A/N: This is a collection of short stories I have been cooking up on 'Write or Die'. These are all just very short little ficlettes that don't fit anywhere else, and are generally, but maybe not always, unrelated to each other.
There is a problem. It isn't the rage he feels inside. The rage is something he learned to control long ago. There are still times he feels it busting to get out, but he knows how to channel it. There are times so he goes off alone, to train, or exhaust himself in the familiar movements of what has become his life. Violence. He doesn't consider himself a violent person. He isn't the kind of guy to lose control and start a bar fight, and he doesn't give a damn about defending his honour or defending his point. He uses violence sparingly. He gets paid for it; it isn't something he chooses as a past time. It's just a job. A job he is very good at.
There is a problem. So now, Eliot takes a moment to breathe. A moment to thank God for giving him a new purpose, for changing the direction his life was headed in, and to redirect it towards protecting good people. People like Nate, Hardison, Parker, and Sophie.
It's just that he should have known better than to let her in. They both knew the potential to make things messy.
That isn't even the problem. The problem isn't even that she makes him feel like a bug under the microscope. The rest of the team doesn't do that. They don't ask about what it is like to hurt people; to kill people. They don't ask about his scars and try to analyze them.
"Knife?" She asks. "Is this really from a sword?" She asks, trailing another old scar with her pinkie finger. "What was this?"
"What is your deal here? Why do you stay?"
She doesn't get it. That is the problem.