Disclaimers: The characters are not mine. Though not for lack of emailing, tweeting, posting, harassing...etc. This story however, is mine, and if you want to archive it somewhere, just ask.

WARNINGS: I have crossed to the dark side on this fic people. I am being totally serious. This is an extremely DARK fic, so read at your own risk.

AN: Last chapter the train derailed somewhat, and I'm hoping it didn't turn anyone off too badly. Here is my attempt to get it back on track, and to have E/P deal with what happened.

Dasvidaniya

Eliot woke slowly, warmth surrounding him and trying to lull him back to sleep, but he resisted. His head and body ached in a way that told him he'd been asleep for far too long already.

He moved and felt a hand slide over his back. He froze.

The gentle words he heard were overlaid with angry ones, Russian voices, male and female mixing, harsh and soft, angry and concerned. He started to shiver, his body shaking when he couldn't untangle the threads.

He didn't dare move for fear of more of...that, but the hand on his back didn't hit him, didn't lash out at him, didn't hurt him.

Slowly his trembling subsided and a soft, clear voice overrode the harsh Russian curses.

"Eliot, Eliot, it's okay, I won't hurt you," she whispered over and over, her hand moving in slow circles on his shoulder. He'd slept soundly for hours, only starting to wake when the sun rose weakly behind clouds that threatened rain. She worried that nightmares were following him again.

"You're okay, Eliot, you're safe," she murmured, feeling him slowly stop shaking.

His muscles tensed and he sat up again. Again she pulled back and let him, her eyes raking over him as she watched him soak in his surroundings. Recognition slowly dawned on his features as he realized he was naked, that they both were naked.

Unconcerned as always, she figured the less emphasis placed on that awkwardness the better, so she stood and stepped over him.

"Gonna use your shower," she called over her shoulder as she pranced down the hallway, acting as if she did this every day.

He watched her pale body disappear into his bathroom and he shook his head, trying to figure out what the hell had happened and why. Well, the what wasn't so much of a problem; he could feel himself responding even as he thought of it, and he forced those ideas out of his head before he had more of a problem on his hands.

The why, though, confused him.

Why had he slept with Parker? Why now, of all times, after what had happened? It wasn't as if he didn't want her, he did, he had for a while, but he'd vowed to let her come at him in her own time and place. Yet here he was, the memory of her writhing beneath him making his face turn red as he thought about it.

Why the hell would she have wanted him...unless... No, he didn't think he'd forced her, she hadn't acted scared of him. No, it had definitely been mutual.

He reached out and grabbed his abandoned jeans and pulled them up, fastening them as he stumbled into his kitchen to splash cold water on his face. Maybe he should stick his head in the freezer.

He sighed, bracing himself up on his arms against the counter as he stared out the window above the sink. He heard Parker bouncing around in the bathroom, opening and shutting doors and drawers as she poked around, snatches of odd songs floating above the shower as it ran. He pictured the water running over her...

More cold water on his face. That didn't work, so he shoved his entire head under the faucet and shivered.

He stood up, twisting the water from his hair and ignoring it as the droplets slid over his chest and down his back, raising more goosebumps. He turned back to the living room and stared.

The aftermath of destruction still littered the room and he didn't know what to do, where to start, what chore to begin with first. His eyes roved over the debris and his brain blanked.

He started with a gasp as a cold hand touched his shoulder, and he jerked away.

"Sorry," Parker said, her wet hair twisted up in a knot and wearing an old tshirt and drawstring shorts of his that she'd managed to find. "Didn't mean to startle you." She would mark it down as the second time she'd been able to startle the hitter, and vowed never to do it again if the look in his wounded and terrified eyes was because of her.

She turned away suddenly and walked into the kitchen and Eliot was afraid he'd scared her before she came back with a broom, bucket and garbage bags. She thrust them into his hands and shoved him toward the living room, pulling on a pair of gloves that went to her elbows.

"Come on, Sparky, let's get our asses moving," she pushed past him and dived into the living room, making him hold the garbage bags open while she picked up the broken and shattered pieces of his life.

With her helping, prodding, pushing him, they managed to empty the living room of everything broken and had hauled bag after bag to the dumpster. They had swept and vacuumed up the glass, gotten rid of the broken TV and end tables, made a list of the CDs and DVDs that needed to be replaced (Parker was sure that Hardison would be more than tickled to reburn them for the hitter) and managed to make his living room look a little like it had before the fight. He would need to replace the TV and some of the furniture, but at least he wasn't in danger of slicing his feet open if he walked into the room.

Throughout the afternoon he'd watched her, looking at her every once in a while to see if she was maybe thinking of what had happened last night, but she seemed oblivious, intent on her task as if it was a precious vault that she was breaking into.

And in a way, she was. She was breaking into his life, whether he wanted her to or not. Carefully, methodically, she found pieces of him that needed fixing, and she made notes to herself every time she saw him flinch, or pause, or look at her out of the corner of his eye. She found him fascinating, and even though she was watching him more closely as he was her, she made no outward sign of it, instead keeping her discoveries close to her heart until she could show him that this time, this moment, was when she stole him.

LEVERAGE

Nate showed up at his apartment long after Parker had breezed out. He stood at the door, oblivious to Eliot's stiff posture and clipped words; he was a bit intoxicated. Okay, maybe more than a bit, but don't tell Eliot.

"What are you doing here, Nate?" Eliot bit out, not happy about his sanctuary becoming less and less of one.

"Wanted to check on you, Eliot," he countered, his breath smelling of Johnny or Jack, Eliot couldn't quite tell yet. "Make sure you were okay."

"I'm fine, now go away," he attempted to close the door, but a loafered foot blocked it. "Dammit, Nate..."

"Eliot, Sophie has been going out of her mind with only your terse phone calls. I just want to let her know that you are alright."

"Can't you see that I am?" his voice rose. "I'm fine, now...Go. Away." he repeated, stronger this time.

"Eliot..."

"What!" he cried, lunging back and whipping the door open. "Wanna see? Wanna take a look under the bed? Make sure nothing is hiding? Wanna look in the cupboards? Make sure my knives are still there? Maybe my wrists?" He held them out. "Make sure I haven't sliced them?" His voice was snarling now, angry and full of red.

"Eliot," Nate began again. Gentleman Jack. He was sure of it now.

"Can't you leave me alone? Can't you leave me the fuck alone?" He was turning red in the face now, the anger and humiliation surfacing as he remembered that Nate knew, knew what happened, knew what those bastards had done to him.

"Did you tell her? Did you tell them? Do they know?" His rapid fire questions spilled out of his mouth before he could stop them. He did not want to know. He didn't want to start this, didn't want to talk about this, didn't want to remember.

"No," Nate said firmly. "They don't know, and they won't know, not unless you chose to tell them. I give you my word."

Eliot looked at him, the animal howling behind the bars on a tight tether, any false move threatening to snap the leash. The look in Nate's eyes didn't lie, but there was something else there, and after a moment Eliot knew what it was: Pity.

He growled. Nate narrowed his eyes in confusion. "I mean it, Eliot. I won't tell them."

"Dammit, Nate, Sophie's a grifter. She'll figure it out. Parker already knows."

Surprise covered the mastermind's face. "She does? How?"

Eliot shrugged. "She knows," he repeated. "I don't know how, but she knows. And then Sophie'll figure it out, and then she'll tell Hardison because she wants to let him know not to talk about it around me and not to mention anything about it and stick his foot in his mouth like he does when he's nervous and then she'll come over to me and smother me and try to weasel the truth out or worse try to make me talk about it and..."

He started gasping for breath as his mouth worked faster than his brain and the filter between the two short-circuited. Nate made a mistake and stepped closer, putting his hand on Eliot's shoulder.

The shock of contact made Eliot jerk back violently, his eyes snapping back into focus somewhere else as he shoved himself backwards, nearly toppling over the back of the couch as it hit him in the back of the thighs.

"Eliot, I'm sorry," Nate said, "It's okay, you're okay. You're safe here, Eliot," he repeated the mantra, unmoving, until the hitter looked at him and let out his breath, his shoulders visibly shaking.

"Get out."

"Eliot, I don't think you sho..."

"I said: Get. Out!" the hitter snarled, fury filling his eyes as he started towards the door.

Nate backed up hesitantly. He didn't want to leave the man alone like this, confused, probably scared, and beyond pissed, but he had no choice. Eliot might take it into his head to forcefully eject Nate from the apartment and if he hurt the mastermind, would heavily regret it even though Nate would bear no grudge.

The door slammed in his face and his shoulders slumped. Sophie would be reassured that Eliot was fine physically, but he needed time to get his game face on again before she would believe him that the hitter was alright. He needed more Jack.

LEVERAGE

Eliot listened to Nate's footsteps as they retreated, his shoulders shaking in rage as he tried to calm himself down.

Why the hell was this bothering him so bad? Nate was just coming to see how the reality matched the imagination from his short and not-so-sweet phone calls so he could reassure Sophie and therefore keep her off Eliot's back. Really, Nate was the middle-man here, the messenger, and no one shoots the messenger.

Which meant that he needed to confront Sophie, the one who wanted, who needed to make sure the hitter was alright. Because then she could reassure Hardison that everything was going to be fine, and everything was going to go right back the way it had been before.

Except that it was a lie. He wasn't alright. Everything wasn't going to go back the way it was. It couldn't.

He'd been taken from his apartment...his apartment! His! Never mind that the Russians had been nearly three times his size, never mind that Eliot had been awakened from a deep sleep and never mind that he was a little groggy. He was their hitter, their Retrieval Specialist, their muscle. He was the one who was supposed to be better than everybody else, and they'd taken him out of his space like it was nothing.

The muscles in his back bunched with tension as his fists curled and uncurled, looking, begging for release. He raked his hands through his hair and could feel his arms shaking with nervous energy.

He grabbed his jacket as he slipped shoes onto his feet and opened the front door. For all that he didn't want to be outside right now, didn't want to be seen, he couldn't stay in a place where the walls were closing in on him.

So he ran. He didn't pay attention to where he was going, but others did. The street people, the vendors, the businessmen who'd seen him venture out meekly a few days ago were thrilled to see him again, running like he often did. They noted that he was still not wholly aware of his surroundings, and in fact, seemed oblivious to much, but at least he was out in the world again, and they could hope that he would continue to peek out until he reclaimed 'his' territory.

Eliot ran until the breath was haggard in his throat, wheezing and straining against a stitch in his side. He pushed himself further and further, just another mile, just another block, just another step. Only when his legs were jelly, shaking and threatening to put him down, only then did he slow and finally stop.

Panting, he walked in slow circles, his hands on his hips, trying to get his breath. When he was finally able to breathe without gasping, he slowed to a stop again.

And he realized where he was.

Outside Sophie's apartment.

Why the hell would he have come here? Oh, right. He needed to convince the grifter that he was fine. He had more chance of convincing Parker that she hated gold and fortune cookies were bad for her. What the hell was he thinking?

Only it was too late to do anything because the door was opening and Sophie, regal as ever, was walking down the steps in her immaculate Dolce and Gabbana suit and Manolo Blaniks on her dainty feet.

"Eliot!" she cried out in surprise and happiness, rushing over to envelop him in a hug.

"Don't, Soph," he backed away, aware of how rank he was at the moment. "I'm all sweaty and shit."

"Eliot Spencer, don't try to run away from me," her hands held his upper arms so she could look at him closely, her unfathomable eyes examining him as deeply as an X-Ray would. "You're not eating enough," she scolded, head tilting and lips pursing.

"Why do I think you'd say that even if I was 350lbs? I'm eating fine," he argued back.

"No, you're not," she countered. "Your cheeks are hollow and I can tell you've lost at least fifteen pounds." Damn the woman, she was good. Except it was seventeen.

"Sophie," he started tiredly, rolling his eyes.

"Eliot. Don't. Don't argue with me."

"Look, Nate told me that you're worried. I just wanted to let you know that I was okay. Yeah, I might have lost a little weight," he shrugged, running his hand through his hair. "But I'm feeling better."

" 'Better' enough to go running further than you should?" A raised eyebrow caught him out.

"Okay," he confessed. "Maybe I got a little lost in my head and forgot where I was going for a bit." Her eyebrows rose even further at this admission. "But really, darlin', I'll be fine. You know I push myself to get better, and this is part of it."

He shot her a winning grin and she melted, his southern charm covering the inner wounds, wounds that he hid from everyone, even himself.

Hands on her hips, she finally acquiesced. "Alright. But you're going home in a cab." She held up a finger as he opened his mouth. "I insist."

Rolling his eyes and letting her see it, he nodded, still smiling. She stepped to the curb and waved a taxi down within moments; Eliot figured they waited on the corner for the raven haired beauty and raced to be the first to her hand.

When the yellow cab stopped, she opened the door and ushered him into it, placing a kiss on his cheek before backing out. "It's good to see you up and around, Eliot," she said softly, her dark eyes softening.

She shut the door and retreated to the curb, watching as it pulled away with the hitter. She didn't believe him that he was okay, but maybe it was enough to know that he would be.

End...? I am not sure this chapter wrapped up enough of the threads of the story, so I need you guys to let me know. Is there something else you need closure on? Push that little blue button and let me know ;)