Author's Note: Two stories in two days; my, my, I must be getting good. Either that, or Eliot has decided to prod me onward, as I'm certain he felt a little neglected. I'm not sure if I want this to be a one shot or an on-going work. You all help me decide. And thank you to lmiller19 and scasfra for their support.

Chapter I

Formal Attire Not Required

He was dragged from his oddly restful 90 minutes of sleep by the smell of…bacon? That alone was an oddity he'd never experienced; he was – on a normal day - the only one in his kitchen at 6 am. But there it was, the sweet-and-salty odor of thick cut, honey cured bacon currently being crisped in what he hoped to be a skillet of some sort.

It took his unusually sluggish brain to register something else amiss: he was very much alone in his bed. Although fuzzy, his brain nudged him to remember there were two people in this bed last night, but now…now he was left in his birthday suit trying to cypher why the hell he smelled bacon.

After sorely struggling into a pair of well-worn pajama pants, and feeling slightly less vulnerable for their presence, he makes his way out of the room, stepping over cast off clothing and a single high-heeled, expensive-looking shoe. It wasn't as though the previous night's jollies had robbed him of his normal physical prowess; it was the bruised ribs and tender shoulders from two days prior that gave his gait a slight hitch. He had to admit though, his recent "roll in the hay" had been rather enthusiastic.

While his thoughts attempted to coalesce into something useful, he was abruptly greeted by the sight of a pair of shapely legs partially hidden by one of his flowery aprons. Blue eyes roamed higher to be met with the image of a long-sleeved, holey sweater he often used for wintery workouts; the sleeves were rolled up, and the neck fell just off one of her tanned shoulders.

There was a woman in his kitchen, cooking him breakfast, and he couldn't for the life of him remember her name.

"I was wondering when you'd finally fall out of bed, Mr. Spencer."

Her voice, clear with a hint of joshing, cut through his thoughts in the same manner as her current attire. She stood with a white bowl in one hand and a fork in the other; he could only assume a pair or three of eggs was about to meet their end by the metal utensil. As he adjusted to the scene, he caught sight of a container of cream sitting on his center island, flanked by a carton of brown eggs and an opened packet of hand-sliced bacon; two pans were being heated on the gas range, one already popping happily at the presence of its contents.

It was then he realized she'd said something, and that he should say something back. Running his calloused fingers through the current "rat's nest" state of his hair, he offered up the best response his clearing mind could piece together.

"Uhm…yeah, sorry, darlin. Not somethin' that happens often…" he had to take a pause, brow turning down, "...or never."

He was apologizing to her. In his own house. As she cooked with his food. But it seemed right, for some reason, that he should say "sorry" to this woman; she had, after all, been forced to make her own breakfast in her host's home. She smiled at him then before turning back to the whisking of the eggs, the same smile she'd given him the night before, the smile that said "I'm happy in the moment".

Interlude I

When we meet and how we meet aren't the same thing.

He'd been through worse, that's true. He'd been shot, broken bones, broken the really important bones, and lived through what generally could be aptly described as "Hell". But that didn't mean none of it hurt; sure, he kept more of what he'd endured from the strange gaggle of people he could now call family, but that didn't mean he couldn't feel the bite of pain that seemed to dog him no matter the situation.

Sitting at a booth at a bar, for example.

He wanted to be alone, to drink and pretend his ribs didn't feel like they wanted to escape his chest, and to ignore the continuous ache his shoulders prodded him with. Normally he'd take up residence at the counter, but this wasn't a usual night on the town; he's always hassled Ford about his drinking, but the man relied on it for more than just a good time. At this point, he could understand why. He was tired, ever so tired, and though he wanted nothing more than to protect his family, he knew at some point he simply couldn't. There would be a moment in which his body would be too slow, and his reactions wouldn't be enough to save them, to save one of them, or all. He blamed himself, of course, anytime one of the team found themselves in impossible situations the hitter had been too slow, too hurt to help in.

They always said he was their hero, that they take him for granted, and that he shouldn't be so hard on himself.

But what did they expect? At first his was a job of protection only, of money and physical intimidation. Now, it had turned into a role he gladly did for free, and one he could never see himself giving up. Unless he was too slow. Too hurt. Too weak. And he knew that day was fast approaching; all hitters had a shelf life, he'd once told them. No one seemed to believe him, or wanted to believe him. So he'd come here, to a bar shunted to one corner of the city, too plain and unnoticeable to drag in anything other than those pleading to forget a hard day.

He was in a booth, at one of the farthest sections of the room, but he could still make out who came, and who went; years of necessary practice left him with the inability to simply relax. His beer was delivered by a rather comely looking waitress that gave him a quick once over; he was not the only person capable of reading someone. He had to admit, a good waitress could pull in more money than a CEO if they played their cards right. He was almost tempted – almost – to engage in her obvious flirtation, but his heart just sat there, unwilling to motivate him into anything other than a brief "thanks" to the girl. She didn't seem fazed by the generic answer, instead moving right along to the next table to possibilities; he envied her careless manner.

And that's when, over the rim of his beer glass, he saw someone entirely incongruous with the general…feel of the bar.

She didn't have the attire of a woman coming off of a second shift, blue collar dead-end; she wasn't overly tall, but her legs were something to stare at. They disappeared into a grey pencil skirt that was topped with a crisp white blouse, one not found in a K-Mart; it was faintly set off by her light tan, and auburn hair, which was pulled up into one of the neatest, cleanest buns he'd ever seen. She didn't belong here; she belonged in some sort of club, sipping Cosmopolitans and toasting to her friend's new promotion at a highly reputable accounting firm.

But there was an air about her that radiated confidence, of the sort that could fend off nearly any advance into her personal space. Whatever she was here for, it wasn't for company. Maybe that is exactly why she came. Maybe she wanted to do nothing more than drink alone in a place no one would recognize her. Maybe she wanted to be invisible for one night.

However, he already knew her presence was going to interrupt his night, if for no other reason than she simply existed within a dark, depressing, lonely bar. She may have wanted to fly by incognito, but the looks she garnered were nothing close to hidden. He wasn't surprised, then, when the first male occupant gathered the nerve to approach her; within the span of only a few moments, the man was rebuffed, though he didn't appear angry. He supposed this woman who gathered confidence around her like a familiar coat was quite capable of defending at least the verbal attempts at diving into her knickers, but he knew there would be more than that coming.

She was part way through a dark scotch before a less-than-savory gentleman ambled to the bar. This man was why he'd only nursed the beer in front of him; he had always been one to pull off a 'damsel in distress' meeting, and this was no different. He really only wanted to spend this night along with his thoughts, and this…woman had to wander into his bar. His watchful eye couldn't prevent his mind from wandering to more frustrated thoughts, such as why she had to stroll into this bar, at this time, when he was already in a foul mood. What right did she have to take away his miserable night? Why didn't she just skip his self-proclaimed establishment and move on to one she was more familiar with?

His brain reminded him of his previous thoughts of her possible reasons for coming.

He was still moody about it.

Distracted by his traitorous thoughts, he almost missed what happened next: the man who was now leaning in to play a bit with the auburn-haired woman had just moved his hand to wrap around her waist; this was more than too far. She seemed to be doing a valiant job of returning the man to a more proper distance, but he was having none of it. The drunken fellow outweighed the woman by a stout hundred pounds, but that just made him a much easier target. However, maybe this situation could be diffused with a different tactic, one that wouldn't leave him even more sore.

Standing – and giving himself a second to roll his stiff shoulders – he made his way through booths and tables in the direction of the pair. Just before arriving, he heard words come from the woman that caused him to smirk and cringe at the same time.

"Back. The fuck. Off."

Her voice held a calm sort of venom, and her body posture was that of a cat about to claw off the face off an unwary. The words rocked the fellow back a bit but didn't dissuade him from his goal; his cheering friends didn't help the situation. So throwing on a smile, the hitter ambles over and – as politely as he could – stepped between the two.

"Hey there, darlin. Sorry I'm late."

He only heard the man behind him stuttering out some phrasing of words that were too impolite to repeat; most of his attention was on the woman in front of him. It only took a second before recognition flooded her dark brown eyes, and she slid from the stool with enviable grace, taking his proffered arm and not casting a single glance back at her drunken, amorous beau. He led her to his booth in total silence, and waited until she took her seat before taking his own. It seemed he was in at least some luck tonight; the other man had failed to continue pressing the situation, which was all the better.

She settled onto the faded, torn fabric of the booth seat and politely checked her black leather purse to make certain of its contents; one could never be too careful in a dimly lit bar. He could appreciate the thought behind the action, and it seemed as though this wasn't the first time she'd needed to do this. But why did she have to do it now? Why couldn't she just go rummage through her designer bag in another bar, one without the rough men and dangerous situations and his presence.

The hitter silenced those rambling thoughts when he realized he could've no more left her to the drunken mess of a man than he could have hurt her himself. It was a problem, he knew, this inability to not step in for a woman in need, but had she actually needed him? Or had he once again played the protector role out of forced, sheer habit?

And then they were introducing themselves: she would courteously call him only by last name, and he could only call her by her first. They drank quietly, discussing this and that, watching the crowd dwindle. Eventually, they allowed the conversation to flow naturally, with small gestures and innocent flirtation following. Neither were looking for anything, particularly not tonight, not on a night that had been a series of missteps. But it was those missteps that had brought them to this point, and he couldn't deny his steady, slow attraction to the woman; it seemed she felt the same.

She mentioned they should leave. He asked if she wanted company.

She smiled.

Chapter I, continued

Long Legs and Eggs

He'd wandered back to his room to find a shirt of any sort; it was odd that he felt so exposed when he was with her. Certainly, he'd been completely in the buff in front of many a woman, but something about this one made him feel…obligated to be dressed. He bent to snare a white shirt from the unfolded pile in his overflowing laundry basket, only to find it was a thin, expensive blouse. The fabric was smooth, and it slid on his hands with the softest of touch, and a small part of him reveled in the feeling. Sure, he'd felt similar fabrics before – had even been forced into them by his team – but he'd never realized how often the clothing would wear the individual.

He could finally recall the night before, and the way the garment felt as he'd pulled it from her body. She'd adorned it with an air of dignity, and there was no denying she'd worn the shirt, not the other way round. The hitter laid the blouse on the rumpled bed covers, for some reason feeling the floor was an undignified place for it; he didn't know why, simply that it just felt wrong. Eventually choosing another one of his long sleeved sweaters, he pads back into the kitchen, only to see her pulling a tray out of the oven; already the eggs had finished, sitting piled on a matching white plate, as had the bacon, which laid in all its wonderful glory on a second. She slid the tray onto the island, nudging the oven close with her hip. He could see even from that distance the four slices of bread had been buttered, and then lightly toasted in the oven. The right way.

Her body moved about the kitchen with a practiced sort of ease, as though she'd been here as long as he had. It made sense, he supposed, as this particular kitchen would have been easy for practically anyone to use. Except for his hacker friend.

She'd gone to place the cream, bacon and eggs back into the refrigerator as he approached, and he knew she heard him quietly take a seat on the bar stool. He couldn't see it, but he had the feeling she was smiling again.

"Are you going to eat, or do I have to dive into it myself?"

As she turned back around, closing the doors behind her, he could see she'd indeed been smiling at him.

"Myself it is, then."

Grabbing up an empty dish, she scoops up a good portion of eggs, more than a few slices of bacon, and two pieces of the warm, buttery toast. She wasn't waiting on him, and he was actually grateful for that; she was initiating the moment, displaying an ease in the situation that led him to believe she was more than comfortable making breakfast at 6 am for a man she hardly knew. In his own house, no less. This in mind, he slid from his seat and rounded the counter, taking up a plate himself, but somehow not noticing the woman as she stood directly behind him; it was the distraction of food, he told himself later. So distraction in mind, he turned around to find her sitting on the counter, long legs crossed, and could only blink.

She had propped the plate on her knees, and sat with a look of "I'm pleased" dancing on her face.

He almost retreated back to his seat, but something about the situation told him to stay. He'd never allowed a woman to stay in his apartment longer than the time it took for a good toss-about, and it had suited him rather well. He didn't like attachments. He didn't like messy, which is what all attachments turn out to be. No, he had kept his life apart from others – even his family – and that life was smooth. There was no rocking the boat.

Here was a woman who seemed to understand that separation. She'd played grown-up at the bar, and in the bed, but here…here she wasn't pretending to be anything other than she was.

And what she was, was a woman who didn't like attachments. Who didn't like messy, which is what all attachments turn out to be. She was comfortable with him, without reservation, but she didn't need his approval; he could tell her to leave, he could ask her to stay, and she wouldn't cause a fuss either way. He understood all of this as he watched her eat, leaning his tired, bruised frame up against the island. They ate in silence before a thought hit him: maybe he wanted comfortable. Maybe he didn't want a relationship, maybe he didn't want attachments. Maybe what he wanted was comfortable, no strings, just…this.

He cleared his throat, and had no problem remembering her name.

"Eleanor…would you like me to make dinner?"