Things Said vs. Things Done

Things said

"How are we on props?" said Nate.
Eliot glanced Hardison's way. Hardison met his eyes, wide eyed but quiet.
"All done," Eliot muttered.

Things done (earlier)
He took care not to seem to care.
He had protested: "Do I look like the UPS?"
[Narrowed eyes/snarl.]
But not too much: "UPS with a side-kick? Great."
[Big eyes/disbelief.]
"I'm the Van-man" said Hardison. "You're the side-kick."
"I'm wearing the cap, see?"
"I can have a cap, too." Hardison turned to Nate, "Can't I?"

When they left the parking lot Parker jumped onto the wind shield, like there was suction cups on her arms and legs. Maybe there was. Parker had secrets.

Hardison slammed the van came to a halt. Parkers flattened face grinned stupidly on the other side of the glass.
Eliot was so not in the mood to play.
"What?" he growled.
"I'm coming, too."
She climbed in, and crawled on all four over Eliot to get to the middle spot. She planted a bony knee on his thigh when she passed. It hurt. He'd opted to protect the more sensitive parts, hoping that would be enough. He should have known better.

Parker made herself comfortable. She was like a puppy, turning herself over and around, oblivious to the kicks and pushes she dispensed till satisfied. She sat down and pulled out an UPS-cap from her pocket. She put it on with a pleased sigh. Hardison was happy for the extra company. Figures. The circus was officially on the road.

Things said
Nate raised an eyebrow.
Eliot met his eyes.
[Blank/deadpan]
Silence.
"She asked what you needed the fake for," said Hardison.
"And you said..." Nate prompted.
"You have a consulting gig cataloging Great Fakes," said Parker, rolling her eyes at the obviousness of the lie.
"She needs it back Monday," said Eliot, back turned.

It did not help. He was a whale in a gold fish bowl, trying not to draw attention to himself. Good luck with that.
"Why?" said Nate.
Eliot shrugged.
"I didn't ask."
Nate let it hang there long enough for Eliot to begin nursing a hope that would be all. Hope is a bitch.

"But she wants you to return it Monday?" said Nate.
[Slightly raised eyebrows/slow delivery]
"No. She said she needs t-h-e p-a-i-n-t-i-n-g back by Monday."
[Glare/weariness]
"But she did say it to him," said Hardison.
[Wide eyes/innocence]

Things done

"Hi Eliot," she said when she opened the door. When the entourage became visible behind him, she added, "Hi Parker, Hardison. What's up with the caps?"
The hallway had great ambiance, or insufficient lighting. There was no way to tell if her smile had changed when it had to include them all.

They stayed close, sardine style. The tiny apartment entrance couldn't contain them otherwise and she was blocking the way to the rest of her nest.
"You come three people to pick up one little thing?" she said. "You need real jobs."
"He's doing the actual pick-up." Parker pointed to Eliot. "We're the chaperoonies."
"There's safety in numbers," said Hardison and smiled.
Parker smiled.
Maggie smiled, too.
"She's really pretty," said Parker to Eliot. "Don't you think so?"
Once he'd been tortured for two days by six bored Moldavian experience came close, but did not match the level of discomfort Parker could inflict by just opening her mouth. Not quite.
"Where's the painting?" said Eliot.

Maggie led the way into a small living room, complete with a small couch, a small fire place and no tv. Bookshelves - with books - , and framed real paintings on the walls. All in excellent taste, but nothing worth stealing. He noticed that there were no photos of any family members, past or present. No heirlooms, no stuff. Maggie's living room was as personal as a hotel suite.

It was just a pit stop. Maggie opened two doors and they entered a work room. It was by far the biggest in the apartment, with large windows giving plenty of light. There were two desks by the windows, side by side, one for paper work, one empty.

Maggie opened a bottom drawer and pulled out a crinkled Target bag. She lit a lamp by the empty desk. It wasn't necessary, so it was a habit. She spends a lot of time here, he thought.

"You keep an oil painting in a plastic bag?" said Parker. Trapped dampness could destroy the pigments over time. The picture's value could be ruined. Parker did not approve of such carelessness around objects that could be exchanged for real money.
"It's a fake." said Maggie with a shrug.
She pulled out a blue bundle from the bag.
"But I do keep it in my favorite old sweater in the plastic bag." Maggie said.
"That's nice of you," said Eliot.
"It's an earnest fake," she said with a smile.

Things Said
"Why does she need it back?" Nate asked Eliot.
"Ask her."
He headed for the kitchen. Grumpiness masking hurt feelings that were just hiding a bad conscience for something there was nothing to feel bad about in the first place.
He needed a life without grifters. Where a bad mood was just a bad mood and nobody cared.
That would be dandy.

Things Done
"There's types in fakes?" Hardison asked.
"It better be natural fiber," Parker muttered and reached over to get a feel of the sweater.
"Of course."
Maggie removed the sweater. The painting was small, brownish and not an attention seeker.
"And what makes it an earnest fake?" Hardison wanted to know.
"The painter didn't do it to fool anyone. He was long gone before his work started to be passed off as authentic Böcklin pieces."
"No copies?"
"No. More like amazing tributes."
"You're saying this here is like a really good Boyz II Men cover band?"
"If they were doing only their own original songs and sounding exactly like the real thing."
"They'd have to look like them, too. Like clones," said Hardison with a big grin. Clones made him happy. He'd come of age between episode 1 through 3. George Lucas could do no wrong.
Parker stepped away from the desk.
"It's a parallell universe painting? I'm not touching it."

Things Said
"I'm asking you."
Eliot had had enough. He turned to face Nate.

He did the whole "Speak softly, carry a big stick"-schtick.
"No you're not."

Things Done
Maggie laughed.
"Maybe it's more like fan fiction," she suggested. "Creative adoration."
"That shit is nasty," said Hardison upset. "Captain Kirk feeling up Spock? Oprah doing the dirty with the Wizard of Oz."
"Oprah and Ozzie?" said Parker, her eyes the size of saucers. "Says who?"
Hardison tried damage control but it was like getting the genie back in the bottle.
"It's fan fiction," he said sternly. "It's not true."
"That's what they all say," said Parker, and when Hardison protested, "That's what you say."

Hardison was determined to make Parker promise never to go to there, but she began evasive maneuvers. Fan fiction couldn't be as bad as Hardison said, she argued. And if it was, there must be money to be made.
Eliot looked at Maggie.
Maggie looked back.
The circus act beside them flared up like a bush fire and Eliot was sick and tired of fighting the flames.

"If the art is so good, how come Earnest Faker never made the history books?" Eliot asked.
"He never showed anyone."
Eliot leaned on the desk and studied the painting.

There was a desolate hill, looming dark clouds, a small meandering path and a depressing roman looking ruin. Mid 1800's, German Symbolism. Made you want to go kill yourself somewhere quiet. Like in a ruin.

Maggie leaned in, too. She was attractive, but it was the scent of her that got to him. She smelled delicious.

"That, and the fact that it was known he was a great fan of Böcklin's," she continued.
She smiled a little melancholy smile for the painting.
"Same period?" he asked.
She nodded, sad smile lingering.
"Same region, and the same supplier of materials."
"Are there more of them?"
"Hundreds."
Her hand was so close to his on the desk. He moved a finger and touched hers.
"The dangers of no tv," he said.

Things said
"I'm just asking," said Nate, and over the shoulder, to the rest of them, "A bit touchy today, aren't we?"
You could say that.
Eliot wasn't going to take the bait. He walked away, but then, when he opened the refrigerator door, he realized he just had.