Title: Different From Conscience's Way

Genre: Drama, gen (depending on how you define the term)

Spoilers: This takes place just before "The First David Job" and has minor spoilers.

Summary: Sophie's footsteps didn't usually sound so hesitant.

Notes: Thanks to Akire_yta for the speedy beta, despite technology's attempts to interfere.

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Love's way of dealing with us is different from conscience's way. Conscience commands; love inspires. What we do out of love, we do because we want to do it. Love is, indeed, one kind of desire; but it is a kind that takes us out of ourselves and carries us beyond ourselves.... -- Arnold Toynbee

Eliot leaned back in the conference room chair, propping his feet in a more comfortable position as the Kings' goalie practically tripped over his skates. Rolling his eyes, Eliot wondered why he even bothered watching a Los Angeles hockey team. And if he was going to watch them embarrass themselves, maybe he should have stayed home to do it. But sometimes a guy had to get out of his condo, no matter how nice it was.

He'd had the office to himself for half an hour when he heard the door and footsteps. Tilting his head, he found--to his surprise--that it took him more than a few seconds to identify who it was. Sophie's footsteps didn't usually sound so hesitant.

He waited patiently as the footsteps paused then continued toward him. When it was certain she was coming this way, he called out. "Hey, Sophie."

She stopped for a second, then came into the room. "Oh. Hello, Eliot."

He didn't ask who she'd thought it was or who she'd wanted it to be. "Somethin' up?"

"No, I...just needed to think. And shopping wasn't working for once." She managed a smile, but it didn't make him weak in the knees, and he took another look at her. Definitely something wrong.

"I can get out of your way if you want," he offered.

"No." Her smile was more genuine. "In fact...could I speak with you?"

Oh, now *that* wasn't a good sign. "Sure." He turned off the game, concerned when she couldn't quite meet his eyes.

She took some time, looking at her hands, and Eliot sat quietly and waited, amused that Sophie knew he was capable of this. Everyone else figured him for a man of action who could barely sit still long enough for a mission briefing, and even when they *saw* him wait patiently, it didn't entirely register.

Finally Sophie lifted her head, expression wry, even amused. "I can't believe I'm going to say this, but...I need your help understanding Nate."

It took an effort to slowly remove his feet from the table, rather than drop them down in an astonished thump. "Pardon me?"

The twinkle in her eye showed that she recognized his effort, but it quickly disappeared. "Eliot...I read people. That's what I do. You know that. But I can't seem to read Nate and I do everything wrong when it comes to...to his drinking."

Eliot took a breath, couldn't figure out what to say, and waited for her to continue.

She crossed her arms, frowning. "Every time I try to help him, it seems like I make it worse."

"No." He shook his head. "You know better than that. Nate's problems are his own and if he gets worse, that's his lookout."

"But he *is* getting worse."

Eliot clenched one hand, deliberately not looking toward Nate's office, where he'd seen the empty bottle and the dirty glass when he came in. "Yeah, he is."

"I thought all of this, the team, the jobs, I thought they would help. I thought being in rehab, making the connection with his father's, his grandfather's alcoholism...but he's tearing himself up further, torn between the Black King and the White Knight."

She swallowed hard, looking down again, and Eliot resisted the urge to pat her on the shoulder or hug her or something. Just his luck, Nate'd walk in and that could only lead to trouble.

Running both hands through his hair, he made himself think about what she'd said. Damn it, this was exactly why he worked alone.

"You're worried about him too," Sophie said when he didn't respond.

He shrugged one shoulder. "'Course I am. Everyone's getting hurt here."

Chuckling without much humor, she said, "In other words, I need to stop thinking about me and start thinking about him."

"I didn't say that," he said without much conviction.

She ignored that. "But what *can* I do?"

"Your problem," he said finally, working it through as he spoke, "is you're thinking like a woman. You want to fix things by sharing his pain, talking about stuff...Nate's a guy."

She raised an elegant eyebrow. "So I should start drinking beer and watching football with him?"

"Not exactly." He tapped his fingers on the table a few times. "Look, he's not going to suddenly open up to you and talk about what's bothering him. He won't even talk about losing his kid with another guy."

"And you know this because..."

"Because I tried." He waved his hand at her surprised expression. "He doesn't need to talk, he needs action."

She waited.

"He needs revenge."

A grin slowly slid across her face. "You think he's ready to take out Ian Blackpoole."

"Yeah."

"That's a plan I can get behind." She frowned. "Will the others go along?"

"All we can do is ask."

Later, Eliot wondered if she'd played him. It galled to think that she could...or that she would. He even thought about asking her, but decided in the end that he didn't really want to know.

Turned out he was in too deep with these lunatics, his family as Aimee had called them. Turned out she was right, because you did things for family, things didn't always make a whole lotta sense. And it wasn't because anybody ordered you, but because somebody needed you.

--end--