to sound confident. “An’ wait ‘til they come get us.”
“Yeah. Yeah.”
“Tell Parker that we’re alive.”
Hardison exhaled again. “Yeah. Parker? Stop yellin’ girl, we’re – we’re okay. The building’s unstable as all hell, an Eliot’s – he’s hurt, and –“ he stopped, took a breath, then his voice focused back on Eliot. “Where are you hurt?”
Eliot made a disgruntled noise. “Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters, you –“ he stopped, listening again, then continued. “Parker says she needs to know how bad it is, so she can tell – the hospital? I think? Girl, you’re breaking up.”
Eliot groaned. Of course Parker would have a logical reason. Telling the hospital and search and rescue what to expect would be helpful. It was what he would have done, if it had been any of them buried under a pile of rubble instead of him.
“Christ, fine.” He took stock, mind moving through each injury slowly. “My leg and hip are buried. Leg’s broken, at least. Banged my head.” He stopped, trying to catch his breath. “Somethin’s up with my shoulder. Can’t feel my other hand. Ribs are bruised, but not broken.”
Hardison’s hand squeezed his tighter. “Jesus, Eliot. You said you were fine.”
Eliot closed his eyes, something terribly tired sweeping through him. “It’s fine, Hardison.”
“It’s not.” Hardison shifted again, coming tentatively closer. His other hand curled around Eliots too, bracketing it in warmth. It was all Eliot could do not to shudder at the touch. “It’s not fine at all.”
“It’s not importa-“
“If you say it’s not important I will hack your phone and change all your ringtones to something you hate, I swear to God. Parker, did you get all that? I know, right? And the man says he’s fine.”
“Dammit, Hardison –“ his voice sounded weak, even to his own ears.
“Don’t you ‘dammit Hardison’ me –“ Hardison stopped the lecture. Not that Eliot really minded it – it had given Hardison’s voice strength again, something he sorely needed.
“Fine, I won’t antagonize him,” Hardison muttered after a long moment. “Right. Okay. What? I don’t know if – say that again?”
Slowly, without even realizing he was doing it, Eliot tuned Hardison out. Parsing out one side of the conversation made his head hurt, that throbbing strain and struggle to process that probably meant a concussion. It was all too easy to slip back into that hazy place from before. He was cold, he hurt everywhere, and he was tired. All he could do was trust in his gut that Parker had Hardison, that they would figure it out.
His arm was being moved again, pulled up higher beside his head. Something solid and distantly warm settled against his hip, then a hand rested gently on his shoulder. Too late he realized that Hardison was talking to him again, telling him what he was doing.
“… gotta get you warm, you’re shaking, and I can’t do much triage without a light –“
Eliot relaxed.
It’ll be alright, he thought drowsily, thoughts slow as molasses, it has to be.