Character(s): Eliot + Leverage team
Word Count: short
Summary: The question of whether Eliot ever trips on his ridiculously long pants is a serious question with a serious answer. Really...
Written as a response to an anonymous question on tumblr about this gifset of mine, and the potential hazard of eliot's bad hem-job.
Eliot would claim, loudly and vehemently, that he’s never tripped on them. What kind of hitter would he be if he didn’t have total awareness of his environment - that includes his clothes.
It’s about at this time when Parker snorts as loud as a gunshot and Hardison falls off the couch, he’s laughing so hard. Sophie raises a hand to her mouth, but not quick enough to hide her smile. And Nate leans back, arms spread wide across the back of the couch, a knowing look on his face though he says nothing.
Because they all remember the time when Eliot not only tripped on his pants, but tripped so bad he pulled them down to his knees and gave everyone an eyeful.
Eliot twirls the spatula in his hand and points it at each of them in turn. “For the last time, it was for a con. You needed a distraction, you got a distraction.”
Sophie taps her lip, eyes shining as she turns to look at Eliot. “Your distractions don’t usually come with so much cursing, Eliot.”
From her place perched on the arm of the couch, Parker raises her hand, waving it around wildly. “Oh, oh, I know this one! If it was a “distraction”—her enthusiastic air quotes nearly smack Sophie in the head, but a graceful dodge averts the collision—“then why’d you burn the jeans afterwards?”
Hardison finally manages to get to his feet, and nudges Nate in the shoulder. “Hypothetically speaking,” he fake whispers, “If the team member who happens to be a computer genius still has the security footage from that day and has also not-so-coincidentally installed all these top of the line televisions, I say the course of action is clea—”
Hardion’s diatribe is cut short as a cherry tomato sails in a perfect arc through the air and lands directly in his open mouth. A smug Eliot wipes his hands on the floral print apron that’s become his usual attire in the kitchen. “What was that? Sorry, I can’t hear you. Didn’t your mama ever tell you not to talk with your mouth full?”
Hardison swallows the tomato before answering. “First off, it’s Nana, and she taught me all about social graces, which is more than I can say for you. Second, I could’ve choked, man. I coulda died and then who would wipe your indecent exposure arrests from your sketchy-ass criminal record hm? Think about that next time you go attacking innocent people with produce.”
Luckily, it’s about then that the mental timer in Eliot’s head goes off and he pulls the finished frittata from the oven. He cuts and plates a slice before looking at the rest of them.
“One more word from you lot and I’m eating breakfast for five on my own, you hear.“
They nod and make their way towards the table as Eliot serves the rest.
The next day, a still picture from the security footage has mysteriously become the background to Eliot’s laptop, his phone, and the tablet computer he uses mostly to search for new recipes.
He’s not too bothered though. He’s already switched out all of Hardison’s hot pockets for empty boxes.