Warnings: Eliot's potty mouth
Disclaimer: No infringement is intended. Just written for fun.
Notes: As always with many thanks to my beta's Jay and Mirth


So this is it, the end of all things, at least from his perspective. No one's ever won against Death, the house is stacked against you, everyone knows that.

But that didn't mean Eliot Spencer was going to give in without a fight, no matter how hopeless things looked. Death was going to have to drag him to Hell fighting every inch of the fucking way.

Spencer judged the distance between himself and the nearest of the six men that stood in front of him in the middle of the brightly lit warehouse. It was too far, he knew it and more importantly, they knew it. He could take out all six, if they weren't armed or had knives, or machetes, fuck, even swords, but all six stood in a semicircle, ten feet away from him, each holding a 9mm semi-automatic, fully cocked, aimed and ready to fire.

He fucking hated guns.

He slowly changed his stance, his eyes never leaving the men in front of him, watching them tense as he prepared to run forward.

"Get 'em out of here, Nate," he ordered through the ear bud, his voice devoid of emotion.

There was a squawk of protest in his ear, the rest of the team speaking at once. He ignored them as he took a deep breath to control the churning emotions burning away at his chest.

One job. It should have been one job, but the fucking thieves had sucked him in, but had stolen nothing. Instead they had thawed his frozen heart, given him purpose and direction, they had given him life and became his family, dysfunctional and as annoying as hell and some days he cursed them for it, for making him care.

The voices fell silent. Eliot prepared to move, knowing Nate would get the rest of the team to safety.

"Stand down, Eliot,"

"What?" he hadn't meant to say it out loud, but the command surprised him.

"Eliot, please," Nate pleaded in his ear. "Stand down. I've got a plan."

"Nate," he growled back, eyes still fixed on the gunmen in front of him. "There's no other…."

"Trust me, Eliot," Nate interrupted, unperturbed by Eliot's tone. "Lights out in … five…four…

And as simple as that the odds were changed, Eliot Spencer was odds on favourite and Death held a losing hand.

Trust a bunch of thieves to steal from Death.