ot3: the hand that reaches

neverwhere  asked:

'That's the tenth demon summoning this week' - Leverage OT3! <3

“Woman!” Hardison yelled, grabbing Parker’s hand before she could reach into the silver bowl of… of god only knew what. Well, he thought, looking around. Black-robed figures were all tripping over their excessively long and heavy fabric to get away from Eliot. Sigils were painted in what looked like blood and dust on trees and the ground (and yeah, he wasn’t pondering too long on the composition of said dust). A little fire in a silver cylinder flickered in the middle of the circle the robe-wearing freaks, and it stank of something decidedly not new-agey incense. 

Maybe not god. Or god as most of most humankind understood him. Him? Her? Them? Not someone benevolent and ready to listen to rant about your worries problems, that was for sure.

Hardison shook his head to keep himself on track and tucked Parker, curious and fidgety, safe behind him before he peered into the bowl. 

“That ain’t right,” he muttered. He was no expert, but those looked like tiny internal organs, entrails, and… was that a finger? He gagged and Parker patted his shoulder in a way that, from anyone else, would feel patronizing. He was used to her fumbling attempts at comfort, though, so it worked. “I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.”

“I’m sure the finger was from a volunteer,” she offered. Hardison gulped and looked away.

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