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1-
Eliot doesn't get coffee the same way Toby does. He's grateful, all the same, that Toby taught him - gave him a way to get back to his feet when he was discharged from the army halfway through training, after an awkward fall and a broken leg and the time it took to heal left him no longer up to standards.
He could have gone home. He could have. But if his father didn't answer the door, Eliot didn't know what he was going to do. If his father did answer... that wouldn't be much better. Not with how they parted.
He found a place to live through a friend of Shelley's, a job stocking shelves and resenting every decision that brought him there until one day he got talking with Toby. It wasn't that the coffee shop was that much more appealing, or even that it paid much better. It was, to a large degree, Toby himself.
Toby listened to him. He drew out details about Eliot's father, about his restlessness and the prickling sense of shame he's carried since his country decided it didn't want him after all. He offered stability and he offered support. He actually seemed to care. He was, all in all, exactly the kind of father figure Eliot had always wished he had.
He gave Eliot a way to plant his feet, and Eliot found work and a life that weren't so suffocating after all.
He didn't envy Shelley. They were only in training together for a few months, but Shelley was easy to befriend - all broad smiles that creased his cheeks even then, laughter that spilled out easily. But when they met up these days Shelley's smiles seemed too sharp, his laughter a deliberate thing.
Eliot got him to talk about it, a few times. Shelley told him he should be glad they let him go.
Looking at him then, seeing the way he always sat with his back against a wall and a view of the room, the way he was sometimes jittery and Eliot could guess he hadn't slept, Eliot couldn't help but agree. He made sure Shelley ate, and made sure they met up when they could. Even when Shelley made it less and less clear exactly what he does for their country.
When Toby went back to Belgium to support his sister, he left the shop in Eliot's care. Eliot sends him a cut of the profits and Toby calls regularly to make sure he has what he needs. It's a pattern he's settled into without ever quite meaning to. Almost half of his life working at this shop, and half of that more or less in charge of it, and Eliot still doesn't care all that much about coffee.
He does like the smell. There is something reassuring methodical about roasting and grinding the beans, maintaining the equipment, making the drinks. He's less keen on some of the customers. But that's another matter.
What he does like is cooking: for his sister and for Shelley when either of them is in town, for the people he dates, for Mrs Villanueva down the street who reminds him in some way he can never pin down - not appearance and not manner, but something, maybe, in the creases around her eyes - of his mother. She appreciates it, anyhow. Every now and then she'll trust him with a family recipe, and he's working on making them well enough to win her approval.
He's not trained. It's just something he enjoys. He brings his baking experiments to sell in the coffee shop sometimes, alongside the mass-produced pastries and muffins, and several of the regulars always like to check out his offerings. He waves off praise and remembers their comments so he can make it better next time.
Sometimes he'd rather do without the customers, though.
It's past the morning rush and into 'brunch' territory, not that the shop has much in the way of that. He's restocking the sugar packets and checking the tables when the bell above the door chimes and a man comes in. "Be right with you," Eliot calls to him, and finishes wiping down the table he's on.
The man doesn't reply, and Eliot's got him pegged as simply unsociable when he gets his first good look. That's a good suit - screams professional. Even better face, and from the way he's looking at him, Eliot bets he knows it.
He schools his expression and slips back behind the counter, taking a few seconds longer than is strictly necessary to sanitise his hands. Odd, this one. Eliot has a good grasp of people, seeing as many of them as he does. Somehow this guy doesn't strikes him as someone who sits in an office.
"What are you having?"
"Depends," says the man, and Eliot inwardly curses. He doesn't dwell on why. "What teas have you got on offer?"
"We've got iced tea in the fridge," Eliot says, indicating it with his head. "If you mean sweet tea, I can give you syrup for it."
The man's mouth twitches like he just said something funny. "Thanks, but I meant hot tea. Whatever you've got is fine."
Eliot scowls at him. "Does this look like a place that sells tea?"
Once upon a time, Toby would have thwacked him with a newspaper for talking to a customer like that. Eliot doesn't make a habit of it. But he does run the place now, so he does get to make exceptions.
The man's eyebrows raise. It makes soft creases appear on his forehead. "What?"
"We are a coffee shop. I could do you a hot chocolate, or there's the stuff in the fridge. That's all."
The customer doesn't even glance over. He leans slightly on the counter - just his elbows, taking up less space than customers tend to when they decide to be rude - and there's a tilt to his mouth that Eliot might almost call coy. "C'mon, what kind of coffee shop doesn't even sell shitty tea?"
"You want shitty tea? There's a starbucks two streets over."
"Tempting, but no. I'll take a latte."
Eliot glares. The man smiles at him like he's enjoying a secret joke. Eliot decides, abruptly, that this customer is as bad as all the rest. Rude as all hell, assuming that Eliot's into him like that.
"Size?"
"Medium. And a pastry. Surprise me," he adds, forestalling the next question.
Eliot gets him one with raisins in.
2-
It's a busy period the next time the guy in the suit comes in, so it's Keira who takes his order while Eliot makes the drinks. Eliot keeps half an eye on him, but he seems to stay polite with her, none of that leaning close or smiling like a cat in a sunbeam.
"Medium latte," Keira calls back.
Eliot acknowledges with a "Got it." He watches for a second as she goes to cut a slice of the swiss roll - apricot preserve, cream cheese and crushed pistachios, he's pleased with the result, even if the cake cracked a little - then makes the mistake of glancing back at the man in the suit.
Who is also looking at him. He raises an eyebrow just a little when Eliot catches his eye, only a hint of that smile around his mouth, then smooths it away and looks up at the menu like he's studying it.
Eliot scowls to himself, and makes the drink.
When it's quiet enough for Eliot to take a break (or, well, allow himself the luxury of tidying up slowly while Keira takes a break) he glances up across the shop and sees the stranger set up with his laptop by one of their electrical outlets. His plate is empty, Eliot notes with a brief surge of satisfaction. (Sure, he ate the pain au raisin too, but that's not the point.)
He's busy, whatever he's doing, focused on the screen like nothing else is there. Eliot could stop by to chat and try to get a peek at it, but it would be tricky, with him sitting in the corner like that.
Eliot gives himself a little shake. He doesn't need to be encouraging the guy. He busies himself with checking the stock and figuring out what they'll need for the next weekly order, and when the guy comes back up to the counter, Eliot steps back and lets Keira deal with him. He doesn't watch this time.
He tries not to think about it when Keira tells him, a moment later, that that was the last of the swiss roll.
"People really liked that one, don't you think?" she says, and Eliot just makes a noise in his throat that isn't quite agreement.
The next time the guy sets himself up with his laptop and his latte and the baked good of the day (a pair of shortbread cookies with dark chocolate and peanut butter chips), Eliot does go over. He has a reason this time. The table's short of paper napkins. But once those are replaced, he doesn't make a secret of standing there with his arms folded.
The man glanced up at him the moment he started approaching. At this, he looks away from his work entirely, eyebrows politely raised.
"Do you even drink the coffee?" Eliot asks, looking pointedly down at the cup.
"A little," says the man, entirely unembarrassed. "You have good wi-fi," he adds with a shrug.
They do. Marvin set it up so customers could study or apply for jobs here, and yeah, they did get a few more regular customers after that.
Like this guy, who's looking at Eliot with a perfectly steady smile that's still a little warm around the eyes, like he's not about to be an ass while Eliot's at work, like he wasn't a hundred times more blatant the first time they spoke.
The interest's still there. Eliot's all but sure of it. And it eases a faint tension in him that the guy still looks at him like this now he's seen him again without the counter in the way.
Eliot works out - he likes the endorphins, and he's normally the one who carries heavy boxes around here - but he's been soft around the midsection ever since, well. Since before he started working here.
"If you're gonna be buying drinks you don't even like, you might as well take a reward card." He fishes one out his pocket. Custom business cards are cheap enough, and Lakeisha's mother got them a holepunch that cuts out coffee cup shapes. "Gonna need a name to go on it, though."
There is a space on the card for it. Truthfully, though, Eliot doesn't want to keep thinking of him as 'that bastard' or 'that cute bastard' or, once Eliot got a look at the back of his hair and saw a bit of it escaping his hair tie one time, 'that curly-haired bastard, I wonder what it looks like down.'
The man actually sits back at that, tapping a key on his laptop and turning his attention fully to Eliot. He glances up and down him, and it's not assessing, not intrusive, just a little like he's gathering his thoughts. Making a decision.
"Quinn," he says then. "And you?"
Eliot gets to raise his eyebrows this time. He's got the oddest feeling he just passed some kind of test, so he lets himself smirk as well. "I'm wearing a nametag, pal."
"Yeah, well, I always feel it's a little creepy that you guys have to share your first names like that. Not gonna use it unless you tell me I can." He says it casually, comfortably, like it's a reasonable stance to take. Eliot considers it for a moment and reckons it is.
"Alright," he says, handing the card over. He holds it by the edge; Quinn does too, despite the opportunity it gives them both. Quinn holds his gaze over it, a hint of a smile around his eyes. "Call me whatever," Eliot adds, shifting his weight to move away. "And maybe consider buying something you actually like."
Eliot's turned away when Quinn replies "hey, I did," voice a little affronted, so he has to look back to see Quinn tap on the plate for emphasis. And he can't be sure, he looks away too quickly to check, but he thinks he catches a glimpse of a proper, sunny grin.
It makes Quinn look younger than his suit and his demeanour suggest. It makes him look like someone to joke with.
It's an image Eliot keeps, bright and unexpected, in the back of his mind until the end of the shift.
He keeps coming back in for coffee. That's the puzzling thing. He'll take a corner seat with a good view over the tables and take notes in something like an accounts book, or write in a notebook, or - once - hunch over a laptop with the kind of focus that makes Eliot sure that something is wrong.
Eliot lets him stay half an hour after closing that time. He tidies up around him and senses more than sees Quinn flick a glance up at him when he locks the door to keep anyone new from coming in. (He also leaves the key in the door. He's not a jackass.)
He has half a mind to give Quinn one of the day's pastries on the house, but Quinn and the laptop are both gone by the time Eliot returns from taking out the trash. He tries not to dwell on the brief flicker of disappointment - or the unease when he realises the front door is still locked.
3-
The next time Quinn comes in for coffee and tucks a good tip in the jar, something in Eliot snaps. He waits until Quinn's settled writing in something like an accounts book, a notebook, Eliot's not sure, then he leaves the shop in Lakeisha's hands and drives to the nearest grocery store.
He maybe mutters to himself a little along the way. But he doesn't talk himself out of it.
Then he reaches the aisle that stocks tea and quickly realises he doesn't know what he's doing. He considers asking someone for help, playing up the bashful southern charm so he's forgiven for being a bit of an idiot, but the workers he passed on his way in were both men and Eliot is not going to risk that.
It'd feel weird, too, if he's buying this for Quinn.
He pushes on quickly past that thought and fishes his phone out of his pocket, hesitating only for a second over his sister's contact. Then he sighs, and dials, and holds the phone up to his ear.
"Hey, Sam," he says when the call connects. He reaches to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Uh, you drink tea, right?"
When he pushes the shop door open, the bell announcing his presence, a little of the anxiety in his chest eases at the sight of Quinn in his usual seat. Quinn glances up at him though, forehead a little creased from whatever he's working on, and Eliot looks away quickly.
Lakeisha isn't busy when he reaches the counter. He's glad of that. he fetches a saucepan from the back of a cupboard and takes it to the sink to give it a wash - it's been a while since anyone had cause to use it - and when Lakeisha glances over mid-chores, her eyebrows raised, he swallows his pride and asks.
"Can you go ask Quinn if he wants mint tea, Earl Grey, or Lapsang Souchong?"
Lakeisha blinks three times, rapid-fire. "Quinn?"
"Guy with the suit, in the corner. Never drinks his coffee." It comes out gruff. It comes out sounding like an excuse. He winces, a little, then meets her eyes again. "Please?"
Lakeisha nods and goes, and Eliot rinses and dries the pan before putting it on with enough water, Sam's instructions still clear in his head. She'd teased him - of course she'd teased him, he's not the type to go this far out of his way for a customer - but she seemed to realise he was being serious about this.
Serious. About tea. Ugh.
Lakeisha reports back with a request for Earl Grey and Eliot thanks her, studiously watching the pan as faint wisps of steam start to rise.
He fetches the cup and the teabag and an elegant little jug for milk, stands over the pot as it boils, swears internally the entire time. When he sets off to Quinn's table himself with a tray, he's pretty sure his expression would scare anyone else off.
Quinn, when he looks up, just looks surprised. From the hint at the corners of his eyes and mouth, he might even find him funny.
"Tea bag's been in there a minute," Eliot says gruffly, transferring the takeaway cup, the jug, the saucer for the teabag. "On the house this time. Don't expect special treatment."
"Did you go out and buy tea for me?" His voice is warm and playful, and Eliot feels the sudden urge to punch him. Not an impulse he gets often.
He leans back quickly to ease it, folding his arms and shaking his head. "You're not that cute."
What, exactly, was he trying to achieve there? If he'd planned to bluff that they were overhauling the menu anyway, he sure as hell wouldn't have left for it in the middle of a shift. Quinn's eyes are dancing, though, and Eliot feels a smile springing to his mouth to answer it. He pushes it down.
He watches as Quinn adds milk and stirs, sniffs thoughtfully at the tea and pops the lid back on. Quinn holds his eyes and picks up the cup and drinks from it slowly. His adam's apple bobs.
Eliot doesn't stare. He doesn't want to punch Quinn right now.
He doesn't act on that impulse either.
It's a small moment, not much really, but then Quinn lowers the cup and says "Fair," and every movement and syllable of it is we both know you're wrong about that, but I'm happy to match this dance.
Maybe Eliot's presuming. Maybe this guy just gets under his skin. But he hasn't dropped his eyes, and there's intention there that Eliot can't ignore.
Suddenly bold, Eliot reaches out to tap this thumb on the lid of the latte. "You had any of this yet?"
"It's not really my thing," says Quinn, smiling pleasantly and tilting his head.
"Mind if I-?"
Quinn gestures a go-ahead, and Eliot picks it up to take a swig, letting himself smile against the plastic. It's only pleasantly warm, Quinn's been here for so long, and the froth tickles his lip. He straightens up from his lean against the table and collects the tray.
Quinn doesn't speak again, and Eliot doesn't look back. He gets the length of his walk to the counter to wonder if he's made an ass of himself; the way Lakeisha studiously avoids his eyes, giving him a moment before she mentions an issue with the stock, doesn't reassure him.
The fizz under his skin lingers for the rest of his shift. He doesn't look up when Quinn leaves.
He finds the note, though, when he empties the tip jar at the end of the day. It's just a quick scrawl on a torn-off scrap of receipt, a Thanks -Q in hurried graceful script, but he ends up staring at it like it's about to bite him.
He snaps out of it at the sound of Lakeisha returning from the backroom, and tucks it in his pocket before she can see. He knows his employees gossip. No reason to give them any more ammo.
Maybe she doesn't say anything, because it's Keira on shift the next day, and she doesn't say a word. Not until Quinn's made his request for Lapsang Souchong and some of Eliot's lemon curd cookies, a smile in his eyes as he watches Eliot work the till, and Eliot asks Keira to take the front while he makes it.
Quinn doesn't wait at the counter. That's probably just as well: Eliot's not sure how well he'd manage, knowing Quinn's watching him.
Not that that stops Keira. "We sell tea now?" she asks, and Eliot glances up to see her watching with interest.
"If anyone asks," Eliot says shortly. He's taken aback for a moment by the smell from the opened box - rich and clean, like a bonfire - then he gives himself a little shake and adds, "Just put it through as a small coffee and show 'em the options. Don't think we'll get much interest though."
"Just him," says Keira, and Eliot doesn't reply.
The saucepan takes an age to boil, but Eliot takes the time to fetch and fill the tiny milk jug, get the cup on the tray, drum his fingers against the side. Listen out idly as Keira chats with the mother and kid - no, sounds like two kids, actually - who just came in.
Quinn looks up at him as he brings it over, looks at him for just a second too long, the warmth in his eyes. "Thanks," he says, like he means something else by it.
Eliot doesn't have it in him to reply. He just makes a low noise in his throat, glances for a second at Quinn's plate - already missing two of the cookies he bought - and takes the tray back to the counter. When he's there, wiping it down to stack with the rest, he can feel Keira's eyes on him.
So he's at least half expecting it when she tells him "You know you're allowed to date customers, right?"
He's expecting it, so he glares at her.
Keira just gives him a wolfish smile and has it mostly smoothed out to customer service ready for the next bored-looking businesswoman to approach the counter.
Quinn disappears for weeks at a time. Eliot's surprised by his own disappointment the first time, when it's been a week with no sightings, when he has to admit to himself he'd been looking forward to Quinn's regular visits. He tries not to dwell on it. He fails, once or twice - in the shower, or lying in bed chasing sleep - wondering whether he's missed his chance.
His chance at what, he won't say. It's not that he's shy. It's not that he's even particularly shy about liking men - and he's not the only queer person on staff. Toby always had a softness for the oddballs, and like attracts like.
It's been fifteen days and some frankly disastrous experimental macarons (Eliot's selling some of the broken ones for cheap, and he's already gotten commiserations from two fellow bakers about it) before he sees him again. He doesn't even realise at first. He's trying to coax the coffee machine through one of its difficult moods when he hears an "Um" and flicks a glance up to Marvin hovering by the till.
Two years working here, and Eliot's beginning to suspect that Marvin will always be a person who starts requests with "Um". But he rarely looks like a frightened rabbit when confronted with customers anymore. Eliot's taking it as progress.
"What's up?" he says, dividing his attention.
"Do we have any Earl Grey tea in?" he says, and Eliot looks up properly.
Quinn's suit is blue this time, and when he turns his head slightly to meet Eliot's eyes Eliot spots a bandaid just under his jaw - shaving accident, he supposes - but he looks good. Like he never stopped coming at all. And there's that playfulness in his eyes, that sense of a question that Eliot's not sure what it is, or whether he'd know how to answer.
"Yeah, we do Earl Grey," Eliot says, looking away again quickly to locate the saucepan. But he glances back in time to see Quinn eyeing the pastry cabinet and adds, almost unwillingly, "'S good to see you."
Quinn blinks at him, seeming surprised for a second, then his expression goes soft.
Heating water this way is a fucking nuisance, but it gives Eliot a few chances to glance over to where Quinn's setting up his laptop, adjusting the blinds nearest his table, settling back in his chair like he's been needing a good sit down for weeks. Like he's glad to be back.
Eliot scalds his hand getting the tea made this time. It's worth it to see Quinn's smile.
4-
"You went out and bought us an electric kettle?"
Quinn shrugs, his posture easy. "You realise it's physically painful waiting for you to heat the water in a pan each time, right?"
Eliot narrows his eyes, not letting up on the arms-crossed-unimpressed thing he has going on. "I'm not gonna reimburse you."
He might have, if Quinn had asked first. But it wouldn't do to let him think he can get away with that.
"Trust me," Quinn says, glancing aside to eye up the cake options behind the glass. "It's worth it."
Eliot makes a low noise that isn't agreement, glancing back to check Keira caught the drink order, but when Quinn holds out a note Eliot puts up a hand to stop him.
"Just this once."
Quinn's eyebrows raise in polite surprise - and just a little pleasure. "Alright," he says easily, shifting back from the counter a little. "Then I'll take the tart."
Eliot nods, and gets everything together - and yes, the kettle makes it so much faster, even with the time it takes to skim the manual - and it takes until he's sent Keira to his table with the drink for Eliot to recognise the note in the top of the tip jar.
This time, the noise he makes is incredulous.
5-
At one point Sam visits, kid in tow, and asks if he's still seeing the tea-drinker. Eliot's face does something complicated as he can't quite refute her assumption.
"Yes? No? He's- he's a customer, he still comes in sometimes, yeah."
"Oh!" says Sam, looking a little put off. "Well, I was doing a clearout and I found these." She takes out a tea set, boxed up well, blue and white and delicate. "Aunt Tilly's. I know," she adds as Eliot grimaces again, "But she's not around to tell us none of us deserve it anymore." She rolls her eyes. "Do you... want it for your shop anyway?"
Eliot runs a finger over the fine china and thinks about it. Thinks about Quinn with his suits and his polite smiles sipping from styrofoam cups. Thinks about him sipping from this teacup instead, a sunbeam playing over his hair, setting the cup down on its saucer.
"Can't guarantee they won't get broken," Eliot says, when he realises he's been quiet a moment too long.
"Fine by me," says Sam, "it gets them out of my house."
The look on Quinn's face the first time Eliot brings the tea set over, incredulity and delight, is worth all the awkwardness that came before. When he says "You know, I think you might like me after all," Eliot has his response ready. He makes a dismissive noise in his throat, sets the sugar bowl on the table, and takes the tray away. He doesn't look back.
He does watch in the corner of his eye as Quinn pours the first cup of tea, handling the teapot like it's something he's used to, and smiling down at it in a soft sort of way Eliot hasn't seen before.
He feels his cheeks warm as he turns aside to empty the kettle. It's a success, is the important thing, and he gets a few minutes to collect himself before the next customer walks in.
At one point when Quinn's busy on his laptop, Eliot overcomes months of professional politeness and asks him what he's doing. The look Quinn gives him is oddly hesitant. "Research for a novel."
"Oh yeah? What kind of novel?"
"Spy stuff," Quinn says, smiling like it's at some private joke. "Bodyguards, dangerous situations, antiheroes, you know. I haven't quite got it figured out yet."
"Damn," says Eliot, taking a moment to square this away with what he knows of the man.
"Not your cup of tea?" Quinn's clearly teasing now.
"I don't know," Eliot says honestly. "Hate to think what the research involves though."
"You don't want to know," Quinn says, serious-voiced, cheerful-eyed.
"Yeah, well, just don't use our internet for anything shady, alright?"
"I'll behave." It's the same tone as before, like there's something very funny that Eliot's not privy to. It's pretty frustrating, but it leaves Eliot smiling to himself as he goes to clean up behind the counter, at least until Quinn leaves - on what business, he doesn't say.
Eliot has to sober up after that. He always has to sober up, when Quinn's gone.
6-
Quinn says "Surprise me" and Eliot gets him a blueberry muffin with a lemon-sugar crust, finding something to do near Quinn's table long enough to hear the soft "holy shit."
Eliot leaves hiding a smile, then doesn't hide it when Quinn stops by the counter again to pick up another for the road.
Quinn thanks him politely for what might as well be the hundredth time, turning the cup on its saucer and reaching for a sugar cube, and Eliot lingers a second longer to watch him. "You realise it's even weirder for you to pretend not to know my name, right?"
Quinn stops at that, glancing up with a suddenly thoughtful expression. "...Huh. You think so?"
Eliot just raises his eyebrows. Quinn tilts his head a little, shrugs as if to himself, then drops a sugar cube into his tea. "Thanks, Eliot."
Eliot turns away quickly to hide his shiver.
Quinn stands in the doorway on a cool, anaemic afternoon with a shoebox under one arm and an apologetic expression. When Eliot comes closer to see what's wrong, he hears a soft squeak and looks down at the box.
There's a faded blanket and a kitten inside.
"Okay if I bring him in?" Quinn asks, his voice a little rough. "I've got food for him - the shelter's just closed today, and I can't leave him unsupervised." Apology in his tone.
They do have a no animals policy - assistance dogs are one thing, but pets are rarely as well-behaved as their owners like to think. This one, though, seems rather too small to escape the box unaided.
And Eliot can't pretend his heart didn't melt a little to see it, nevermind the quiet plea in Quinn's expression.
"...Yeah, sure. C'mon in."
He doesn't think Quinn gets much work done that day, with a hand in the box more often than not, resting it on his lap and murmuring under his breath. He stops Eliot when Eliot goes to pour a saucer of milk - "I'm pretty sure it's not good for them," he says. He lowers the box a little and instructs "Look, but don't touch," when a small girl with box braids and wide eyes (Lakeisha's niece, Eliot thinks, or a cousin, visiting with Lakeisha's mother for a while) watches for a little too long.
It makes her giggle. It's a nice sound. And Quinn gets chatting with Lakeisha's mother after that, accepting the bit of ribbon she fishes out of her pocket, and looking so surprised at the gift. Kindness always seems to catch him off guard. It touches something sore in Eliot's heart. And it gives him an idea, seeing the two of them talking.
"Mrs Villanueva across the road from me," Eliot says when he returns the teapot with fresh water. "She likes cats."
"Amalia?" Quinn says, sounding surprised, and Eliot blinks at him.
"You know her?"
"We've spoken a few times. Sharp lady."
"Yeah," says Eliot, now the one a little wrong-footed. Quinn hitting it off with Eliot's favourite neighbour. The world is a very strange place. "She... might have a few tips for you, at least. If it's your first time kittensitting through the night."
It's not long until closing, and the kitten's resting in the crook of Quinn's arm, head buried, fur tabby-splotched and fuzzy, and - when Eliot's quiet for a moment to listen - purring faintly.
"Were there any others?" Eliot murmurs, like he doesn't want to disturb it.
"None." Quinn matches his volume. Eliot doesn't ask if he just means none that made it.
He isn't all that surprised, the next day, when Quinn tells him that Mrs Villanueva kept the kitten.
Or that Quinn decided to name it Lettuce.
Quinn stops by the coffee shop early one day when Eliot's nursing one hell of a headache and hanging up on the third emergency locksmith. They're not meant to be open yet, at least, but Eliot has let Quinn in early once or twice. It's nice, setting up and brewing the first pot of coffee in a quiet shop with Quinn already in the corner. Eliot's sat down to chat with him once or twice until the first customers come in.
This time, Quinn's giving him an amused look in greeting, and Eliot's tamping down on the urge to swear. Toby encouraged him out of that early. "Marvin managed to lock himself out last night," Eliot says, irritation bleeding through. "And it turns out the spare key doesn't work. Should've had it tested. It's an old lock," he adds, to Quinn's questioning look.
Quinn hums in response, stepping back to take a look at the building. "Are the windows locked?"
"Of course." He hesitates. He relents. "I mean, maybe not in the backroom. They're meant to, but they don't."
"That's a security risk," Quinn says absently, setting his laptop bag down on the ground. "I assume you're fine with me trying to get in?"
"What?" Eliot says, watching as Quinn extricates what seems to be a coat hanger from his bag. "I mean, yeah, if you can do it without breaking anything, just- what?"
Five minutes later he's keeping guard, ready to reassure anyone who might see them and look alarmed as Quinn starts persuading the window open.
"Where the hell did you learn this?" Eliot asks, pasting on a smile for the woman on the other side of the road who he knows is a regular though she's never given her name. Her return smile is just as dubious.
"Troubled youth," Quinn says cheerfully, and the window pops open. "Right. Take this, stay where you are, I'll get the front door."
"Hey. No. You are not breaking and entering, I'll do that part."
Quinn, his foot already braced on the windowsill below, hands already braced to pull him up, glances back with an incredulous look. "And when I'm loitering outside and the owner's nowhere in sight, it'll look less suspicious how?"
Eliot glares at him. He doesn't have an answer. At least not until Quinn takes his silence as consent and hoists himself up, squirming through and dropping down inside, and Eliot's left holding a coat hanger bent out of shape and waiting to be let into his own damn coffee shop.
"Dammit, Quinn," he mutters.
He hears the front door seventeen seconds later.
The thing with Keira's ex is rather more serious. Eliot doesn't ever find out exactly what that involved, except that the guy was a crap boyfriend even before he decided to stalk her, that Quinn was leaving the shop when the ex decided to show up at Keira's work, that Quinn stayed and talked with her until Eliot stepped outside to take out the trash and saw them both there.
He doesn't know why Quinn had to leave, either. Eliot had his suspicions, sure, but they were less important than making sure Keira was okay. There's a moment when Quinn stops by the shop the next day, ordering tea and a pastry to take away for once, when he meets Eliot's eyes and Eliot thinks he might be expecting something. Communicating something. But Quinn gives a tiny nod and looks away, and the moment passes, and Eliot quickly dismisses it.
Keira comes back to herself quickly, chatting and laughing as early as her next shift back. It makes Eliot breathe a little easier to see it. He walks her to her car for as long as she allows it, but she dodges all questions about dealing with the problem through official channels. The ex hasn't shown up again since, she tells him, focusing firmly on the task of restocking the fridge. It doesn't seem right to push.
Days become weeks, and weeks settle into a sense of renewed safety. And now, when it's Keira who takes Quinn his tea, she'll sometimes pat him on the shoulder or stop to talk for a while.
7-
"Who the hell doesn't?" says Eliot, abandoning all pretence of wiping down Quinn's table to drop into a seat and rest his arms on the table, leaning a little into Quinn's space, a mirror of the first time Quinn came in. "Pretty sure if I'd grown up to be a marshall I'd have made me and my dad happy."
There's a little bitterness as he says it. There always is. But he doesn't mean to linger, and he's glad when Quinn doesn't either.
"Let me guess," says Quinn, his eyes dancing. "Wyatt?"
"Of course. You?"
"I liked Doc Holliday." There's a challenge in that, in the mischief in his eyes, though Eliot can't quite tell what it is. He considers it all the same, lets himself smile a little as he studies Quinn's face.
"Gunslinger, jackass, martyr?"
"Two out of three," Quinn says easily, holding Eliot's gaze. "I'm not much of a martyr."
Eliot hums at that, leaning back in his chair and piecing it together with what little he knows. It doesn't necessarily bother him if Quinn owns a gun. So long as he's careful with it. Quinn seems like the type to be careful - always so precise in what he does with his hands. And something about him, his presence, his awareness, almost reminds Eliot of Shelley, though he's not sure it's anything military.
"Takes a hell of a person to trick a friend to keep 'em alive."
Quinn's smile doesn't fade at that, not the one around his mouth, but Eliot wonders. He stays a little longer, and they talk a little more, but it doesn't reach the same warmth as before. When Eliot makes the excuse that he has to go help Keira, and Quinn returns to his work, Eliot has a fair suspicion of what it was: a withdrawing.
It worries at him, a faint thread of anxiety as he goes about his work, until Quinn stops by the counter to leave a tip in the jar. Eliot considers giving him space for all of two seconds.
"I'll be away for work for a few weeks," Quinn tells him, and Eliot hides his surprise. Quinn's never warned him in advance before. Eliot still isn't sure what the work even is, except that it involves travelling. It's gotta pay well, the clothes Quinn wears, but he's always found a way to dodge questions in the past. "...So don't go thinking you can get rid of my tea."
"Your tea?" Eliot says, leaning his hip against the counter and not bothering to hide his smile. "We do have other customers, you know."
"Yeah, but I'm your favourite."
"Dream on," Eliot tells him, and feels something flutter in his throat when Quinn gives a soft laugh. It's a good sound. He wouldn't mind hearing it again. Then Quinn's turning away like that's a goodbye, and suddenly it doesn't feel like enough.
"Hey," Eliot calls after him, "Take care," and he sees the surprise in Quinn's raised eyebrows when he glances back. For a second Eliot wonders if this is what he's like when he works, really works, not just in a coffee shop where he can get decent wi-fi and frankly excellent baked goods: his posture straight and somehow cautious, eyes that don't miss a thing.
"I will," says Quinn, and Eliot watches as he leaves.
It takes him another twenty seconds to realise he was expecting a 'you too.'
8-
Eliot hears a noise in an alleyway on the way back from work one day and, hesitating a moment to consider the dangers, goes to check it out. He's expecting a stray cat knocking over the cardboard left by the dumpster, or someone looking for a semi-private place to spend the night. What he finds is a man, maybe six foot, leaning unsteadily against the wall.
It takes him a solid five seconds to recognise him as Quinn.
Eliot moves towards him and Quinn visibly flinches, hand twitching at his side, so Eliot pauses and shows his own: just me, nothing to worry about. "Hey, Quinn. You okay, man? You look-"
Drunk, if Eliot had to guess. He's lost his tie at some point, and his hair's half out of his ponytail.
And he twitches again at Eliot's voice. It's difficult to see his face in the gloom, but Eliot thinks he might be scowling. He tries again. "Do you need me to call someone for you?"
"No." Quinn's voice comes out hoarse. "Just..."
This time, he doesn't react as Eliot draws closer. Relaxes a little, maybe, one hand shifting its grip on the brickwork.
There's something odd about Quinn's face, now that Eliot can see it. Not just that his eyes are such a deep brown in this light - in the coffee shop, when the sunlight streams in just right, it shows the hazel in them, sometimes. The faint blush of green that had Eliot just staring the first time he saw it. It is, Eliot realises with a jolt behind his ribcage, that he hasn't seen Quinn looking this uncertain before. His eyes are flicking between Eliot's like he's looking for direction. Like he's puzzled. Like he's scared.
"...Just heading home from the bar," Quinn says after a moment, voice fading almost to nothing at the end.
The nearest bar is three streets over. Eliot doesn't like the thought of him walking that far like this.
"...Alright, well, I'm not sure you're gonna make it alone. Can I walk you there?"
Quinn just stands there, propped against the wall, soft curls of hair above his shoulder, his forehead creased. Eliot's just about to speak again when Quinn finally gets out, more a sigh than distinct words, "Sure thing."
There's a hesitance to his movements that seems like more than just alcohol when he pushes himself away from the wall, and a wince he can't suppress when Eliot puts an arm around his waist. Eliot pauses then, but Quinn's already leaning against him, arm around his shoulder, like it's the easiest thing in the world.
"You're gonna have to tell me where you live," Eliot says, trying to ignore the tickle of Quinn's breath and Quinn's hair on his neck. "...Quinn. Hey. Quinn?"
The response Quinn gives isn't entirely clear. Eliot takes a second to parse it, considers and discards 'what are you, a cop?' It would be reassuring if he's present enough to crack jokes. It would be more reassuring if he could actually give an answer. And Quinn's getting heavier every moment - if Eliot wants to get him somewhere without carrying him, it has to happen soon. He doesn't ask again.
He does mutter a "Dammit, Quinn," and make a brief attempt at checking Quinn's pockets from the outside, stopping when the hand tightens on his shoulder. "Hey, I'm just looking for a phone," Eliot says, trying to sound soothing. "I wanna get you home and you're not getting any lighter."
"...Eliot?"
The name comes as a relief - at least Quinn still knows who he is. "Yeah," Eliot says, adjusting his grip on the other man's waist. Quinn hums a reply against his shoulder. Fuck it, Eliot thinks. He wouldn't feel comfortable leaving the guy alone like this, anyway.
Probably it's presumptuous. Probably their friendship so far, their flirtship, this thing they've been dancing around for the past six months doesn't justify taking Quinn back to his own place when Quinn's as out of it as this.
But Quinn's leaning readily against him, warm and trusting and not even managing complete sentences, and Eliot's not gonna leave him here.
He sighs and tries a few steps, and Quinn - thank goodness - has enough left in him to move his own feet.
Eliot's flagging by the time he gets Quinn to the door. He's trying not to think too hard - trying not to worry - and juggling both his keys and the semi-conscious man currently using him as a crutch does take up most of his brain. He's dearly hoping none of his neighbours see him like this. But some small part of him notices - doesn't dwell on it now, but sets it aside to figure out later - that he hasn't yet smelled booze.
The door opens with a click, and Eliot lets out a heavy sigh. "Nearly there," he tells Quinn, though Quinn hasn't responded in a while. "Let's get you inside."
Eliot spares a thought for his sheets (washed over the weekend, they'll have to do) for only a second before steering Quinn towards the bed. The couch isn't quite long enough for Eliot to sleep there comfortably; it would be even worse for him.
Getting Quinn settled is a lot like hauling bags of coffee beans - awkward, and heavy, and Eliot's shoulders aching a little by the time Quinn's head flops to one side. Eliot brushes the hair from his face without thinking about it. Then he stops, hand frozen, seeing the fresh red bruise on the front of his shoulder that disappears under his collar.
"The hell kind of bar fight did you get into?" Eliot mutters, pushing the jacket back far enough to see the shirt beneath. No blood seeping through, there or on the other side. That's something. He glances back to Quinn's face, letting himself wonder for a moment, then he moves back to the end of the bed to take off his shoes.
That, in the end, is all he's comfortable doing. He tugs the blanket up over Quinn's waist, fetches the spare from the cupboard for himself, and heads back out to the main room, hesitating a second before closing the door between.
It takes him a while to get settled, with the thoughts he isn't letting himself have while Quinn's unconscious in the other room; with the warm thing in his chest at Quinn's trust in him, uneasy with the circumstances.
He rolls over with difficulty, looking out over the room, his back to the bedroom door. He lets out a long breath, and tries to get comfortable with his neck at just the wrong angle.
And at some point, presumably, he sleeps.
His phone alarm has him snapping out an arm to keep from falling off the couch. Has him swearing, too, as he hurries to silence it. A quick look around the room becomes a guilty glance back at the bedroom door. One heartbeat, then two, then ten, and there's no sound of stirring from that room. Eliot sags back, and considers a plan of action.
He doesn't want to risk being in the shower when Quinn gets up, so he washes his face and brushes his teeth quickly, spares a thought for the fact that he's still in yesterday's clothes then decides to resolutely ignore it.
He thinks about breakfast, instead. It's been a while since he has someone over, but he'll be damned if he dragged Quinn here not to feed him. He kept a few back from his latest batch of banana muffins so he leaves one out for Quinn and eats pieces of the other while he searches the cupboards for inspiration.
Inspiration, in the end, is eggs - nothing fancy, he'll scramble them - and the last of the bakery bread, still good enough for toast. He beats the eggs and puts them back in the fridge for now, fills the kettle, and reaches to the back of the cupboard for the tea he bought for his sister's visit.
She'd laughed, which had annoyed him at the time, but she'd liked it well enough, and insisted she didn't have room in her luggage to take the rest with her.
Eliot's plating up his eggs when he hears a soft sound behind him and glances back to see Quinn in the doorway. He's rumpled, bleary-looking, somehow hesitant - so different to the Quinn he's used to seeing, but Eliot reminds himself that if he woke up in a strange apartment, he'd be feeling pretty awkward too.
A quick glance down confirms Quinn's found his shoes. That's something.
"Good morning," Quinn says, amusement in his voice. Just a subtle shift of posture and he's leaning casually against the doorframe, even if there's something a little unsure about it still.
"Not yet, it isn't. You hungry? I'm just making scrambled eggs, but there's enough."
"Just scrambled eggs?" Quinn's eyes slide down to the muffin on the table.
Eliot feels his mouth do something complicated as he sets the plate besine it. He steps back; Quinn steps forward.
"...And a banana muffin with maple mascarpone frosting. I'm still figuring out the proportions." This last comes out gruff. Quinn snorts, and shakes his head, and Eliot turns his back on him so he doesn't have to watch him take the first bite.
Does have to hear the feedback, though, when he sits down with a second plate of scrambled eggs and Quinn's only halfway through his own.
"How the hell are you single?" Quinn says then, in lieu of the usual compliment when Eliot gets a baked good especially right. It doesn't seem to need a response, certainly not the automatic one where Eliot gets defensive, so he slides a mug across the table towards him instead.
Quinn eyes it, first with wariness then curiosity, and takes a tentative sniff. His eyebrows shoot up. His eyes lock on Eliot's. "Genmaicha?"
"If you say so."
One of Quinn's eyebrows climbs higher. Eliot feels a smile twitch at his mouth. "Yeah, sure, okay. Bought it for my sister when she last visited. She, uh." He pauses, gesturing absently with the fork, wondering if he wants to share this bit. But Quinn's eyes are on him, open and curious, and he relents. "She gave me advice on what to buy. When we decided to branch out at the shop."
"Well, give her my thanks." A tilt at the corners of his mouth, halfway to his usual soft smile, and Eliot relaxes a little to see it. He nods, and eats, and takes a moment to think around the elephant in the room.
In the end, he isn't the one to address it.
"And thank you," Quinn says, and Eliot looks up at him, startled. Quinn's smile is warm enough this time, but his eyes are serious. "For seeing me to a safe bed last night."
"You seemed pretty rough," Eliot says softly, as if in agreement. "And, uh, you couldn't tell me where you lived. Tried to see if you had a phone, but..."
"I left it at home," Quinn says, with an easy shrug. He winces a little at the motion. "A poor decision, looking back. I won't be that careless again."
There's a sense, in the casualness of his tone, the faint wrongness of it, the deepening purple of the bruise that's only occasionally visible now on his shoulder, that Eliot's missing something important. Whatever it is, it got Quinn hurt. Whatever it is, Quinn's protecting him from it.
"Hey," Eliot says, and Quinn's eyes snap up to his. "Are you alright?" It comes out far softer than he meant it to.
He's not sure what it is that flits through Quinn's eyes then. But he knows that what comes next is as close to a truth as Quinn can manage. "Better," he says, and taps the mug with his thumb. "Thanks to you."
Quinn doesn't say much more after that. He finishes his tea quickly. He insists on washing the dishes while Eliot changes into fresh clothes, then when Eliot sees him again his hair is markedly tidier, though his jacket's a bit of a lost cause. He's hovering by the doorway like he means to just thank him and leave.
Something in Eliot surges up in protest.
He draws closer and catches Quinn's hand, catches the surprise in Quinn's face that gives way to stillness, to intent. Quinn's hand tightens on his. Eliot leans into him gently, gently, Quinn's hand finding his neck, his cheek, Quinn's lips finding his. It's a soft press at first that Eliot makes firmer, that Quinn answers with a tense little noise in his throat and his hand releasing to find Eliot's side, pull him in closer, fingers digging in.
It's as natural as breathing: tasting tea and maple syrup in Quinn's mouth, feeling Quinn's stubble scrape against his cheek, sliding a hand down the buttons of his shirt and not realising one's missing until he reaches skin.
He's expecting the skin to be smooth - Quinn might be hairy, but it's difficult to tell, with how little he has on display. Eliot's not expecting the ridge of hard tissue his fingers skid across, and he feels Quinn go still against his mouth.
Eliot draws back a little to meet his eye. "You okay?"
Quinn looks back at him, his mouth a little parted, some of his hair already drifting free of his ponytail, his eyes-
Wide pupils. Warm brown. And there's something about them that makes Eliot think of last night, that sense of uncertainty, almost of fear. But even as Eliot realises that Quinn's straightening up, no space to back off from him, so Eliot backs off instead. Quinn's hand drops from his side and Eliot forces himself not to catch it.
"Sorry," Eliot says, "Are you- was that okay?"
Quinn lets out a shaky breath. his eyes close for a second; his forehead creases. his mouth shapes the word 'shit.'
"Quinn?" It comes out so much smaller than he meant it to.
Quinn moves to smooth his shirt back into place like he's tidying up after a mistake. His eyes stay on Eliot's, something remote in them, almost despairing. "Thank you," he says, his voice low, and Eliot can't hide his flinch.
Quinn's gone before he can figure out what to say.
9-
Keira notices how distracted Eliot is on their shift. She asks him what's wrong, he doesn't reply, then she casts a quick glance to Quinn's usual table - currently occupied by a father and his kid, sharing a banana muffin - and asks, quietly, "Is it Quinn?"
It's not that he always comes in at this time. But he's taken to giving Eliot a heads up about his absences. And Keira is, well, nosy is the rude word for it.
"I think I might've," Eliot says, then stops. He's been trying to scrub away a mark that's part of the pattern of the countertop. Yeah, he's distracted. "...Made an assumption," he gets out. It sounds pale and inadequate compared to what happened. But it is, perhaps, better not to imply that any more happened than did.
Keira, to her credit, takes a moment to consider her reply. "Was the assumption that he likes you?"
Eliot winces, already regretting the topic.
"'Cos I can tell you now, that guy fancied you the moment he saw you."
"Liking isn't wanting."
"Sure, but he kept coming in for... how many weeks? To buy coffee he didn't drink, eat your baked goods and talk to you. I guess he was pretty polite about it," she adds, almost to herself. "A lot of people wouldn't be. But there were other options if he just wanted wi-fi and somewhere to sit. Cheaper options."
Eliot hasn't responded, busy picking flecks of lint off the washcloth, and Keira slants him a look. "Hey," she says softly. "If something went wrong, it's fixable." She sounds sure. It sounds nice. "And, I mean, relationships aren't my thing, turns out, but do you want to talk about it?"
"No," Eliot says, firmer than is strictly warranted. Keira gives him space and doesn't seem hurt, and he's glad of that, and more glad that she's apparently happy to be the one dealing with customers today. He's pretty sure he can't manage much more than grunts and glares today.
An hour later, with the post-office-hours rush fading out disappointingly early, he passes Keira a bag of float for the till and finds himself dithering. "I think," Eliot says, then cuts himself off. But Keira stays quiet, no complaint, no turning away, so he powers through. "I think I scared him off."
"Oh," says Keira, looking up suddenly. The look she casts him is hesitant. "Do you... think you might be his first guy?"
"Shit," says Eliot. That didn't even occur to him. Why didn't that occur to him? Because Quinn was so good at it, maybe, so blatant on their first meeting - but he's a little younger than Eliot, isn't he, and it's so easy to go through life denying a thing like that. At least until you don't. "I didn't ask. Didn't even think."
"Not your fault," Keira says then, looking back down to make a note of the money being swapped out. "This shit's hard on everyone." A glance aside, a little belated, making sure no customer just walked in.
They don't talk much after that. Eliot's too busy thinking, his thoughts going nowhere, and Keira's kind enough not to press the matter.
It's another four days before Eliot sees him again. He's closing up on Saturday, having sent Lakeisha home early, and he's been lost in his head for days so it takes him a moment to recognise the figure leaning against the wall waiting for him.
Quinn looks good. It's a new tie, a glossy purple, and Eliot's eyes fix on it for a moment trying to figure out the pattern - floral, maybe - before jumping back up to the rest. Quinn's tidier than when he last saw him. More casual, that's for sure. More... something else, like a cheetah before it runs, but before it runs away.
He's not running now. He's looking at him, serious and expectant.
Eliot feels suddenly tired. He remembers all too well what Keira suggested before. He's not going to make this any harder for Quinn than it has to be. "It's good to see you," he says, tucking the shop key back in his pocket.
"And you," Quinn says, quite softly. The next words come out formal. practised. "I wanted to catch you for a word. Somewhere private."
Eliot glances from the locked coffee shop to Quinn, considering. "Your place or mine?"
Quinn hesitates. It's not like him. "Yours might be a better idea."
He's too tense, when they get there, to offer Quinn a drink. But Quinn doesn't seem to take it as an affront. He doesn't sit down, either, so Eliot moves to face him and begins with the thing he's been wanting to say.
"I'm sorry if that was too much, last time. If I'd thought about it at all, I wouldn't have done it that day."
Quinn frowns at that, just a little. "That was fine. if I didn't want you to, you wouldn't have." He sounds so sure. At least that's something.
"If it was too fast-"
"Eliot," Quinn says, and Eliot stops. "You weren't out of line. Hell, if we'd gone any slower-" he stops, shakes his head like he's dislodging a fly. Takes something out of his pocket. A smartphone.
"This is my place," he says, passing it over.
They're photos, and as Eliot stares at the first one, it doesn't make much sense. It's a dim apartment, the window boarded up - Eliot might think someone squats there, if the bed weren't so tidy. It's sparse, though. Not many would call it a home.
Eliot moves to the next picture. A hard guitar case, opened to show a rifle inside. What the fuck, Quinn?
He moves to the next. An opened drawer, an entire arsenal of guns, a good collection of knives, a leather strop for sharpening.
The next. Another drawer, heavy-duty garbage bags and duct tape, zip-ties more industrial than anything Eliot's had cause to buy. A few opaque bottles, unlabelled.
There are more pictures. Eliot's hand hesitates for him when he goes to swipe to the next.
He looks up at Quinn. "You expect me to believe you live there?"
Quinn stays silent until Eliot hands the phone back - he seems careful to make sure their hands don't touch - then he nods, tucking it away again. "It's a safehouse. Not one I planned to keep for long. And not a good place for this kind of talk. But I needed you to believe me."
To believe him. About the thing, maybe, that he's been hiding all along - that Eliot's only glimpsed when chatting about Quinn's writing, when realising that Quinn can break in and out of a building as comfortably as if it's his day job, when getting the feeling sometimes that Quinn's a predator that Eliot's just never seen when he's hunting.
"You're not a serial killer." Eliot's sure about that. Not the Quinn he's gotten to know. "Serial killers aren't this careless."
"You'd be surprised." A tone of faint amusement that sets Eliot on edge.
"Alright, you're not this careless."
That gets Quinn to smile, just a little. It's not as much of a relief as Eliot was expecting. "That's true enough. I'm a professional."
"A professional," Eliot echoes, still watching him. Quinn's eyes haven't shifted from his face. "A professional killer?"
Quinn, who leaned over the counter that first day and looked at Eliot like he was the best thing he'd seen all week. Quinn, who tips well and lights up when Eliot speaks to him and never crosses the line to making him uncomfortable. Quinn, who's unfailingly polite and kind to the coffee shop workers and who stops what he's doing to hold the door for old people. Who apologised when he turned up at the coffee shop with a kitten in a shoebox.
Who kissed Eliot like he was something precious, something he could break but didn't want to, not ever, then stared at him afterwards like it was already too late.
Quinn who's watching him now, polite and a little bored, with just a faint sense of tension beneath. Just a faint sense of how important this is.
Okay. Eliot hears him on that.
"You're a hitman? You actually kill people."
Silence. At this point, that's confirmation enough.
"I'm not sure what to think about that."
"You don't have to think anything," Quinn says, breezy and professional. Maybe he catches the way Eliot's eyes narrow at that, because he shakes his head and goes on: "If you're not okay with this, then I'm out of your life and you can do whatever you want about it. I'm not gonna get caught."
He sounds pretty sure. Eliot weighs that up with the cheerful ways Quinn has probably bent the law since he met him, the way he'd let Eliot set the pace, even as he teased and prodded.
It's strange. Eliot doesn't claim to be an expert in morality - hell, it was a minor miracle and no choice of his own that he never never made it out of training, never ended up with suffering and death on his conscience himself. A miracle and a blessing, and still something he mourns.
Eliot's probably not a good person, is the fact of it, and maybe the proof of that is that he's standing here wondering whether the hitman who he's been getting to know and getting to like, been fantasising about pressing against the wall and having his way with - who Eliot has been pretty sure from the beginning would be more than happy if he did - maybe isn't so bad after all. It means something, doesn't it, that he's been good to Eliot? To Marvin, to Lakeisha, to Keira?
Oh. Fuck.
"Keira's ex," Eliot says, his voice coming out harsher than he intended. "The one who'd been stalking her. Did you kill him?"
Quinn glances between his eyes, expression shifting to something more thoughtful. "Would it be any great tragedy if I did?"
A second, just long enough for Eliot to realise he really isn't sure, then Quinn goes on, "I didn't have to. Guy had some unsavoury friends. I left some guns at his place and nudged some attention his way."
"He's locked up?"
"That's what happens to criminals, isn't it?" Definite amusement in his voice. Definitely something in his eyes and face still, like he's testing Eliot, or like he's waiting.
Eliot can guess what he's waiting for. He's just not sure he knows how he wants to react to this yet.
"...Why are you telling me this?"
Quinn sighs and shifts his weight, and Eliot's half expecting him to go to the door and leave without a word, is already tamping down on the urge to drag him back, but Quinn only glances behind himself and perches on the edge of the windowsill.
Oh. Eliot rocks back and wishes for something better to do with his hands than simply fold his arms.
"Relationships with people outside the game are complicated," Quinn says - softly, but tiredly, like it's an old problem. Or like it's something someone told him once before. "I don't normally risk anything this long."
Anything this serious, Eliot hears, and feels a pang of something too sore to be hope.
"I decided it was only fair to tell you before we kissed, but that didn't exactly work out." Something like wryness to his voice. Eliot feels it mirrored in himself as bitterness. "There's little enough risk to you - I'm careful," Quinn says. "But I can't hide what I do from someone who sees that much of me."
Maybe he means it literally - and shit, Eliot doesn't need to dwell on that thought. He remembers the faint ridge he'd felt on Quinn's belly, too hard to be anything but scar tissue. Eliot really doesn't want to think just now about what Quinn's had to survive. He really doesn't need to think about how much he wants to see the rest of it.
"When?" Eliot says, to distract himself.
"What?"
"When did you decide you wanted this to be more than a fling?"
Quinn's smile settles into place, spreads slow and lazy. "You telling me if I'd played things differently you'd have had me over the counter after closing instead of this dance?"
If Quinn had been even more of a nuisance? Maybe. Eliot tries not to let that thought reach his face. From the way Quinn's smile fades, he must manage it well enough.
"I don't know," Quinn says then, and he sounds almost... young. Troubled. Eliot lets out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "But I'd been planning to find a safehouse somewhere else up until you bought me that tea."
Eliot shuts his eyes. The vulnerability of it is too much to see just now.
"You got any sort of rules, or is it just whatever pays?" His voice sounds rough to his ears.
"I don't kill children." Eliot's glad he has his eyes closed for that part. "I don't torture innocents," Quinn goes on. "Beyond that, I kill who I'm paid to and don't ask questions, and I take on other jobs as well. Retrievals," he says, and Eliot looks again just in time to catch the tail-end of a shrug. "Retrieving valuable objects, sometimes kidnap victims. There are some people I won't work for though."
"Like nazis?"
Quinn gives another shrug and a half-nod that looks like agreement. "Anyone attempting genocide, dictators and the like," he says, like they've offered him jobs before. "I'm a murderer, but I'm not evil."
Eliot snorts. He can't help it. The surprise on Quinn's face does it and he laughs for real, turning aside, raising a hand to his face as if that might help. "Shit," he gets out, between breaths. When he looks over he sees that Quinn hasn't entirely risen, and his face- fuck- has just a flicker of something, caught between concern and hope, quickly smoothed away.
"Shit," Eliot says again, and this time it's a sigh. "I like you a lot, Quinn, but I'm not risking going to prison for you."
"You think I won't put plans in place to keep that from happening?" He sounds affronted. "I'm not incompetent either, Spencer."
The grin on Eliot's face isn't something he signs off on: it just grows there, like weeds. "I never told you my surname. It's not on my badge, either."
Quinn blinks. "Shit."
Eliot snorts again, and moves closer. Strangely, Quinn almost seems to relax as he does - but maybe it's not strange at all. Eliot's kept his distance, after all, since Quinn told him what he does. What he is. He takes a moment to wonder just how easily Quinn could kill him this close up, whether he'd even stand a chance of stopping him. But only a moment.
He reaches out, just a bit slower than he would have before, and rests his palm on Quinn's shirt, his thumb brushing the ragged scar through the fabric. Quinn stops breathing for a second, or maybe just quiets it. Eliot glances back up at him.
"I like you," he says, softly again, "But if you keep coming home with these, or don't come home at all, I don't think this is something I can do."
He has to swallow, then. The word home was a mistake. Getting this close was a mistake. He doesn't want to let him go now, no matter how bad an idea this is. No matter how bad an idea Quinn is.
"Hit- people like me," Quinn says, and his voice is a little hoarse, but his eyes are on Eliot and he hasn't moved to touch (letting him set the pace, even now,) "Our careers don't last for very long. I've been putting my affairs in order."
Eliot's heart drops. His hand tightens on the fabric. "Quinn," he says, and it comes out like a growl.
"Not like that. I've been looking for an out."
That makes him blink. Makes him drop his hand and step back just a little. Quinn doesn't tense up this time. "I have a clean identity," he goes on. "Money that looks like an inheritance, blackm-"
"Maybe don't give me the specifics." Eliot tries to say it like a joke.
It's more than that. He wouldn't need to be kept in the dark if he wanted Quinn to leave.
"I'm not there yet," Quinn goes on. "Still got a few loose ends to be tidied up. But if you'd like to have me," and he has to know Eliot's answer, at this point, but he's making it an offer anyway, letting him set the pace anyway, "then I'd like to come back."
It's too much: Quinn there with his serious face and all his pretences dropped, his damn suit and his warm eyes and the notch above one that makes his smiles crooked, and the way he's standing, deliberately, like he's not going to do anything to hurt him. Not ever. Eliot lets out a breath and all his resolve with it, and closes in.
"If you'd like to have me," he murmurs, cupping his hand around the back of Quinn's neck and pulling him close enough that the next words are almost against his lips, "then I don't see the point in waiting."
He feels as Quinn's hands settle at his sides, watches as Quinn's eyes dip down then track back up his face. "Deal," Quinn breathes, and meets him.
10- Epilogue
When Quinn comes back for good, he texts ahead, and Eliot leaves the coffee shop in Lakeisha's hands so can prepare.
There's not much preparing to do, truth be told. He cleared a drawer earlier in the week, moved things around to make space for a second - smaller - wardrobe. He made the blueberry muffins last night that Quinn was so fond of before. But he takes the time, descales the kettle, cleans the bathroom and the kitchen, stops when his back aches and flops back on the sofa trying and failing to pay attention to the television until Quinn arrives.
He keeps his phone visible, the volume up high.
When Quinn arrives, he looks exhausted. He's got a carryall slung over one shoulder and what look like bandages peeking out from his collar. There's a faint, fading bruise on his cheekbone. There are shadows under his eyes. And the gladness in his eyes when he sees Eliot makes him so beautiful that Eliot pulls him in to kiss him there and then, Quinn dropping the bag and meeting him with a faint groan.
He twitches back though, when Eliot slides a hand down his hip. Eliot makes a questioning noise against his mouth.
"Hate to be that person," Quinn says, drawing back to kiss the corner of Eliot's mouth, his cheek, then to rest his forehead against Eliot's temple, "but I've been on the road for hours and I really need to-"
Eliot laughs, a quick huff of it, and reluctantly draws back, indicating the bathroom. "Knock yourself out," he says, stepping around Quinn to close the door.
"Don't go looking in my bag," Quinn calls back, not breaking stride. "I brought some guns with me."
"I'm not an idiot," Eliot calls back at him, and goes to put the kettle on.
Mrs Villanueva brings the kitten over once Quinn's been there a week. From the look on Quinn's face when he answers the door, he hadn't been expecting it, either.
"I think Lottie will be happier with you," she says, dumping the cat in his arms. Quinn adjusts quickly, holding the cat until it gets settled enough to use him as a climbing frame, and Eliot draws closer to join the conversation, taking a moment to enjoy the sight.
"Thought you settled on Lettuce?" Eliot asks, reaching out to stroke the cat's head then jerking his hand back when it bumps its wet nose into his fingers instead.
"Your young man here called her Lettuce when he thought she was a boy," Mrs Villanueva says, her voice all disapproval, the laughter on her face. "I'll do a lot for you two, including taking in strays, but I'm not calling a girl Lettuce when there are better options."
"It's a good nickname," Quinn says absently. It's not entirely clear if he means Lettuce or Lottie. Eliot can feel his smile growing, becoming something a little precarious, as Quinn reaches awkwardly to scratch behind her ears as she settles on his shoulder.
"Right at home," says Mrs Villanueva, thrusting a plastic bag at Eliot. He takes it automatically, looking inside and recognising feathers, colourful balls, a plastic tray. Something chimes inside. "You'll need to get the supplies yourself," she tells them both. "Give her plenty of attention, don't bring lilies into the house, and you'll do fine."
She's moving back already, shifting her walking stick in preparation for moving on, but Eliot feels a sudden surge of worry.
"I'm not sure if he-" he starts, but then Mrs Villanueva looks at him with amusement, and Quinn with genuine surprise and Lettuce the cat already chewing on a bit of his hair. Then Lettuce shifts her weight the wrong way, kitten-clumsy, and suddenly starts to slide down Quinn's back.
Eliot darts forward to catch her. She's warm and wriggly in his arms, voicing her displeasure with a protracted mrrrlp against his chest. He can feel her claws making holes in his shirt.
"She's worth it," Quinn says, almost as a sigh, and Eliot hears a snort from the open doorway. Hears the slow tap, tap of a walking stick. He peels the kitten away from his shirt and drapes her over his own shoulder, giving Quinn a pointed look.
It's the smile he loves, the crooked one, the one that's almost desperate. Lettuce wriggles and makes another mrrp sound, louder right against his ear, and Eliot sighs. "You're watching her while I go buy the supplies."
"Deal," Quinn says, stepping forward to take her. But he cups Eliot's face and leans in to kiss his cheek first.
A month in, Quinn's sitting in the corner of the coffee shop very seriously sipping different teas Eliot brings him and taking notes for the new menu. Every now and then he'll catch Eliot's sleeve to stop him from leaving and say something like "I know this is the cheap option, but it isn't half bad," or "Don't buy any more from this supplier."
Once, with a visibly pained expression, it's: "I can take out the people responsible. They'll never make tea again."
Eliot shushes him at that, glances around and tells him he wouldn't dare, and Quinn sets his mouth in an unhappy line that nonetheless signals agreement. Eliot must look flustered when he returns to the counter though, because Lakeisha smiles at him.
"We'll strike that one off the list, then?"
Eliot actually laughs - a little sudden and a little high. "Yeah, I think we'd better."
Six months in, Quinn's been putting his hands to good use. He's found outlets since he left his old work - stepping in occasionally at the coffee shop, for one thing, and pursuing his writing career with a vengeance, but also teaching some mixed martial arts at a local gym. He's even shown Eliot a few things. Even if they have a bad habit of getting distracted.
But for the last month he's been focusing on something extra, sourcing scrap wood and renting a space to work on it, finally setting up the scratching post and climbing frame for Lettuce's benefit. It only sort of looks like the tree with twisted branches it's meant to, in the end. But Lettuce likes being up high, and this is perfect for that, and they've had trouble finding a suitable scratching post to keep her from wrecking the furniture. Lettuce the kitten is growing up big.
Eliot manages not to laugh the first time she drops down from the highest perch and catches Quinn properly off guard, but it's a close thing until he sees Quinn's face. His eyes are big and his posture still and he's staring at Eliot in shock, even as Lettuce shoving her face against his neck is already working its magic.
"You with me?" Eliot says, not coming any closer just yet. Quinn gives a noncommittal hum, adjusting the cat in his arms, and prods her on the belly.
"Little git," he tells her reproachfully, and Lettuce bats a paw against his chin in protest.
There are other difficult moments, less sweet moments, and Eliot doesn't pretend to understand the breadth of it. He's glad, though, that Quinn's found his way to a softer life. He's glad he can be there to listen and to learn, even if it's Lettuce who can help Quinn best when he's really set off.
Quinn still trusts him far more, now, than Eliot expects. He still leans in to his touches, kisses him like he's something wonderful, sleeps beside him like there's nothing more he wants than this life with Eliot.
Eliot has never been sure what he wanted. Not as a teenager signing up for the military, or meeting Toby for the first time, or talking to Shelley and piecing together all the hurts and harms that so nearly became a part of him too. Not until he saw Quinn smiling, saw him absently drinking tea while he typed on his laptop, saw his hair brassy in the sunlight and the laughter in his eyes, and the way he's gentle with children and delighted by opinionated old women.
Not until he saw Quinn barely awake and drinking immediately from the mug Eliot handed him. Not until he heard Quinn's first truly indecent noise at the latest baking experiment, or the plaintive call from another room because the cat sat on his lap when he meant to get up and go get a drink. Not until he realised that Quinn likes to relocate from the bed to sofa to lean against Eliot's side to nap on very early mornings, getting a little more time together before Eliot has to go.
This, he wants. And it's a blessing he could never have expected that Quinn wants it too.