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PSL: Sentinel AU
Danny is Steve's guide. He is still pretty new at it and working with a Sentinel who has some bad experiences. To top if off, while working a case in Portland he finds out that a guide can have more than one Sentinel who is their perfect match.
Re: Danny and Eliot meeting, Portland
"He called it being a guide. I'd never heard of them before that.." All true, and the way he says it makes that perfectly obvious.
Re: Danny and Eliot meeting, Portland
"How'd you draw me the hell in here?" And it's very much a growl, low and feral and actually rumbling through his chest. "And don't give me some bullshit like you don't know exactly what you are an' what you did or you're leaving in fucking pieces." He sounds angry, and he sure as hell looks it, but to someone with a direct line, however tenuous, to his emotional state he's more terrified and confused than anything. "'Cause I'm not going the hell back."
Re: Danny and Eliot meeting, Portland
"I don't know what I am and that is the honest truth. I only started about a year ago and that was even an accident. When he calls it a guide I have to trust him because I don't fucking know." He takes a breath. "Back? You were military too?" That makes sense. "I am not here to bring you back there. Fuck, I wouldn't let them have anyone if I could stop it. I am not going to give them you anymore than I'm giving them him."
Re: Danny and Eliot meeting, Portland
"You really expect me t'believe that bullshit?" he snaps, hands flexing restlessly. But no matter how much he tells himself it's with the desire to lay hands on him in violence--on the Guide. An actual, honest to fuck Guide, not just a glorified dog trainer of a handler--he knows it's because he just wants to touch. To get close enough to feel his body heat, to let their heart rates and breathing sync again.
"Swear t'god I'll kill you an' me both before I let them get their hands on me again, asshole." Because he can't believe what he wants to, he can't take that risk. He can't go back when it almost completely destroyed him last time, and did destroy so damn many other people, even if they weren't even close to all innocent.
Re: Danny and Eliot meeting, Portland
Danny points to the table. "Listen. Give me a few minutes. Sit and talk and I'll tell you what I know. And it is your call if you want to believe that or not." He breathes slowly. Even if they are not close, he hopes it can help getting Eliot to calm. "My name is Danny Williams. I am a detective with the Hawaii five-o. We're cops, not military" Strictly speaking they weren't either.
Re: Danny and Eliot meeting, Portland
"You so much as make a move for that gun, or your phone," Eliot growls, a knife seeming to simply materialize from thin air into his hand, and he spins it almost lazily between his fingers as he continues. "And you're dead before you finish twitching, Guide." The last word sounds like a curse the way he says it, but there's something desperate, almost longing, in the way his gaze fixes on Danny.
Re: Danny and Eliot meeting, Portland
But he sees that look in Eliot's eyes and feels it in his voice. And his eyes soften. Fuck he wants to help. He wants to make Eliot feel safe and secure and prove that not everyone is out to fuck him over. "And I'd rather you didn't call me that. Nobody knowsand I really don't want to be on their radar. I put everyone at risk if I am."
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"Fine." The world's still growled out, but there's something about him that's... softer would be the wrong way to put it, but for at least this moment in time he's withholding judgment. He's trying to--or letting himself, maybe--give the guy a chance. "Hold still," he warns, knife disappearing just as quickly as it had appeared, possibly somewhere in or under the apron, and then steps forward to rifle Danny's pockets.
Christ, he knows it was a bad idea the second he gets into the Guide's personal space again, and that heady scent goes from distracting as hell to completely enveloping him. He can feel his body heat again, and it would take just a moment of inattention to find himself dialing in on the steady throb of his heart to the exclusion of all else again.
The effort it takes not to just press in close, get a hand on skin and hold on, makes him a little rougher than intended as he retrieves the wallet and phone and scans them both before tossing them aside on the table. The gun gets a bit more attention, though, as he checks the chamber for a round, then ejects the magazine and tosses them onto the table to slide to opposite ends, all done with the kind of casual coordination that speaks of intimate familiarity. "I don't like guns," he rasps, the tone and emphasis he gives it making it clear it's much more than that.
Eliot eyes him for a long moment after that last, jaw working. It feels true, it feels like something he needs to believe... but he still can't let himself. One at least partial solution comes to mind, though, and he reaches for the badge and holds it pointedly up where he knows one of Hardison's cameras will get the clearest picture. Hardison can take a hint, he'll handle the rest.
"Okay, now talk... Williams," he snaps as he tosses the badge back down on the table. His attention doesn't shift back to Danny, because through all of that it had never left him. The only time he's glanced even briefly away was to scan the badge when he'd picked it from his pocket, otherwise his attention has been virtually riveted on Danny's face.
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He glances up against the camera, then he moves to sit at the table, far away from his gun and phone and reaches for the beer. "A year ago. I came upon this guy, I had never seen anyone zone before. I'd heard of it but never seen it. I thought it was shock or something. I get him inside, keep talking to him and he ends up leaning on me. He says the heartbeat helps. Anyway, he told me I was a guide, a natural he called it. I gather most people who work with Sentinels aren't" He takes a sip of the beer. "I've been trying to learn how to guide him. When I saw you starting to zone I thought maybe the things that work for him would work for you. Seems like they did."
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"Your other one?" he growls. Because this is just getting better and better. He's probably just fucking outed himself to his team as well as a god damn Guide, who even if he's not actually on the military's payroll or prepared to run to them the second he gets out of here is... what? Fucking collecting Sentinels? The broader implications of that are what should be eating at Eliot, making his mind spin along all the tangents that could lead to disaster, but all he can really focus on is the fact he's already got a claim on him and how that knowledge aches.
"The only reason it even happened is 'cause of you," he snaps, backing farther away again, giving himself a physical distance he can't seem to find mentally or emotionally. "Haven't zoned like that in years, and I sure as hell haven't needed anyone to bring me back!" But jesus it had felt good to have it. Body heat and a soothing voice, the steady rhythm of a heart that feels almost more familiar than his own... and the kind of comfort and peace and illusion of safety that he'd learned was always a trap back in his military days. It hadn't mattered then, he'd needed it too much to be able to resist. He doesn't need it anymore, though, or at least that's what he's telling himself.
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"I don't know how that happened. Or why. As I said I've only known him and until I found him zoned out one time I didn't even know what he was, or what I was either. I just... If it makes it any better I couldn't tell about you either until you spoke to me. And then it was less that I knew what you were and more that ... That it felt right. Like it does with him. Does it feel like that with all Sentinels?"
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"Eat," he growls, because if he tries to say anything else before he gets some kind of handle on himself he doesn't know what might come out. He stalks away, body singing with tension and probably looking like the poster child for the kind of feral animal the military tends to advertise them as when they're justifying the need for all Sentinels to be drafted into one branch or another. But, christ, does it feel that way with all Sentinels? He knows the tiny handful of Guides he'd ever known had been just as eager to work with him as the other way around... but it hadn't stopped them from being willing to blow their senses wide open or twist their emotions into knots if it would 'get the job done'.
"I sure as fuck hope not, because if it felt so god damn right an' good then fuck them for the shit they were willing t'do to us."
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But after a few more bites he looks up again. "He never gave me any details. Just that you were viewed as tools." He makes a face. "You're not a tool. And nobody should try to make you into one."
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"You make it sound like I'm a god damn toddler throwing a tantrum," he growls, spinning back around, trying to draw on the deep well of anger he always carries with him to somehow swamp the irrational flush of pleasure at the compliment (not just compliment, the way he can feel the guy's enjoyment and appreciation) to his food. Fuck.
"Tools." He snorts in disgust. "More like fuckin' trained attack dogs, but most people treat a damn dog better." He flexes his hands into fists--not to keep from reaching out, dammit, it can't be that hard--as he stalks back over, then leans on the edge of the table to stare intently into Danny's eyes. He's aiming for anger, but there's more loss and longing and, still, fear in the look than anything.
"You realize you didn't just out me, right? You outed him too. 'Cause tellin' me he's your partner just made him the easiest thing in the damn world t'find, even if I didn't have a hacker pulling every fuckin' record that exists anywhere on you right the hell now." Because he has no doubt that Hardison's already looking at twenty or more screens, detailing every ounce of publicly--and most of the privately--available information on one Danny Williams that exists. As well as going head first down the damn rabbit hole with what he now knows about Eliot himself.
"'Course, he's tryin' t'do the same damn thing with me too," and his voice fractures a little there, in a way that makes his stomach twist and his fists, still braced on the table, clench tighter. He'd never wanted Parker and Hardison to know this, and now they aren't just going to know, but this guy, and anyone he might tell, will too. And that's going to make him a target, and not the straight forward kind he's been for the more than fifteen years since the military decided it had likely burned him dry and he wasn't worth the potential international incident involved to claim him.
He should have killed the guy. Dragged him back here and done it quick and quiet, he could have come up with a justification, and then it would have just been a body to hide. Even if he hasn't done that for years now... he hasn't run across another Sentinel or Guide who was a potential threat to his freedom in years either, though. And he's not thinking about how the idea of so much as hurting this fucking stranger makes him feel sick and twisted up inside with horror, because he can't let his conditioning come back, not after all this time. And that's all this feeling is, right?
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He looks up when Eliot comes closer, meeting his eyes. But the moment Eliot mentions that he put Steve in danger, that they are figuring out who he is, Danny is gripped by panic. He feels like he can't breathe and his eyes are wide, color draining from his face. His mouth is dry so it takes a few tries but finally he manages. "Please don't. Let him be. Please." It is barely a whisper but he is pleading. He glances towards the end of the table. Not towards the gun but the phone. No he would not have time to call Steve and make sure he knew to get out. Fuck. Fuck he messed up hard.
He looks back at Eliot, swallowing. This is the first time since he saw the other Sentinel that he's been terrified, utterly terrified. "Listen, I'll do whatever the fuck you want, just leave him be. Don't tell anyone about him."
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It's overwhelming enough he has to fight to be able to finish talking, to keep the fine tremors in his hands from being obvious... to keep from fucking whimpering in reaction. He knows Guides are capable of mimicking and projecting emotions they don't actually feel, he's seen it happen, and he knows that his own reaction makes him an unreliable judge, but... there's nothing left in him that can fight the need to trust this man's reactions, especially now, when it's so fucking overwhelming.
His knees nearly buckle as he drops his chin to his chest, sucking in deep breaths through his mouth to try and block out the scent of fear and panic. But it doesn't do anything to block out the staccato beating of Danny's heart, the way his breath has caught in panic, and Eliot can't answer. He can't think. It's too much and he's spiraling into it and for the second time in less than an hour, rushing towards zoning with a speed and inexorability that just increases his own panic. Because this shouldn't be happening. He has better control than this.
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"Hi. Sorry. Didn't mean to do that. You're safe. You're just feeling my panic. Easy now. Breathe for me. Deep beaths, count them." He places his hand over Eliot's fist, hoping it will make it a bit easier for him to hear him.
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That's not enough to bring him back on its own, though, not even the sound of his voice is this time. Eliot doesn't so much as glance up when he hears it, and his only movement is a almost imperceptible full-body tremor of muscles held too rigidly tight, locked between fight and flight... until Danny's hand settles over his and he explodes into motion. It's so fast it's almost impossible to follow the sequence of movements as he grabs Danny's wrist in an almost (not quite, even this way he can't bring himself to hurt him) bruising grip, side-stepping away from the table and yanking Danny out of his chair and towards him at the same time. Somewhere in there he manages to maneuver the smaller man until he's pressed face-first into the nearest wall, Eliot braced against his back, pinning him in place with still trembling hands as he breathes in great, panicked gasps.
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"Hey, listen. It's me, Danny. You're safe, you're in your resturant, we were just talking. Easy now. Calm. Focus on me, on my voice. Breathe for me. They are not going to get you, I got you." He continues talking like that, and focuses on following his own advise and breathe more slowly. The grip makes it so he can't exactly relax, his body all tense under Eliot but he does what he can. "Easy easy easy. It was my fault. You're safe. Nobody is coming after you"
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He's still trembling, so faintly it's only perceptible by touch, every muscle in his body literally vibrating with tension, but his grip on Danny eases minutely and he drops his head a little, enough to just barely rest it on the smaller man's shoulder. There's no immediate threat, and Danny's breathing and heart rate stay steady, his scent shifting away from fear, and even through the blank haze muffling almost everything else Eliot can feel his calm concern. It's warm and grounding, and even though he can't make out the words at first the sound of his voice is soothing.
Slowly his grip relaxes, until he's less pinning Danny to the wall and more leaning against his back as his panicked gasps slowly ease into a more normal rhythm, and even more slowly sync up with Danny's again. It's not until long after that that the words start to make sense as anything other than soothing white noise, and a few minutes longer, even, before Eliot's settled enough to register where he is or in what position, and then he pushes unsteadily away, staggering a little as he backs off.
"Maybe-" His voice comes out a hoarse croak and he has to stop and swallow hard, licking his lips before trying again. "Maybe you should go," he manages this time. It's still rough, but it's a lot closer to normal... and one of the hardest damn things he's ever said. "I ain't gonna turn you or yours in, no one deserves that shit. But you breathe a word about me t'anyone an' I swear t'god I'll-" He stops, words cutting off abruptly, because he can't even make the threat and it's terrifying. "Just don't. I'll know the second you breathe a word, so don't."
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"I am going to go pick up my gun and phone. Alright?" Because considering how Eliot's acted until now. It is best to warn him about something like that. He checks that the gun is alright, before he slides it back into his holster and picks up the badge and phone, stashing them in his pockets. "If you need to talk, I am staying at the hotel half a mile up the road." Not that he is there much. It is a shitty place, but at least it is a bed.
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"Don't put it back together 'til you're well aware from here," Eliot snaps, watching warily--hungrily--as Danny picks it up, along with his badge and phone. He takes another step back and scrubs his hands over his face, then back up into his hair, setting it up in spiky disarray before dropping them. His chest feels like it's being split open, and he has to work not to rub anxiously at his breastbone, at the phantom pain blooming under it. This pain is better than getting fucked over by another Guide, though, or at least that's what he tells himself.
"I don't need anything," he answers, and it's almost mechanical now, his voice inflectionless and his gaze blank as he methodically focuses on his breathing heart rate and forces them into a rhythm that doesn't sync with Danny's. He's been fine on his own all this time, he's not about to let that change now.
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