“I can’t believe you kept this from us,” Hardison yells at Eliot the second he walks into the hitter’s hospital room. “I thought we were better friends than that. I thought we were family.”
Eliot looks…terrible. No bruises, no bleeding wounds anywhere, but he looks drawn and tired. He’s pale, and there’s a resigned set to his shoulders that they hadn’t noticed before. But then again, they hadn’t been very observant, which is how they’d gotten into this mess in the first place.
“We are family,” Eliot insists tiredly. “I didn’t wanna…” He rubs his head, as if it’s aching, and clamps his lips together. “I didn’t want you to coddle me. And don’t deny it; you’re all pitying me right now, and I don’t want it. Not any of it. I’m gonna keep fighting as long as I can, and when I can’t fight anymore, I want to die. Because I’m nothing without that.”
“Eliot,” Sophie starts with tears in her eyes, “You’re more than a hitter. You’re our friend, our brother. And you’re sick. We can’t keep putting you in danger when you could get hurt. We should wait until you get better, hmm?” She sits on the edge of his bed and gently takes his hand. She’s trying to smile, trying to exude supportiveness, but it’s shaky.
He looks bleakly at her, knowing how hard it is for her, for them, because it had been hard for him, too, back when all those tests had come back with bad news. “Sophie, I don’t know how much they’ve told you, but I’m not just sick. I’m dying. They’ve been telling me to stop fighting for months, six months at least, but I can’t. It’s part of who I am. I can’t stop fighting.”
“How long?” Parker’s standing by the window, away from the rest of them. Her arms are wrapped around her middle, and she’s very busy not looking at Eliot.
“Do I have left?” he finishes gently.
“Don’t say it like that, man.” Hardison’s close to choking up, too, and he does not want to believe this.
Eliot looks away and shrugs. “I’m living on borrowed time as it is. I could die tomorrow, or in two months. Who knows.” He laughs bitterly. “Coulda died today. Just as well.”
“What kindsa doctors you been seein’? Maybe there’ll be someone who has a cure or treatment, or something.” Hardison’s desperate, and he does not want to lose his best friend.
A sad, tired smile appears on Eliot’s face. “I’m a hitter, Hardison. We don’t live long to begin with, and the ones who do know all the best doctors. Licensed or not, the best ones out there. And I’ve been to see ‘em all.” He looks to see if they’re all listening. “I’m done, guys. If you don’t want a guy who’s practically dead on his feet protecting you, I can get you another hitter. I mean, I got one lined up anyway, just in case I die on the job. But I’m gonna keep fighting either way.”
Parker leaps onto the bed, and starts hammering on his chest in a violent burst of anger. “You’re not allowed to die, Eliot. You can’t die!” she shouts at him, tears streaming down her face.
He sits there on the bed and lets her hit him. When she tires out and her shoulders start shaking from the dry, tearless sobs, he pulls her close, wheezing a little from the hits to the chest he’d taken. He’d taught her well; he’d taught them all well. They’ll be fine. “Parker, I’m sorry. But what do you want me to do, huh? I told you, hitters don’t live long anyway. I’m old, Parker. Life expectancy’s about late twenties to early thirties, dependin’ on when you start, and I started young. If it hadn’t been this, it woulda been a bullet, or someone getting the right shot in, or something worse.”
“Can’t die,” Parker, says into his shoulder, where she’s resting her head stiffly. “Don’t wanna ‘nother hitter. We wan’ you.”
Sophie puts her hand on Parker’s arm. “Parker, if Eliot says, if he says,” she swallows past the lump in her throat and pushes on, “if he says that, then we need to trust him. We’ve always trusted him to have our back, and it’s our turn now.”
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timeasmymeasure
Terminal, Part 2
Date: 2011-10-08 10:48 pm (UTC)Eliot looks…terrible. No bruises, no bleeding wounds anywhere, but he looks drawn and tired. He’s pale, and there’s a resigned set to his shoulders that they hadn’t noticed before. But then again, they hadn’t been very observant, which is how they’d gotten into this mess in the first place.
“We are family,” Eliot insists tiredly. “I didn’t wanna…” He rubs his head, as if it’s aching, and clamps his lips together. “I didn’t want you to coddle me. And don’t deny it; you’re all pitying me right now, and I don’t want it. Not any of it. I’m gonna keep fighting as long as I can, and when I can’t fight anymore, I want to die. Because I’m nothing without that.”
“Eliot,” Sophie starts with tears in her eyes, “You’re more than a hitter. You’re our friend, our brother. And you’re sick. We can’t keep putting you in danger when you could get hurt. We should wait until you get better, hmm?” She sits on the edge of his bed and gently takes his hand. She’s trying to smile, trying to exude supportiveness, but it’s shaky.
He looks bleakly at her, knowing how hard it is for her, for them, because it had been hard for him, too, back when all those tests had come back with bad news. “Sophie, I don’t know how much they’ve told you, but I’m not just sick. I’m dying. They’ve been telling me to stop fighting for months, six months at least, but I can’t. It’s part of who I am. I can’t stop fighting.”
“How long?” Parker’s standing by the window, away from the rest of them. Her arms are wrapped around her middle, and she’s very busy not looking at Eliot.
“Do I have left?” he finishes gently.
“Don’t say it like that, man.” Hardison’s close to choking up, too, and he does not want to believe this.
Eliot looks away and shrugs. “I’m living on borrowed time as it is. I could die tomorrow, or in two months. Who knows.” He laughs bitterly. “Coulda died today. Just as well.”
“What kindsa doctors you been seein’? Maybe there’ll be someone who has a cure or treatment, or something.” Hardison’s desperate, and he does not want to lose his best friend.
A sad, tired smile appears on Eliot’s face. “I’m a hitter, Hardison. We don’t live long to begin with, and the ones who do know all the best doctors. Licensed or not, the best ones out there. And I’ve been to see ‘em all.” He looks to see if they’re all listening. “I’m done, guys. If you don’t want a guy who’s practically dead on his feet protecting you, I can get you another hitter. I mean, I got one lined up anyway, just in case I die on the job. But I’m gonna keep fighting either way.”
Parker leaps onto the bed, and starts hammering on his chest in a violent burst of anger. “You’re not allowed to die, Eliot. You can’t die!” she shouts at him, tears streaming down her face.
He sits there on the bed and lets her hit him. When she tires out and her shoulders start shaking from the dry, tearless sobs, he pulls her close, wheezing a little from the hits to the chest he’d taken. He’d taught her well; he’d taught them all well. They’ll be fine. “Parker, I’m sorry. But what do you want me to do, huh? I told you, hitters don’t live long anyway. I’m old, Parker. Life expectancy’s about late twenties to early thirties, dependin’ on when you start, and I started young. If it hadn’t been this, it woulda been a bullet, or someone getting the right shot in, or something worse.”
“Can’t die,” Parker, says into his shoulder, where she’s resting her head stiffly. “Don’t wanna ‘nother hitter. We wan’ you.”
Sophie puts her hand on Parker’s arm. “Parker, if Eliot says, if he says,” she swallows past the lump in her throat and pushes on, “if he says that, then we need to trust him. We’ve always trusted him to have our back, and it’s our turn now.”