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Hardison was sitting down. More accurately, Hardison was tied to a seat.
But his team would come and save him and save the day and all would be well. Either Eliot would burst through the door to this skanky basement, after bursting a few heads in, or Parker would slip through that extremely frosted slit-window and untie him in seconds.
Or: Eliot would burst through the door, smiling at him because Hardison was fine, or Sophie would show and sweet talk his kidnappers and he'd hear her voice before he ever even saw her. Heck, Hardison might get to hear Eliot busting heads upstairs.
. . .
(Hardison was not fine. Hardison wasn't sure he could walk up those stairs when his team came to rescue him. They'd broken Hardison's toes; stamped on his feet like they were playing flipping Hungry Hungry Hippos. . . . Hardison was hungry. Hardison also was not walking up those stairs unless his team came to save him—he'd use whoever arrived as a cane. Or Parker could drag his skinny ass right outta the window with her. That would be fantas-tic.)
. . .
Hardison was gonna be rescued, alright. His team always rescued him; not like being stuck in a whole wide room with dirt walls was worse than being buried live in a coffin. They'd saved him then, they'd save him now. They would, they totally would.
Being held captive was a bit worse when he wasn't actively running out of air. Hardison was stuck being a bit more present.
Imagining Eliot taking up guns again and just—bang, bang, bang—getting all three of the people who'd appeared to feed Hardison in these last four days. And nuh-uh, Hardison didn't wish for a fourth person jus' so he'd've gotten fed today, nope. Because he getting saved today.
Eliot slid the door open and slid it shut behind him, stepping down the steps all quiet-mouse-like. Hardison hadn't heard anything but, yes, yes, that was his teammate all dressed in black. Might not be the same day, it being pitch-dark night out the window and all, nevermind the bright, bare bulb that'd been left shining straight into Hardison's face, but it was before Hardison got to feel the hunger pains eating him alive.
That was nice.
Hardison didn't make a peep 'cause, like. Rescue missions. He knew how not to screw them up. Then Eliot drew a knife from somewhere and yes, Hardison was getting untied. Then, Eliot was under that lightly swaying lightbulb and the knife had blood on it and Hardison maybe "eeped."
Eliot glared at him. Eliot scanned Hardison head to toe and looked very, extremely peeved. Hardison swallowed against the cotton-y feeling in his mouth, mouth too dry to be swallowing saliva.
"Hardison," Eliot said. Sounded stuffed up. "Can you walk?" Eliot bent down and cut off the ropes 'gainst Hardison's legs.
"Y-yeah," Hardison managed. He wasn't gagged; his throat protested the sound like how he'd vocally protested his kidnapping for hours and hours.
Eliot shifted to a higher crouch and circled the chair, to get at Hardison's arms done up behind him and looped around a rung on the back of the robust wooden chair. Eliot probably would've been able to get himself out, Hardison morosely considered.
Eliot freed him and slipped Hardison overtop his shoulders, which worked out well with Hardison being taller. He didn't think he could stand being stretched at the moment, 'cause as-is his muscles protested their movement after their confinement in the seat.
Hardison eeped again, maybe with a bit of pain behind it. Eliot ignored the sound and started them towards the stairs.
Up the stairs, in the kitchen—because Hardison had been captured by rank amateurs. Which probably'd meant less of a footprint to find him by, joy—all three of Hardison's captors where tied to seats at the kitchen table. One was bleeding. None of them were gagged, but none of them were screaming.
One of the two that wasn't bleeding had a knife sticking into him at a very, uh, uncomfortable looking angle. Depth? Angle. It be balanced weirdly, like maybe it would fall out.
"Eliot," Hardison said and pointed, because Eliot didn't kill no one no more.
"Not bandaging him up, Hardison," Eliot growled once his eyes'd followed Hardison's finger. "Trust me, the serrated knife will stay put," Eliot followed up with, less growly.
Three sets of wide eyes looked at them and Hardison looked away—then, he looked back, looked at them. Didn't look away.
"Fuck ya'll," he declared.
". . . Want me to pull the knife out?" Eliot asked, voice level as a lake on a clear day.
One of the guys, the one neither bleeding nor stuck with a knife, gave himself rope burns same as Hardison had.
"No. Thank you." Thank you.
"Lucille?" Hardison said, because being exposed on the, huh, farmstead—nice place to visit when not kidnapped—which stole his words into empty air (earlier, tied up, shouting) didn't exactly inspire confidence. Getting to his computer-packed van would be better.
"'Nother block," Eliot gruffed out.
"Good, good," Hardison nodded along. They paused a second—or ten—when his feet wobbled beneath him.
Eliot stared at him. "You don't need to talk. Rest."
Hardison nodded to that. Eliot stopped him from falling.
Seeing an opportunity to sneak in a rare Eliot-hug, Hardison leaned harder into Eliot's chest. Obligingly, Eliot's arms wrapped around his maligned ribs. (They were gonna have to check those bones out.) Then, Eliot got that Hardison was tryna hug him and not simply seeking support in standing, and those arms stiffened in the position they were in, 'bout as frozen as Eliot's earlier ice-cold words had been.
Then. Then a hitch in Eliot's shoulders knocked them into Hardison; Eliot stilled a second time. This time, though, his breathing didn't freeze with him; no sir, that hitch traveled direct to Eliot's lungs.
Hardison really, extremely wanted to see Eliot's face. Right now.
"You crying?"
"No."
Hardison might've bought it (wanted to buy it) except Eliot said it with his head tucked into Hardison's shoulder. Hardison, who couldn't recall ever—like, ever, not ever—seeing Eliot cry. Witnessing it. Would Eliot kill him for being a witness? Nah, man.
"I'm fine."
"You're alive."
Swallowing, Hardison could recognize the difference in their words. He was alive. He would be fine. He, maybe, potentially, was not fine right this exact moment.
"I'm alive," Hardison agreed.
Praise his sense of "how injured is my teammate?" Eliot did not hug Hardison tighter. Rather, he spread both hands flat across Hardison's back and held there.