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Leverage Fic: Living By The Knife
Title: Living By The Knife
Summary: You live by the knife, you die by the knife. Eliot, Gen
Word Count: 5178
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine. Not real. Please don't sue. I have no money anyway.
A/N: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
comment_fic. Original prompt from ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
honeyjojames: "Leverage, Eliot, Eliot's first knife." Original thread is here. This took a bit of a darker turn than I was expecting, but I hope y'all like it.
Please leave any feedback/comments at my fic journal.
Eliot is ten years old. He's visiting his grandfather's house in the country with his parents for two weeks over the summer.
He found his grandfather late one afternoon in the old barn cutting into a large piece of meat.
"What's that, grandpa?" he'd asked.
"That's venison, my boy," he'd replied. "Bob and his son shot a deer this morning and brought over some for us." He'd turned back to the meat and started to cut into again when he stopped. "Would you like to help?"
Eliot's eyes lit up and he eagerly jumped up onto the small stool his grandfather pulled up.
"Now, we probably shouldn't tell your parents about this. So, it'll be our secret, right?"
"Yes, grandpa," Eliot said, feeling happy his grandfather trusted him with this.
"Now, this was an older buck they shot and the meat is a little tougher than most. This means that this knife is very sharp. So, you have to be very careful. Can you do that?"
Eliot nodded sagely as he eyed the large knife warily. It was one of the prettiest things he had ever seen. Almost too pretty to believe it could be used for such a savage thing. The long, silver blade was thick and very sharp, the edge glinting in the sun. The handle was very pale and didn't look like anything Eliot had ever seen before.
"This is a family heirloom," his grandfather explained. "My grandfather gave it to me when I just a little older than yourself. And now, it's time to pass it on to you. The handle is made from fossilized ivory, the blade is silver. It was handcrafted by a fellow tribesman as a commemoration of his first kill. It was a rite of passage back then. A boy wasn't considered a man until he'd gone on his first hunt."
Very gently, Eliot took hold of the knife as his grandfather passed it over to him, handle first. It was heavy in his hand. Heavier than it looked. He examined it closely and could see where years of wear had taken their toll. Parts of the handle were smoother than others, worn down by heavy use. The blade, though, appeared as sharp as the day it had been made. Eliot silently vowed to never let anything happen to this knife.
His grandfather came to stand behind him, covering his own small hand on the hilt of the knife and patiently showed him how to butcher the meat. When they were done, they had enough deer steaks to last a week and more left over for drying into jerky.
The rest of the summer Eliot spent countless hours with his grandfather, learning everything there was to know about his new knife. And in the years that followed, Eliot would be back every summer to learn more.
Eliot is eighteen years old. Eight years after that first summer and Eliot is still learning all there is to know about his knife. Now being an adult, his grandfather teaches him how to fight and defend himself with the blade. Eliot hopes he never has to use any of his new skills, but he's happy to have the knowledge under his belt.
Eliot is twenty-one years old when he kills another man for the first time with his knife. The Marines had been a new experience for Eliot and the war had opened his eyes more than he had ever imagined.
He and his unit had somehow found themselves behind enemy lines and under attack. He had run out of ammo some time ago and was being charged. By that time, it had been a reflex as he brought the knife up and plunged it deep into the other man's chest. A twist of the blade and a snap of his wrist ensured the other man would be dead by the time he hit the ground.
Rescue had come soon after and Eliot spent the rest of the evening trying to scrub the blood from his hands.
Eliot is twenty-eight years old when his grandfather passes away. He is half way around the world, but he still returns home in time to be there for the burial. He feels an impulse to bury the knife with his grandfather, but knows that their journey together is not yet done. He tucks the knife back into his boot and continues on his way.
Eliot is thirty-six years old when he uses the knife for the last time. Parker and Sophie had had their cover blown on The Job That Went Spectacularly Bad and Eliot had been charged with being the cavalry again. The idiots that had been guarding them had been easy to subdue and cutting the two women free had taken less than five minutes.
Then it had all gone to hell.
Parker and Sophie had gotten out safely but Eliot had been detained by the muscle at the door. The guy was good, but Eliot was better. He hated having to use the knife to kill people, but sometimes they left with you no choice. Things were going in Eliot's favor and he was about to strike the killing blow when a stupid, amateur mistake had him slipping on the edge of the carpet, allowing his attacker to get a hand up on him. A flick of his wrist and the knife was in the wrong hands. With the two locked together, it was barely a moment before Eliot felt the heat of the blade slipping into his gut.
He dropped to the floor, his hand pressed to his belly, trying to keep his insides where they belonged. He knew it was fruitless. He could feel his life slipping away. Strange that the knife that had saved his life so many times would be the thing that ended it.
You lived by the knife, you died by the knife.
THE END
End Note: Eliot's knife
Summary: You live by the knife, you die by the knife. Eliot, Gen
Word Count: 5178
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine. Not real. Please don't sue. I have no money anyway.
A/N: Written for
comment_fic. Original prompt from honeyjojames: "Leverage, Eliot, Eliot's first knife." Original thread is here. This took a bit of a darker turn than I was expecting, but I hope y'all like it.Please leave any feedback/comments at my fic journal.
Eliot is ten years old. He's visiting his grandfather's house in the country with his parents for two weeks over the summer.
He found his grandfather late one afternoon in the old barn cutting into a large piece of meat.
"What's that, grandpa?" he'd asked.
"That's venison, my boy," he'd replied. "Bob and his son shot a deer this morning and brought over some for us." He'd turned back to the meat and started to cut into again when he stopped. "Would you like to help?"
Eliot's eyes lit up and he eagerly jumped up onto the small stool his grandfather pulled up.
"Now, we probably shouldn't tell your parents about this. So, it'll be our secret, right?"
"Yes, grandpa," Eliot said, feeling happy his grandfather trusted him with this.
"Now, this was an older buck they shot and the meat is a little tougher than most. This means that this knife is very sharp. So, you have to be very careful. Can you do that?"
Eliot nodded sagely as he eyed the large knife warily. It was one of the prettiest things he had ever seen. Almost too pretty to believe it could be used for such a savage thing. The long, silver blade was thick and very sharp, the edge glinting in the sun. The handle was very pale and didn't look like anything Eliot had ever seen before.
"This is a family heirloom," his grandfather explained. "My grandfather gave it to me when I just a little older than yourself. And now, it's time to pass it on to you. The handle is made from fossilized ivory, the blade is silver. It was handcrafted by a fellow tribesman as a commemoration of his first kill. It was a rite of passage back then. A boy wasn't considered a man until he'd gone on his first hunt."
Very gently, Eliot took hold of the knife as his grandfather passed it over to him, handle first. It was heavy in his hand. Heavier than it looked. He examined it closely and could see where years of wear had taken their toll. Parts of the handle were smoother than others, worn down by heavy use. The blade, though, appeared as sharp as the day it had been made. Eliot silently vowed to never let anything happen to this knife.
His grandfather came to stand behind him, covering his own small hand on the hilt of the knife and patiently showed him how to butcher the meat. When they were done, they had enough deer steaks to last a week and more left over for drying into jerky.
The rest of the summer Eliot spent countless hours with his grandfather, learning everything there was to know about his new knife. And in the years that followed, Eliot would be back every summer to learn more.
Eliot is eighteen years old. Eight years after that first summer and Eliot is still learning all there is to know about his knife. Now being an adult, his grandfather teaches him how to fight and defend himself with the blade. Eliot hopes he never has to use any of his new skills, but he's happy to have the knowledge under his belt.
Eliot is twenty-one years old when he kills another man for the first time with his knife. The Marines had been a new experience for Eliot and the war had opened his eyes more than he had ever imagined.
He and his unit had somehow found themselves behind enemy lines and under attack. He had run out of ammo some time ago and was being charged. By that time, it had been a reflex as he brought the knife up and plunged it deep into the other man's chest. A twist of the blade and a snap of his wrist ensured the other man would be dead by the time he hit the ground.
Rescue had come soon after and Eliot spent the rest of the evening trying to scrub the blood from his hands.
Eliot is twenty-eight years old when his grandfather passes away. He is half way around the world, but he still returns home in time to be there for the burial. He feels an impulse to bury the knife with his grandfather, but knows that their journey together is not yet done. He tucks the knife back into his boot and continues on his way.
Eliot is thirty-six years old when he uses the knife for the last time. Parker and Sophie had had their cover blown on The Job That Went Spectacularly Bad and Eliot had been charged with being the cavalry again. The idiots that had been guarding them had been easy to subdue and cutting the two women free had taken less than five minutes.
Then it had all gone to hell.
Parker and Sophie had gotten out safely but Eliot had been detained by the muscle at the door. The guy was good, but Eliot was better. He hated having to use the knife to kill people, but sometimes they left with you no choice. Things were going in Eliot's favor and he was about to strike the killing blow when a stupid, amateur mistake had him slipping on the edge of the carpet, allowing his attacker to get a hand up on him. A flick of his wrist and the knife was in the wrong hands. With the two locked together, it was barely a moment before Eliot felt the heat of the blade slipping into his gut.
He dropped to the floor, his hand pressed to his belly, trying to keep his insides where they belonged. He knew it was fruitless. He could feel his life slipping away. Strange that the knife that had saved his life so many times would be the thing that ended it.
You lived by the knife, you died by the knife.
THE END
End Note: Eliot's knife