Our Father, who art in heaven,
hallowed be Thy name;
Thy kingdom come;
Thy will be done
On earth as it is in heaven
Jimmy Ford's son. Jimmy's boy. His father's legacy that he never wanted but now as he stares down the barrel of a gun, pulls the trigger…
Nathan Ford figured out a long time ago that there was no use in trying to outrun your fate.
He watches as a Calaghan boy pours rosary beads, dark red as blood, into a broken mouth and places two shiny new pennies on eyes frozen open.
"Ford, this is Annie Kroy." Nick Calaghan grins as he says, "Ms. Kroy, this is Nathan Ford."
Nate looks up from his drink into gunpowder eyes and extends his right hand. "Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Kroy."
Her lips curve into a smile, red red red, self-satisfied and intimate, and she replies, "Oh, the pleasure is all mine, Mr. Ford."
"I'm sure it is," he mutters before turning away from her.
He can feel her eyes on him, claws down his back, as he tips his glass against his drink and swallows the last of his whiskey.
Holy Mary,
mother of God,
pray for us sinners,
now and at the hour of our death.
Amen.
"Do you live in this bar, Mr. Ford?" Her voice is soft, her accent jarring, and she places a hand on his arm as she sits on a stool beside him.
He shakes his head and palms his glass as he says, "Don't you have better things to do than bother me?"
"Perhaps I would just like a drink."
She still hasn't moved her hand, fingers spread and just brushing his wrist; he frowns and lifts his head to look at her, to say—something, even if he's not sure what, if he wants her to go or stay. He settles for motioning to the bartender, waiting as Annie smiles with those red lips and leans over the bar, bourbon neat.
Her dark hair gleams in the dim light; he knows who she is, what she does, but she's beautiful and he can't help himself.
He thinks later that she might have manipulated him into this. Later, when he's wiping lipstick off his mouth and pressing her against the wall, and this is wrong, she's playing him somehow. This isn't how things go, he's not meant to have this or her.
"Don't think too much," she murmurs as she tips her head back.
He wants to, he wants— but this is all wrong, her accent slipped for a moment and she's lying. He should have known.
"Did you really think that you could come in here and run a con job?" He angles his body to keep her pinned in and out of sight, his right hand flexing against her neck. "Who are you?"
"I'm not—"
"Don't lie. Who are you?"
She laughs then, throaty, her body lithe and languid. "I was sent here for you. You could be so much more than what they ask of you."
"What are you talking about?" he asks, pulling her closer. No one can hear. This is his.
"The truth. The only question is, do you really want to know it, Nate?"
No.
Yes.
Glory be
to the Father, and to the Son,
and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the
beginning is now, and ever shall be, world
without end. Amen.
They're not what he's expecting. It's oddly domestic when Sophie (she laughed when he asked her if that name is false too and god, what is he even doing) leads him into an apartment, a man with shoulder-length hair in the kitchen grumbling at a young woman with blonde hair. The other man, dark brown skin and a wide smile, sprawled on a long black couch, the six televisions in front of him displaying something different on each screen.
Nate learns names later on. Eliot and Parker and Hardison; hitter and thief and hacker.
"You got him," Eliot says and Sophie smiles as she pushes Nate in Hardison's direction.
"Of course I did. I said I would." Sophie sounds almost offended at the idea.
"He smells like booze." Parker says from behind him, and Nate starts, whirling around to face her.
"How—" he starts but Sophie shakes her head and leads him away from Parker.
"She does that. You'll get used to it."
He stops and looks at her. "I never said that I was in."
"You're here, aren't you?"
"That's not the same thing."
Hardison laughs as Sophie says, "Of course it is."
Annie Kroy disappears. Nate doesn't tell anyone what he knows about her; he tries to not talk about her at all. To not remember the feel of her soft mouth, her hands raking through his hair, her quiet sighs as he kissed her and kissed her.
But there's a moment, when he's holding his gun in his hand, holding it steady to take the shot, that he remembers what she said. You could be so much more than they ask of you.
Then he pulls the trigger. He knows who he is.
O my Jesus,
forgive us our sins, save us
from the fires of Hell; lead all souls to
Heaven, especially those in most need of
Thy mercy. Amen.
Of course it ends. It ends with red and blue lights and handcuffs and a cold cell.
A life sentence. Nate knows that it's better than he deserves. And he plays his part. He doesn't give up names, he doesn't cut deals. He knows how this works.
Which is why seeing her on the other side of plate glass is—
"What are you doing here?" He can't think to ask anything else.
"Because I'm hoping that you'll change your mind," she says with a smile, brown eyes warm.
"I'm in jail."
"A roadblock but not impossible." She shrugs and her black sweater falls off her left shoulder. "Consider this your second chance."
He shakes his head and says, "I don't deserve one."
"I don't know anyone who does. But they got one anyway."
He wants, he wants, he wants. And maybe, just maybe, this doesn't have to be who he is after all. She smiles at him like she already knows what he's going to say, and that may just be what does it, that final push to finally say…
"I'm in."
He's never seen anything like them. They move together seamlessly, calling audibles and correcting course at a moment's notice.
It feels so much easier than anything he's ever known, and maybe it's because he's only ever known thieves and killers his whole life.
But he watches Parker curl into a corner of the couch with a padlock and a lockpick, her feet pressed against Hardison's left thigh while Eliot sits on Hardison's right while the game is on. And Sophie floats around them, knowing just what to say and when and it at least feels sincere.
And he hasn't killed since he came here. He sometimes feels like he might one day forget the weight of a gun in his hand, the recoil and the blood.
Give us this day our daily bread,
and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive
those who trespass against us. And lead us
not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.
Amen.