Fic: No Regrets, No Looking Back
Jul. 17th, 2012 01:04 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sunspotTitle: No Regrets, No Looking Back
Fandom: Leverage
Relationship(s)/Character(s): Alec Hardison/Eliot Spencer
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 270
Warnings: none
Summary: Hardison gets a letter he doesn't want.
The letter wasn't postmarked, which set off a thousand alarm bells in Hardison's head.
There were two people in the world that knew where his brownstone was, and neither were people who would ever send a letter. In the end, he opened it. His name had been typed on the front of the envelope with a typewriter, which basically meant he had to open it or the curiosity would kill him.
The letter inside was handwritten, and the first glimpse of those slanting letters brought a little pang to his heart. Not in the business of sending letters, but apparently still in the business of breaking him goddamn heart.
The letter was short and to the point, of course, because Eliot had never been one for extra words. He apologized for screwing everything up and asked forgiveness. It seemed so impersonal, so standard, that Hardison wondered if he'd had a stack of them made up at the print store and just left a blank space at the top for the names, Barney Stinson-style.
It figured. Six months gone and still the effects of Eliot were making themselves known. It had been a terrible idea, Hardison thought. A bad idea and a stupid accident and maybe he blamed himself a little instead of pinning it all on the other.
He started to crumple the paper -- ready to throw it or break something or just sink into the couch and pull the cushions over his head until he stopped feeling so fucking broken and nostalgic -- when a post script on the back of the page caught his eye.
No regrets, it said.
Fandom: Leverage
Relationship(s)/Character(s): Alec Hardison/Eliot Spencer
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 270
Warnings: none
Summary: Hardison gets a letter he doesn't want.
The letter wasn't postmarked, which set off a thousand alarm bells in Hardison's head.
There were two people in the world that knew where his brownstone was, and neither were people who would ever send a letter. In the end, he opened it. His name had been typed on the front of the envelope with a typewriter, which basically meant he had to open it or the curiosity would kill him.
The letter inside was handwritten, and the first glimpse of those slanting letters brought a little pang to his heart. Not in the business of sending letters, but apparently still in the business of breaking him goddamn heart.
The letter was short and to the point, of course, because Eliot had never been one for extra words. He apologized for screwing everything up and asked forgiveness. It seemed so impersonal, so standard, that Hardison wondered if he'd had a stack of them made up at the print store and just left a blank space at the top for the names, Barney Stinson-style.
It figured. Six months gone and still the effects of Eliot were making themselves known. It had been a terrible idea, Hardison thought. A bad idea and a stupid accident and maybe he blamed himself a little instead of pinning it all on the other.
He started to crumple the paper -- ready to throw it or break something or just sink into the couch and pull the cushions over his head until he stopped feeling so fucking broken and nostalgic -- when a post script on the back of the page caught his eye.
No regrets, it said.
