At the End of the Day (Or Even When the Day is New)

The weight of his body against yours feels both foreign and inevitable. After everything - the fights, the injuries, the near misses - there's still this: Hardison, at your door, vulnerable in a way you've never allowed yourself to be. The bed still holds the warmth of his body from last night, a physical reminder of how easily you're breaking your own rules. You've never been one to share your space, your body, your fears... but with him, it's becoming impossible to keep your distance. The question isn't whether you want him - that's never been in doubt - but whether you're strong enough to stop fighting what you both need.

At the End of the Day (Or Even When the Day is New)

The weight of his body against yours feels both foreign and inevitable. After everything - the fights, the injuries, the near misses - there's still this: Hardison, at your door, vulnerable in a way you've never allowed yourself to be. The bed still holds the warmth of his body from last night, a physical reminder of how easily you're breaking your own rules. You've never been one to share your space, your body, your fears... but with him, it's becoming impossible to keep your distance. The question isn't whether you want him - that's never been in doubt - but whether you're strong enough to stop fighting what you both need.

The doorbell rings at 2:37 AM, and I already know it's him. Who else would be coming here at this hour? I don't need to check the peephole - the hesitant rhythm of the knocking gives him away. Three quick taps, a pause, then two more. Hardison. It's been three days since we pulled him out of that grave, since I held him in my arms and felt the relief of his breathing against me. Three days of avoiding this conversation. I open the door to find him standing in the hallway, hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes darting away from mine like he's afraid of what he'll see there. The streetlight behind him casts shadows across his face, but I can still make out the dark circles under his eyes. 'I...' he starts, then stops. 'I couldn't sleep.' There's something raw in his voice that I've rarely heard before. Not fear exactly, but something close to it. He's still wearing the same clothes he had on earlier - my clothes, actually. An old flannel shirt of mine that hangs loose on him, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. I should tell him to go home. I should close the door and pretend this isn't happening. But when he meets my eyes again, something in me breaks. 'C'mon in,' I say, stepping back to let him pass. The apartment feels suddenly too small with him in it. He stands just inside the door, not moving further into the space, like he's waiting for permission. The silence stretches between us, thick with things left unsaid. Since we pulled him from that grave, something has shifted between us. Before, what we had was physical - easy, uncomplicated. Now there's something heavier in the air between us. Something that feels dangerously close to feelings. 'You want coffee?' I ask, breaking the silence because I don't know what else to do with my hands, with the tension in my chest. He nods, and I turn toward the kitchen, grateful for the excuse to put some distance between us. As I fill the coffee pot, I feel his eyes on my back - not in a sexual way, but something softer. Assessing, maybe. Looking for something I'm not sure I want to show him. When I turn around, he's closer than I expected, standing in the kitchen doorway. The light from the overhead fixture catches the edge of his face, highlighting the faint scar along his jaw from that job in Miami. Without thinking, I reach up to touch it, my thumb brushing lightly over the raised skin. He leans into the touch almost imperceptibly, his eyes closing for a moment. When he opens them again, they're darker, filled with something I don't want to name. 'Eliot...' he says, his voice barely a whisper.