Disclaimer – Leverage is owned by Electric Entertainment and TNT. If I owned it, we'd have more episodes, and Eliot would have a lot more screen time!

Comments and feedback to Ralkana47@yahoo.com would be greatly appreciated. Thanks!

Author's Note – Takes place directly after The Carnival Job.

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Eliot unlocked and opened his door, doing a quick visual sweep of his place as he disabled his security system. He turned his head, barely catching himself before he winced at the movement.

‘Nurse Gail’ stood at parade rest in his doorway, tossing him a smile as she entered on his signaled okay. She set her overnight bag down and shut the front door as he re-armed his security.

There was familiarity in her steps as she moved around Eliot's home. She tossed her coat over a chair, tying her hair back as she led the way to his bathroom. If bathroom it could indeed be called – it looked more like a trauma treatment room.

"Strip," she ordered with a wicked grin, pulling bandages and gauze down off of various shelves.

Eliot gave her a tired chuckle, stifling a groan as his bruised ribs shifted. He slowly and methodically removed his clothes until he stood before her in his underwear.

There was no teasing in her gaze now. Only cool professionalism as she looked him over, assessing his injuries.

She wasn’t a nurse, or a doctor – at least, probably not one recognized by the AMA. When they'd met, she was a medic, just as proud to serve her country as he'd been at the time. Corruption and cruelty had turned him away from the military around the same time that restrictions against women in the Spec Ops teams had ended her military career. He'd gone into retrieval, while she'd honed her skills with the various shadowy alphabet agencies that were more than happy to utilize her assets. Despite their very different and equally clandestine lives, they’d never lost touch.

"Appreciate this," he told her as he began to unwrap the hasty bandage job he’d done on his hand.

She gently took his injured hand in hers, nudging his other hand out of the way and prodding him toward a seat as she finished unwrapping the bandages.

"Quid pro quo," she told him.

"Mmm," he agreed, leaning his head back against the cool tile and ignoring the pain that flared as she manipulated his wounded hand.

It was true. Though he was no medic, he was more than capable of patch jobs and medical support, both on himself and others. She’d called him after similar scrapes, enough times that they’d both lost count.

Of course, there’d been plenty of times they’d called each other that didn’t have anything at all to do with on-the-clock trauma. He tried to focus on those much more pleasant memories as the pain roared to life.

"Anything broken?" she asked, jarring Eliot out of his reminiscences.

"Couple bones in my hand. Hurt like a bitch, but they should heal okay."

"Yeah, well, don’t go punching windows. They generally win."

"Mirror," he said tightly, remembering Molly’s terrified eyes and trembling whispers.

"Must have been a hell of a bad hair day," she grinned.

"You’re hilarious," he deadpanned, and her smile widened briefly before it faded as she studied the livid bruises on his face.

"How ‘bout that rock hard head of yours? I know those flowing locks act as a cushion, but it looks like it took more than its fair share of the beating."

It throbbed with every heartbeat, every movement. The nausea was constant, and now that the job was over and the target was secure, he knew it was from the concussion and not the barely belted-down churning panic at the thought of someone dying on his watch again. With his history of head trauma, he knew a CT scan was probably called for, and if the symptoms didn’t improve after a night’s rest, he’d consider it.

"I’m good," he told her. Skeptical, she stared at him, and he returned her gaze evenly. "I’m good," he repeated.

After a moment she nodded, giving in.

"All right," she said, clapping her hands and briskly rubbing them together. "Now for the fun part."

She wiggled her fingers at him. "I get to put my hands all over that gorgeous body of yours."

Eliot clenched his jaw as she examined his chest, massaging his bruised ribs and checking for fractures and dislocations.

"You know that’s what my team thinks, right?" he bit out between tightly controlled breaths.

In.

"That we’re in there now, bouncin’ on my bed."

Out.

She raised an eyebrow as she investigated the bruising on his forearms, elbows, and knees. "If they think you’re up for that, they’re either blind or they think you're Superman."

"Could be," he told her with a grin, ignoring the pain as his lip re-split. "Up for it."

"Yeah, I bet," she laughed. "You’d have to be dead not to be willing to try."

"Does this mean – " Eliot stifled a curse as she gently manipulated his recently dislocated shoulder. "Does this mean I can’t talk you into trying on that little white nurse’s outfit?"

She patted his cheek. "Maybe when you’re feeling a little better, sport. Then we’ll see what can be arranged. That should probably be in a sling," she added.

"Tomorrow," he told her. His shoulder, first injured during one of his stays as a guest of some despotic government – which one, he could no longer remember – had a tendency to go out on him. Fixing it himself had become second nature, even if it still hurt like hell every time. Muffling his scream in Connell’s half-dismantled and doorless bathroom had been tricky.

She crouched before him and began rewrapping his hand.

"This was a tough one, huh?" she asked him, looking up into his grim, battered face.

His tired eyes met hers, all pretense and joking set aside now. "It was a little girl," he told her, forcing himself to hold her gaze. "I took my eyes off her."

Her expression didn’t change, her gaze didn’t leave his, but everything in her stilled.

"Oh, Spencer," she murmured.

Eliot shook his head, impatiently pushing aside the burst of excruciating pain that the movement caused. "She’s safe," he clarified. "Was close, though."

She stood, and he lifted his uninjured hand to help her up. She took it, giving his fingers a quick squeeze. "It was all worth it, then."

"Yeah," he said wearily. He slowly got to his feet and followed her as she strode toward his bedroom. "Does this mean you changed your mind about the nurse’s outfit?"

"Not gonna give that one up, are ya?"

"What do you think?"

She quickly turned down his bed, loosening his sheets. He knew it was done with efficiency in mind, rather than pity, so he swallowed his protest.

"Sleep, Spencer," she told him as she pulled a book off of one of his shelves. "I’ll be here."

Eliot carefully slid into bed, nearly moaning as the cool sheets enveloped his aching body. He lay still for a moment, savoring the feeling.

"Dawson?" he murmured, and she half-turned in his doorway, glancing over her shoulder at him. "Thanks, again."

"Got your number," she told him. "I’m sure I’ll be dialing it soon, for one reason or another. Lights out, soldier," she ordered, flicking the switch.

The room slid into shadows, alleviated only by the soft, dim light drifting in from the hall. Eliot sighed as the darkness soothed his over-sensitive eyes.

Every millimeter of his body hurt. His shoulder screamed, his hand pounded, and his head felt filled with molten lava. He wanted nothing more than to slide into sleep, but his over-trained and overtaxed instincts refused to let go, refused to accept vulnerability. He fought his impulses, knowing that Dawson was there, and that there was no one better to watch his six, and he felt his tortured body slowly start to relax.

He wasn’t a superhero. He knew that. But if it meant that Molly was asleep in her own bed, if it meant that his team was safe and cozied-up to each other in McRory’s, if it meant that they didn’t realize the full magnitude of his injuries and wouldn’t worry about him doing his job and protecting them next time out, then he was willing to pretend he was.

For a little while longer.

Oblivion beckoned, and he gave in.