Work Text:
It isn’t that Hardison ever forgets that most of his team is made up of werewolves. It’s a basic fact of the team, and Hardison’s never going to forget the times when Eliot’s flashed his fangs at him, the way that Parker sniffs before running through an itinerary of the last fifteen places he’s been, how Sophie knows all of his tells without even looking at him, all because she can hear his heart beating across the room.
It’s just that there are times when it’s relevant, and times when it’s not really relevant at all.
Today the fact that Sophie, Eliot, and Parker are all werewolves is very, very relevant. Almost as relevant as the stab wound in Hardison’s stomach.
The first thing Hardison is aware of, as he’s groggily waking up after the surgery, is Nate’s voice sharply saying, “Eliot, enough, you need to change back.”
There’s a low growl, the bass seeming to reverberate in Hardison’s gut, and Hardison forces his eyes open because that’s Eliot, Eliot in wolf form which almost never happens in front of humans and his head is full of cotton and his stomach, his stomach is--
And then Hardison remembers, he remembers Mannox coming after him, his face twisted in a snarl and the knife glinting in his hand as he, as he--
“Oh, shit,” Hardison groans out, and everyone in the room snaps to attention.
“Hardison, are you all right?” Sophie’s face is above his now, beautiful and worried, and Nate’s to the other side of Hardison’s bed--bed, right, he must be in a hospital, because he got freaking stabbed by the mark, and Hardison blinks up at Nate’s face and asks, his voice slurring a little, “So which of your plans had this as a possible outcome?”
Nate’s mouth twists, but before he can answer, there’s a louder growl coming from the foot of the bed, and before Hardison can ask for Eliot to chill, a big brown blur is bounding onto the bed, over Nate’s protests, and there is a giant brown wolf poking its nose right into Hardison’s face.
Cross-eyed, Hardison stares up into those big blue eyes and says, very carefully, “Uh. Hi, Eliot.”
Eliot whuffs into his face and continues to ostentatiously sniff at him, poking his cool nose into the nape of Hardison’s neck, somehow managing to keep his paws and his weight off Hardison, thank the Lord, because getting accidentally clawed by a wolf is right up there on things Hardison’s not looking forward to, right under getting stabbed.
Speaking of. “Someone please tell me Mannox is locked up in jail right now. Or he got thrown off a roof. I’d be good with either.”
Eliot lets out another growl, which is more terrifying by a factor of n when he’s right in your face, snarling openly enough that you get a glimpse of those fangs--and Hardison freezes again, finally getting out, “Um. A little help here, maybe?”
“Just give him a minute,” Sophie says soothingly, which is not the answer Hardison is looking to hear when he’s got an aggravated werewolf sitting on top of him, growling like he’s personally offended by Hardison having the nerve to get stabbed.
Which, come to think of it, is probably what Eliot thinks. Hardison blinks up at Eliot and says, seriously, “You ain’t blaming me for this one.”
Eliot whuffs again, in clear irritation, over Sophie insisting, “Of course he doesn’t blame you, Hardison, that’s ridiculous. Isn’t it, Eliot.”
Eliot makes a show of yawning directly into Hardison’s face, and Hardison wrinkles his nose and tries to lean away--nobody warns you of the dangers of werewolf breath before you start working with them, honestly.
“Eliot, come on, give him a little room,” Nate says. Eliot pulls back a bit, but he’s still very much on the damn bed, and not looking like he’ll get off it anytime soon. What is Hardison’s life, seriously.
But now that he doesn’t have a werewolf glaring right in his face, Hardison can take stock, both of the dull ache in his side, and how incredibly high he is right now. “Got me on the good stuff, huh,” he says.
“Nothing but the best for you,” Nate says, and the heartiness of his voice tips Hardison off to how uneasy he clearly is, even before Hardison looks over to see him rocking back and forth on his heels.
“Mannox?” Hardison asks next.
“Oh, he’s in jail,” Nate promises, his uneasiness replaced by a dark satisfaction. “In jail and so broke he won’t have anyone to call but a public defender for his trial. No, everything worked according to plan--” Eliot growls loudly at this as he hops off the bed, “--aside from the obvious,” Nate adds, gesturing at the hospital bed with Hardison in it.
Right. Okay. Bad guy in jail, Hardison safe in a hospital with three werewolves standing guard, plus Nate--except no. Wait. Sophie’s here, Eliot’s here, but--
“Where’s Parker?” Hardison asks before he can think, looking around the room for her blond hair, her intense stare.
The silence from everyone answers him, even before he looks from the space where Parker should be to Nate’s apologetic face.
“Hardison,” Sophie begins, awkwardly, and Hardison shakes his head.
“Never mind,” he says, letting his eyes fall shut once more. “Stupid question, I shouldn’t have asked.” And he shouldn’t have, because he knows--he knows Parker better than that. He knows what she’ll do. What she can’t do, at least not yet.
“Eliot, no--” Nate warns again, and Hardison opens his eyes just in time to see Eliot climb onto the bed again, but this time he doesn’t stop, wedging himself against Hardison’s uninjured side, all solid weight and muscle, a faint musky smell that even Hardison’s human nose can spot.
“Oh, Eliot,” Sophie sighs, but she doesn’t seem at all surprised.
“Eliot, come on,” Nate tries, but Hardison lifts up his hand.
“It’s okay,” he says slowly. He can feel the faint rhythm of Eliot’s heartbeat, and tries to match his own breathing to it. “It’s okay, we’re good.”
Eliot’s ears flick forward at that, but he stays still. Carefully, Hardison lets himself reach over and lets his hand sink into Eliot’s coarse brown fur. Eliot rumbles in approval, and distantly, Hardison hears Sophie urge Nate to leave with her, to leave Hardison and Eliot alone in the room.
“The nurses already hate us,” he hears Nate complain, but it’s faint, and after that there’s just the click of the door shutting closed behind them.
Hardison flexes his fingers in the fur of Eliot’s coat, and he closes his eyes, just for a minute.
*
The next time that Hardison wakes up, he’s alone in the hospital bed, the room is dark, and his throat is painfully dry, his side throbbing with a pain too great to be ignored. He fumbles with the plunger that delivers morphine into his system, groaning as he does it. Goddamn, being stabbed sucks.
“Shh,” he hears someone say from the dark, and Hardison blinks, disoriented, as Parker steps forward, her face illuminated by the light coming in through the window in the door. “It’s okay, it’s just me.”
“And me,” Elliot’s voice says, and Hardison turns to see the faint shadow of Eliot sitting in a chair by Hardison’s bed. His voice sounds rusty, hoarse.
Hardison licks his dry lips. “Water,” he rasps out.
“Of course,” Eliot says quickly, getting out of his chair to grab something on the nightstand by Hardison’s bed. “Here, we got some ice chips for you.”
He doesn’t bother to give Hardison the cup himself, just spoons a couple of ice chips into Hardison’s mouth and says, in that rare soothing voice of his, “Just let ‘em melt on your tongue, don’t try to chew.”
Hardison closes his eyes as the ice melts on his tongue, cold and refreshing. Once he’s had enough, he waves Eliot off. “I’m good.” Now that his eyes have adjusted to the darkness, he can see the unhappy curve of Eliot’s mouth, the way concern is radiating off him in waves.
And Parker...Parker is a stiff line of misery, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, her mouth pinched.
They say that werewolves can read people like nobody else, and it’s true. Even Parker can pick up more signals from people than Hardison would ever be able to, what with the enhanced senses and all.
But right here, right in this moment--Hardison can read these two like nobody else.
“I’m okay, guys,” he promises them both. “I’m gonna be all right.”
“This time,” Parker says darkly. “This time you’re okay. What happens the next time, when we can’t reach you fast enough?”
Hardison can’t answer that. So instead he holds out his hand. “Parker, come here.” She doesn’t move, not right away, and he adds a soft, “Please?”
Parker inhales, and comes towards him in a quick stride, taking his hand in a tight grip. She stares down at their interlaced fingers with a fierce frown, and says at last, choking on the words, “I heard you scream over the comm.” Her face crumples. “We heard you scream and we couldn't, I couldn’t--”
“It’s okay,” Hardison says, helplessly. He looks from Parker’s crumpled face to Eliot, who looks just as wrecked as she does. “Guys, I’m...I’m still here. I’m right here.”
Parker, one of the toughest people Hardison’s ever known, sobs at that, just once, before she lifts his hand up and presses it to her cheek, rubbing his fingers against her soft skin.
“I’m gonna,” Eliot starts, his voice hoarse, “--gonna leave you guys to it.” But his face is full of longing as he says it, and he doesn’t actually get up from his chair.
“No,” Parker says fiercely, turning to glare at him, and Hardison shakes his head.
“Nah, man,” he says, holding out his free hand to Eliot--an invitation, if he wants it. If he wants them. “I don’t know about y’all, but I don’t feel like being alone tonight.”
Eliot stares at Hardison’s hand for a long moment, then reaches out to hold it in a grip every bit as tight as Parker’s. “Yeah,” he says, and Hardison’s probably hearing things, because for a second, his voice sounds choked up too. “Yeah, I can help with that.”
Parker is slowly running her thumb over Hardison’s knuckles, and Eliot’s hand is warm in his. Hardison looks between them, at the two people he’s wanted more than he’s wanted anything in his entire life--and he can’t be anything but grateful. No matter how awful the day’s been, no matter that he’s in a hospital bed with a damn hole in his side--in this exact moment, Hardison is nothing but thankful.
Eliot stares at Hardison and says, carefully, “You ever do something like this again...I’m gonna kick your damn ass, you hear me?”
Hardison makes a show of deliberately rolling his eyes, even as his eyelids start to feel heavy. “You act like I was trying to get stabbed.”
“I will put my teeth in your goddamn throat,” Eliot promises, enunciating for greater emphasis, and Parker lets out a tiny snort.
“I wouldn’t test him on this,” she tells him. “He means it.”
“Goddammit, I can tell he means it--” Hardison breaks off to yawn loudly, but finishes in a sleepy drawl, “Why...do you think I’m trying to point out…”
“It’s okay,” Parker says, and anyone who didn’t know Parker would be shocked at how gentle her voice sounds just now. “It’s okay, get some rest. We’re here.”
Hardison feels something in him unwind at those words. “Okay. Can we have dinner together when I get out of here?”
“I’ll cook you something,” Eliot promises in a low voice, and Hardison smiles, his eyes falling shut as he does.
“It’s a date, then,” Parker agrees, sounding pleased.
“I’m gonna...gonna hold you both to that,” Hardison promises, his voice starting to slur a little.
“Yeah, I’m counting on it,” Eliot says softly, and that’s the last thing Hardison hears as he falls asleep again.
*
In the morning, the nurse that comes by to check on Hardison gives a little shriek at seeing two grown wolves, one brown, one a silvery white, lying on her patient’s bed, staring right back at her.
Neither Parker or Eliot bothers to change back to their human forms, and they stare the poor woman down as she comes in. Parker even makes a show of licking her chops, which is so over the top--but effective, too, if the nurse’s face is any indication.
“Sorry about that,” Hardison says, but the fond grin on his face probably isn’t helping to sell the apology. “Don’t worry, though--they’re with me.”