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Entry tags:
What Happens in Vegas. Leverage. vampire!Nate/Eliot. R.
Things I Never Knew: Beth Riesgraf named her son (with ex-fiance Jason Lee wtf?!) Pilot Inspektor Riesgraf-Lee.
lolwut
There once was a time when my answer to "What do you do after you've had a shitty day?" would not have been "Find the weirdest prompt at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
comment_fic and succumb." This one is for you, Pilot Inspektor. Even if you are like, six.
PS: How o_O is this 'sore' mood icon?
What Happens in Vegas
Leverage. Eliot/Nate. R.
Written for the prompt 'Leverage, vampire!Nate/Eliot, Las Vegas' atcomment_fic.
He figures that Las Vegas is the closest to daylight Nate has been in years. It's an eyeful of marquees, neon signs, and unbridled hedonism, brightening the streets and feeding impossible dreams.
Eliot drinks the last of his gin. "So what if you are? It'll be an asset. You can turn into a bat and fly through vents and shit."
"It doesn't work like that," Nate says.
"Come back," Eliot repeats, the brittleness in his voice disguised as annoyance.
Nate just orders him another drink.
+
On the 29th floor of a 4-star hotel, Nate stands at the window and unbuttons his shirt, taking in the city below. "So," he says. "How's Sophie?"
Eliot slips his fingers through Nate's belt loops and tugs him closer. "You have real tact, man. Great timing, considering."
"Considering what?"
"Considering the next hour or two." And rips Nate's shirt, sending buttons flying.
"That was Armani," Nate grumbles.
"Boo fucking hoo," Eliot says, and pushes him to the bed.
+
Eliot sweats. His breaths come in gasps; he's flushed with exertion.
Nate's skin stays cool to the touch.
+
He wakes up past noon, sore and hungover. Nate is gone.
Eliot orders room service and watches the news. Two more murders last night. Cops found the hookers' bodies just beyond city limits, exsanguinated like all the others. The headline is VEGAS VAMP STRIKE AGAIN.
Maybe there are other vampires in Vegas, Eliot muses. The Nate he knows wouldn't be so sloppy. Then again, Nate has been known to go a little wild when he's drinking.
+
"Come on," Eliot says. "What is there for you out here?"
Nate raises an eyebrow. "What is there for me back there?"
"Us. Sophie."
"Damned though I may be, I can't bring myself to drink your blood."
"Fuck you, man."
"Good idea."
Probably. It became clear to Eliot some time ago that he and Nate no longer have anything to say to each other. He'll have to go back empty-handed, but he can't bring himself to leave just yet.
+
The sex is usually rough and unabashed, so Eliot doesn't have any idea what's happening until it's too late. He feels a sharp pain on the side of his neck and cries out.
"What the fuck!" he yells, but Nate has him pinned to the bed. "Nate!"
Eliot can't remember the last time someone actually managed to hold him down, but Nate does it like it's an afterthought. He didn't use to be this strong.
There is, Eliot discovers, a sort of limbo brought about by the simultaneous draining of the blood and being fucked to within an inch of your life. It's pleasant in the way opium is pleasant: cloying and muting but harsh on the intake, and before you know it, you are gone. The air itself seems rarefied.
"I won't take a lot," Nate murmurs. "Don't move your head or the skin will tear more."
"Fuck you," Eliot rasps, and jerks his head. Nate rears back, and Eliot takes the opportunity to roll off the bed and dive for his overnight bag. He springs back unsteadily onto his feet with one hand brandishing a stake and the other clutching his neck where Nate bit him. ("Take the extra stakes just in case," Hardison advised. "That's what Buffy would do.") "I thought you won't drink our blood!"
Nate sits on the bed, looking amused and - for the first time since he died - tired. "I'm a conman, Eliot," he sighs. "What do you want?"
+
"Tell Sophie I don't drink anymore," Nate tells him as Eliot climbs into the taxi.
"I would if that were true," Eliot replies, and closes the door. The driver asks him where to, and Eliot replies, "Actually, hold on a sec." He opens the window, and Nate raises an eyebrow at him. "Tell me something," Eliot says.
"What?"
"If you kill someone who's wasted and their blood alcohol level is through the roof, can you, like, get drunk off their blood?"
Nate's smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "You can find that out for yourself if you want."
The two men consider each other for a few seconds. Then Eliot says, "Whatever, man." He leans back in his seat and closes the window. "See you around."
"Hope your neck gets better."
"Go fuck yourself."
He tells the driver to head for the airport.
+
In the arrival hall, Sophie looks at the bandage on his neck and asks, "What's that from?" Like she doesn't know.
"Mosquitoes," Eliot answers.
She purses her lips but, to his relief, changes the subject.
lolwut
There once was a time when my answer to "What do you do after you've had a shitty day?" would not have been "Find the weirdest prompt at
comment_fic and succumb." This one is for you, Pilot Inspektor. Even if you are like, six. PS: How o_O is this 'sore' mood icon?
What Happens in Vegas
Leverage. Eliot/Nate. R.
Written for the prompt 'Leverage, vampire!Nate/Eliot, Las Vegas' at
comment_fic.He figures that Las Vegas is the closest to daylight Nate has been in years. It's an eyeful of marquees, neon signs, and unbridled hedonism, brightening the streets and feeding impossible dreams.
Eliot drinks the last of his gin. "So what if you are? It'll be an asset. You can turn into a bat and fly through vents and shit."
"It doesn't work like that," Nate says.
"Come back," Eliot repeats, the brittleness in his voice disguised as annoyance.
Nate just orders him another drink.
+
On the 29th floor of a 4-star hotel, Nate stands at the window and unbuttons his shirt, taking in the city below. "So," he says. "How's Sophie?"
Eliot slips his fingers through Nate's belt loops and tugs him closer. "You have real tact, man. Great timing, considering."
"Considering what?"
"Considering the next hour or two." And rips Nate's shirt, sending buttons flying.
"That was Armani," Nate grumbles.
"Boo fucking hoo," Eliot says, and pushes him to the bed.
+
Eliot sweats. His breaths come in gasps; he's flushed with exertion.
Nate's skin stays cool to the touch.
+
He wakes up past noon, sore and hungover. Nate is gone.
Eliot orders room service and watches the news. Two more murders last night. Cops found the hookers' bodies just beyond city limits, exsanguinated like all the others. The headline is VEGAS VAMP STRIKE AGAIN.
Maybe there are other vampires in Vegas, Eliot muses. The Nate he knows wouldn't be so sloppy. Then again, Nate has been known to go a little wild when he's drinking.
+
"Come on," Eliot says. "What is there for you out here?"
Nate raises an eyebrow. "What is there for me back there?"
"Us. Sophie."
"Damned though I may be, I can't bring myself to drink your blood."
"Fuck you, man."
"Good idea."
Probably. It became clear to Eliot some time ago that he and Nate no longer have anything to say to each other. He'll have to go back empty-handed, but he can't bring himself to leave just yet.
+
The sex is usually rough and unabashed, so Eliot doesn't have any idea what's happening until it's too late. He feels a sharp pain on the side of his neck and cries out.
"What the fuck!" he yells, but Nate has him pinned to the bed. "Nate!"
Eliot can't remember the last time someone actually managed to hold him down, but Nate does it like it's an afterthought. He didn't use to be this strong.
There is, Eliot discovers, a sort of limbo brought about by the simultaneous draining of the blood and being fucked to within an inch of your life. It's pleasant in the way opium is pleasant: cloying and muting but harsh on the intake, and before you know it, you are gone. The air itself seems rarefied.
"I won't take a lot," Nate murmurs. "Don't move your head or the skin will tear more."
"Fuck you," Eliot rasps, and jerks his head. Nate rears back, and Eliot takes the opportunity to roll off the bed and dive for his overnight bag. He springs back unsteadily onto his feet with one hand brandishing a stake and the other clutching his neck where Nate bit him. ("Take the extra stakes just in case," Hardison advised. "That's what Buffy would do.") "I thought you won't drink our blood!"
Nate sits on the bed, looking amused and - for the first time since he died - tired. "I'm a conman, Eliot," he sighs. "What do you want?"
+
"Tell Sophie I don't drink anymore," Nate tells him as Eliot climbs into the taxi.
"I would if that were true," Eliot replies, and closes the door. The driver asks him where to, and Eliot replies, "Actually, hold on a sec." He opens the window, and Nate raises an eyebrow at him. "Tell me something," Eliot says.
"What?"
"If you kill someone who's wasted and their blood alcohol level is through the roof, can you, like, get drunk off their blood?"
Nate's smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "You can find that out for yourself if you want."
The two men consider each other for a few seconds. Then Eliot says, "Whatever, man." He leans back in his seat and closes the window. "See you around."
"Hope your neck gets better."
"Go fuck yourself."
He tells the driver to head for the airport.
+
In the arrival hall, Sophie looks at the bandage on his neck and asks, "What's that from?" Like she doesn't know.
"Mosquitoes," Eliot answers.
She purses her lips but, to his relief, changes the subject.
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