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The woman laughs, her eyes crinkling behind her silver cat-eye glasses. "You must be Eliot,” she says, cheerfully. “He warned me you were charming. Where is he?”
Eliot’s stomach drops as he realizes that this is a terrible fucking mistake, because this ain’t a random elderly woman showing up to collect cans or take up donations or whatever it is that elderly woman in weird fucking places like Portland do. This is Hardison’s nana, and Eliot has just opened the door to the apartment—to Hardison and Parker’s apartment—like he lives there.
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She practices, instead, shrinking the world down to just this, to just them, tuning out the bad fake accents from the movie, the hum of the fridge, the restlessness that lives under her skin.
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Don’t fucking do this, Eliot thinks as he picks up the dog. He’s surprisingly light, lighter even than his skinny body would’ve suggested, and Eliot thinks of the unopened bag of kibble on the shelf in his pantry. You don’t have time for this, he tells himself as he takes off, running as smooth as he can towards his house.
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She thinks she knows what Hardison means when he looks at her with his eyes all soft; thinks she knows what Eliot means when he bites out “dammit, Hardison”; thinks she knows what either of them means when, after a job, Hardison tells them that he’s ordered dinner, or Eliot comes back to the loft and starts chopping things in the kitchen.
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He knows it’d be so fucking easy, if he’d let himself. Because he’s easy for them, has been since that first job, since the day he hauled Hardison’s ass out of a building about to explode. It’d be so easy.
So he won’t.