1. I heard there was a secret chord
That David played and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
It goes like this, the fourth, the fifth
The minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing hallelujah
The first time he heard her sing (beyond the bounds of a stage), he shouldn't have been surprised that she was good. Of course, she wasn't a soprano (he still winced when he remembered the fiasco that had been The Sound of Music), but there was something pure and raw about the sound.
The job was over, and she had retreated to the back of the bar after it had been closed. She must have assumed that he was upstairs and no one would hear her. As he watched her at the old, often abused, piano, he smiled. It figured that she would be able to play the piano; it was classical, perhaps a remnant of her childhood, and now it was one more secret that revealed a piece of her while wrapping her in even more mysterious shades.
He wondered if this was a habit of hers, to let out the stress of the job through a song played soft and sweet on rough keys that were a little out-of-tune. He knew her; she almost never did anything on an impulse. It was always something that had fascinated him. The woman, always in control of every emotion, every tiny expression that flickered across her face. It was maddening. He was tempted to interrupt her, but he was too caught up in the luxury of seeing her like this, open and more than a little honest, which was more than he saw on most days. He didn't know the song; it was a mournful tune, lamenting a loss of love all while tripping through minor chords. He couldn't see her face. Her dark curls had fallen over her shoulder, and her head was inclined towards the piano, covered in shadows, her back perfectly straight. He listened until the music stopped. He waited. She slumped her shoulders, clutching to the piano bench.
"Please, go away."
Her whisper startled him, and he straightened. He started out the door, glancing back. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs. He knew he should ignore her request, offer her comfort in some form. He even turned around, ready to say something, anything. But the words caught in his throat. He walked out.
2. Your faith was strong, but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you
She tied you to a kitchen chair
She broke your throne, she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the hallelujah
When he first laid eyes on Sophie Devereaux, he had been undone. Long, lean legs that disappeared into a deep red dress. The neckline dipped down, tapering off a little below her breasts. The dress clung to her like a second skin, keeping him focused on the material-swathed curves. He was embarrassed by the amount of time it took him to make it to her face. And, that was when he was lost. Dark brown eyes, high cheekbones, red lips, framed with soft chocolate curls that just begged for him to reach out and run a hand through them.
She smiled. "Nathan Ford."
He was surprised to find his tongue could operate while his mind was spinning. "I don't think I've had the pleasure, Miss…?"
"Devereaux," she finished, resting a hand on her hip, drawing his eyes back down to very dangerous and uncharted waters.
He had the distinct feeling he was losing his grasp on the situation, but he smiled. "And your first name?"
"You'll have to buy me a drink to find that out."
Two hours later, he was left sitting at the bar with the knowledge that he had lost his quarry along with a priceless painting. But, he had a name. Sophie Devereaux.
He wondered, sometimes, years later, if Sophie hadn't played him for years, calculating what she was willing to give up to keep him coming back. After all, he knew she had loved the game as much as he did, probably more. But, now….
He watched her pin her hair up, bottom lip tucked between her teeth as she concentrated. He took a sip of his drink. Water now, not whiskey. Something he had let go to get her back. To prove something, even if he still wasn't sure what that was. She was smiling into the mirror, her eyes twinkling with amusement when he realized she was aware he was watching. There were days when he wondered if she was an angel or a witch (an angel when she smiled and laughed at his jokes; a witch when she blew in like a storm and called him out on secrets he thought he had kept from even her). Maybe a siren, weaving a spell in carefully spoken words. He looked at her again and smiled. Maybe she was just Sophie. And, maybe that was enough.
3. Maybe I've been here before
I know this room, I've walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew you
I've seen your flag on the marble arch
Love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah
She was furious with him. She loathed him; no, she hated him. He had abandoned her and the team right when he had finally opened up, spoken everything she had needed him to say so long ago. The things she needed to hear now because she was unraveling even as the rest of the team clung to her like she was an anchor.
She looked around her apartment. Somehow, her place had become the hub the team revolved around. Hardison had filled her fridge with orange soda and she now had an entire drawer dedicated to his supply of gummi frogs. Parker had a broken harness that was housed in the corner of Sophie's living room, and she was huddled over it now, fiddling with a broken cable. Eliot had simply taken over all meals and refused any of Sophie's offers to help. And, Sophie was left to…she guessed wallow, but she wasn't much a fan of self-pity. She did have a newfound, albeit very grudging respect, for Nate because she now understood the patience it took to have her personal space, her home, invaded at all times of the day and night by Eliot, Hardison, and Parker.
She didn't even sleep alone anymore. Parker had officially taken the right side of Sophie's bed. Sophie hadn't bothered protesting, and if she was honest with herself, she liked the comfort of company at night. She liked knowing that she wasn't alone, even when asleep. Hardison slept on her couch some nights when he stayed late into the night and eventually collapsed from exhaustion. He was hard at work, keeping track of Nate's every movement. Sophie pretended disinterest, but she would sneak out to the living room after Parker had fallen asleep and look through the file Hardison had dedicated solely to Nate. It was how she had found out he had been shot; it was then she had plotted ten different ways to kill him and get away with the crime before giving into her tears and proceeding to down half a bottle of vodka. Eliot had remarked the next day she was filling Nate's shoes perfectly. She had taken the hint, and she hadn't gotten drunk since.
It was days like this that it was harder for her; everything felt so normal except for the fact that they were sitting in her apartment, not Nate's, and he wasn't there, not even to needle her with his smugness and fondness for downing any alcohol in his near vicinity. And, that was what threatened to break her. He had become a constant in her life, normal, safe. And, more than that, she loved him still despite everything, despite the protesting pieces of her shattered heart and the brokenness in his eyes that never truly disappeared. She couldn't help it even as she cursed the day she met him. He took everything she had and broke her; of course, she knew she did the same to him. She guessed neither of them had ever figured out how to be whole people.
4. There was a time you let me know
What's really going on below
But now you never show it to me, do you?
And remember when I moved in you
The holy dark was moving, too
And every breath we drew was hallelujah
Nate nursed his whiskey at the bar, his eyes darting to where Sophie was curled up in a booth, absorbed in a book. It had been exactly three weeks, two days and five hours since they had returned from San Lorenzo, and they had still to talk about what had happened in his hotel room. In fact, Sophie barely spoke to him at all now. It was frustrating, really goddamn frustrating, because, for once, he wasn't the one withdrawing, running scared. It was her, and he was tempted to walk over to her and shake her.
Every time he looked at her, he remembered. Remembered the way her mouth opened under his lips, the way she moaned his name into his ear when he kissed his way down her neck, the way her legs wrapped around his waist. He wanted to reach out and touch her, recall that moment when they were finally on the same page and grasped onto some kind of truth. He knew she hadn't been that drunk; he had only consumed a few drinks before he had finally kissed her, and from there…. He shook his head. Control. That was what he needed. Control over his thoughts, control over her so he could break through that icy façade she had thrown up.
Her eyes bored into his back. She had been staring at the same page for a good fifteen minutes before she had given up on reading and turned her attention to studying him. He was mad at her; she winced. No, furious would be a more accurate word. She deserved his wrath, too, which made it all worse. She couldn't meet his eyes without thinking about how much she wanted him, how much she longed for him even more now that she had had a taste of what life could be with him. A life of equals, friends, partners, lovers. And, it was that desire that kept her still, quaking with fear at the idea of offering herself to him and having him reject her. That night should have proven something, that it was time for their dance of maybes and half-steps to finally blossom into something concrete, but all it had done was send her running for the hills.
She always wanted things she couldn't have. Priceless paintings, diamonds, a successful career on the stage…Nate had been at the top of that list of unattainable things. When she met him, he had a wedding band on his finger and pictures of his happy family in his wallet. He was completely off-limits, and she had wanted him all the more because of it. But, the problem with wanting something for so long was that she had no idea what to do with it when she had it, especially since this was a man perfectly capable of leaving if he chose. When he chose. And, so she chose to retreat because it was safer to wonder what could be than to possess and then lose.
Nate pushed his glass to the side. He was tired of waiting and watching. Maybe it was the alcohol talking, but he intended to make Sophie talk about what had happened between them. He stood and walked over to where she was still ensconced in the booth.
Her book fell to her lap when she saw his approach, and she chewed on her bottom lip. Her eyes darted, evaluating whether escape was possible, but then he was leaning over, his face too close.
"We need to talk," he said quietly. When she didn't move, he pushed her outstretched legs to the floor and sat down beside her. "Now. That night in San Lorenzo…"
"Nate," she interrupted, pleading for…she didn't even know anymore.
"No, listen," he snapped, banging his fist against the table. "What happened between us was real. It wasn't a fluke, and it wasn't because we were drunk. I…I don't understand why you're running away from me."
She closed her eyes, unable to respond. He sighed; she didn't have a reason. He didn't know if that was a good or bad thing. When she started to turn her face away from him, he reached up to cup her cheek and guide her back to look at him. Her brown eyes were wide, and she trembled as he trailed his fingers down to her neck, leaning a little closer, waiting for permission. She froze, eyes flickering from his steady gaze to his lips.
"Soph," he murmured.
With a sudden movement, she pulled him down to her mouth, lips pressing against his with frantic need. He couldn't help the smile that spread across his face as he pressed closer to her.
5. Maybe there's a God above
And all I ever learned from love
Was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you
And it's not a cry you can hear at night
It's not somebody who's seen the light
It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah
By all accounts, they never did anything in a manner that made sense. So, in a way, it made perfect sense that the first time Sophie told Nate anything about her past was while they were in bed.
He was leaning against his bed's headboard and she was positioned with her back to him, resting against his bare chest. He wondered if it was something about her exposed body that made her so willing to open up. He traced the scar on her right shoulder from where he had shot her. He smiled; one more example in how they were more than dysfunctional.
But, she talked. She told him about where she was raised, how her parents were normal and loved her. How she was an only child. How she didn't have some horrible past forcing her into a life a crime, that she chose it. And, she continued on to detail her first cons, how she was taken under another grifter's wing when she had almost been shot due to her own screw-up. Every missing detail of her life that he had once wondered about, she filled it all in. The sun was just starting to peek over the horizon when she finished, collapsing wearily into his welcoming arms.
He pressed a kiss to her cheek. "Do you want to go to sleep?"
She shifted in his embrace, craning her neck to capture his lips in a kiss that hinted at something more promising than rest. "No." She was facing him, hands tracing a familiar path down his chest. "Make love to me, Nate."
He heard all the unspoken words in her voice. She needed him beyond the desire of her body. Needed his comfort, his patience, and his love. She needed everything he could give, and she gave him all of her in return. He leaned her back, kissing her neck, scraping his teeth against her sensitive skin. There was something about them, together, that defied the confines of explaining words. There was too much history and too much hurt. But, it didn't matter. They had made it. They had finally fallen together, found that missing puzzle piece. They were whole.