II


And if I had to crawl,

Well, you'd crawl too.

I stumble and I fall,

Carry me through,

The wonder of it all

Is you see me through …


Bonanno left Sophie and Eliot alone in the conference room with the folder and a thousand questions. Questions like what do we do now? and how do we tell Parker and Hardison? None of them had easy answers.

"We could just…not tell them, for now?" Sophie offered, weakly, and Eliot cast a sour look at the folder. He hadn't let her open it. Part of her was relieved, the other part bitter. All she had to go by this way was her own imagination, and usually that was worse.

"You don't con your own crew." He said, simply, and Sophie winced. That always came back to haunt her. Always.

"This isn't a con," she offered back, almost pleading. "It isn't even lying. It's just…omission? It's just not telling the whole truth."

The truth of the matter was simple: she didn't even know how she was supposed to handle the whole truth. And if she didn't even know how to handle it, how was she supposed to explain it? How was she supposed to explain it to Parker?

She said as much, and Eliot sighed, scrubbing his hand through his new-penny hair. The motion made it stick out with the residual static from his hat.

"Give her a little credit," he advised, and Sophie snapped.

"Fine, then, you can explain it to her!" Eliot fell silent. Sophie huffed. "I thought so."

The quiet after that was almost unbearable.


It was another ten minutes before there was any movement from the air vent. Eliot looked up, frowning, at the clattering noise that came from the hole moments before Hardison's sneakers appeared, followed by the rest of his lanky frame.

The hacker was alone.

"Where's Parker?"

Hardison clambered off the couch, brushing dust from his knees. It rose in tiny clouds to dance in the sunlight streaming through the window. "She's still with Nate, man." When he straightened up, his dark eyes were dull with worry. "He looks pretty banged up, an' there must be somethin' else wrong, 'cuz he wasn't movin' worth jack." He paused, looking at Eliot as if for confirmation. "They don't usually keep you down like that 'less it's somethin' hella serious, do they?"

"Hardison…" Eliot began.

"Alec…" Sophie spoke at the same time. Eliot waved for her to continue. "They're not sedating him. He just…hasn't woken up yet."

Hardison frowned thoughtfully, and the longer he thought the deeper the frown grew. He finally looked back at Eliot, his eyes narrowing.

"What is it?"

"What is what?"

"There's something you're not telling me. I hate it when y'all do that, it's messed up. It's like y'all think I'm some little kid or dumb or somethin'. I am an adult, I deserve t'know when things are goin' south."

"Things aren't going south," Sophie said, as soothingly as she could manage, "we-"

"Mmm-mm," Hardison interrupted, "nuh-uh, you are not gonna do that again. We are a team, we are gonna act like a team, even when Nate's outta play, or we're gonna lo-"

"Nate was raped." Eliot interrupted.

Sophie didn't have the heart to point out that there was no confirmation yet. He had the folder. He had the years of experience in the truly nasty stuff. The hospital might not be absolutely certain, but Bonanno and Eliot sure were. She swallowed the whimper at the back of her throat, watching the youngest member of the team.

Hardison's mouth snapped shut, and he blinked several times, running his long fingers over his mouth in a bemused, stunned sort of horror. He finally flopped down on the couch, shaking his head as he looked up at them. "I don't even know what to do with that." He finally said. "I just…I don't."

Eliot's tight smile held no warmth or humor. "We're not telling Parker." He caught Sophie's look and amended, "At least, not yet."

"Hell no," Hardison agreed, and Sophie had to wonder, for just a moment, why his earlier protests about being kept out of the loop didn't apply the thief. But then, she and Hardison and Eliot all had…close to normal social tendencies. Parker was still learning things that most of society learned as preteens. The hacker only stayed on the couch for a minute before he was up and pacing like a corralled horse. He paused at the window, playing with the blinds.

"Who?" He asked, almost calmly.

Eliot shrugged, scrubbing his hand through his hair. "They don't know yet."

"When'll he wake up?"

"They don't know that either."

"So…basically, we know nothing."

Sophie managed a weak smile, spreading her hands.

"Great. Just…great."

The hacker stormed out of the room. Sophie rose to her feet, fully intending to chase him down and talk to him, but Eliot caught her wrist.

"He'll be back. He just needs to think." She looked at him, feeling like all the pain in her head was about to come spilling out her mouth, and he pulled her in close, wrapping his strong arms around her. "Trust me," he said, softly, and it would have been reassuring if she couldn't feel him shaking through the embrace.

He's furious.

He was also right.

Hardison came back through the door within the hour, arms full of cords and boxes and a laptop with the MGH logo on the lid. Sophie looked up from her phone – Parker was texting her, constantly, and it was only Eliot's insistence that she wait that kept her here in the conference room. She frowned when the young man dropped his armload of stuff, flopped onto the couch and booted up the laptop.

"Aren't they going to need this room eventually?"

"Nah, see," Hardison straightened up for a minute. He looked calmer, though there was still something uncharacteristically somber in his tone. "I took care of that first. As far as the hospital computers are concerned, this room's for storage." Sophie looked around at the spacious conference room with its flat screen TVs and plate glass windows, and raised her eyebrows. "No one questions computers anymore, so we're good for a couple of days." He stretched out on the couch, fingers flying over the pilfered laptop's keyboard. "Now, I did a scan for Nate's phone; far as I can tell the thing's just gone."

Not surprising, in a four-alarm fire. Sophie closed her eyes for a second, silently thankful that Nate hadn't gone the way of his phone. Yet. Her mental voice added, snidely. He's still not awake.

Shut up.

"If I were just some Joe on the street, this would be a problem. Lucky for us, I ain't." He waved a hand at the laptop. "I'm downloading Nate's phone records now. Hopefully…"

"Hopefully they'll tell us what he was doing there." Eliot moved to sit on the back of the couch, watching Hardison type over his shoulder. Sophie eyed the two men for a moment before sighing and pulling one of the chairs out to sit down.

"You…you don't think he was a bystander, then?"

"I don't care what Bonanno's cop buddies think or say. Rape, sexual assault-" Hardison flinched noticeably at the words. "It's about power more than it is about…pleasure or whatever. Some random shmuck shows up at your drug deal, you shoot him in the head, put him down quick. You don't…" Eliot grimaced and spoke fast. "You don't usually fuck around with him first."

This time, Sophie winced at the phrasing, heart aching at the idea of her friend and lover being brutalized like that. Eliot shot her an apologetic look. It didn't help.

The nervous tapping on the keyboard keys slowed, abruptly. "You think he was lured there?" Hardison asked, quietly. Eliot nodded.

"I do."

"But no one we've take down…that's not a typical M.O. or- there we go!" He tapped at the keyboard. "A'ight, let's see what we've got goin' on here…Eliot, me, Eliot, Soph', Parker, me…huh." He paused, forehead creased in consternation. "When did Maggie get to town, and why didn't Nate tell us? We coulda all gone for brunch or something." The comment seemed weak, but at least it was normal Hardison.

Sophie frowned, regardless. "I talked to her yesterday."

"Apparently, so did Nate." Hardison turned the screen so Sophie could see. There was a text message readout on the screen: In town for the afternoon. Need to talk shop. Dinner at Joe's, 6:00?

"I was talking to her at six." Sophie said, staring at the words. "She was in Milan."

Hardison's smirk at her words was almost feral. Parker would have been proud of that smirk. "So much for covering tracks."

"But why does it show Maggie's name? That's not her number…" Eliot had his phone out and was comparing his phone book to the numbers on Hardison's screen. Hardison just shrugged.

"Someone spoofed the caller ID codes. I mean, c'mon. I do it all the time…" Hardison scowled at the phone. "It's not supposed to be used against us, that's just…that, that…that wounds me, man. It's insulting."

"Yeah, well, grab your coat." Eliot was on his feet, shrugging into his jacket even as he spoke. "We're going to go see about repaying that insult with some injury."

"Seriously?" Hardison closed the laptop, tucking it under the couch. Eliot threw his coat to him as he was standing.

"Well. At least see what we can find out."


"You're handling this better than I ever would."

Sophie looked up from the drink machine in the Eat Street Café to see Bonanno standing there, offering her a Styrofoam cup. She took it gratefully, digging a teabag out of her pocketbook.

"Am I?" she asked, dropping the tea bag into the cup and starting the hot water. She thought for a second of Nate upstairs, wired and bandaged and deathly still – and had to flinch away from the wordless shriek she could feel rising from her toes. It wouldn't help them at all. Not that what she was doing felt like helping.

She'd already texted Maggie, hoping to catch the other woman awake. There were far too many places named "Joe's" in this town. Now she just had to wait for Nate's ex to get back to them.

"I expect," she said to Bonanno's nod, her voice brittle as she sank into a chair, "It's because I've not fully come to terms with what 'this' is."

The honesty stung a little as the words left her mouth, but it hurt far less than allowing that scream loose would. "I'm…focusing. Compartmentalizing?" Bonanno nodded again, his gaze understanding, and she continued. "We need to find the people responsible, and that's all I can think about, because if I try to think about him…" Her fingers tightened on her cup. "I feel like I'm opening the door to invite a hurricane in for tea."

She'd have time for that whirlwind later, once Nate woke.

And if he doesn't wake up, it's pointless anyway.

The thought shocked the breath from her for a moment, and she sat still, staring at the cell phone. It buzzed, the screen lighting up, and she dove for it – half hoping it'd be from the young woman glued to Nate's bedside, reporting a change.

"You're looking for Josephine's on Dartmouth." The address swam in Sophie's eyes in wake of the disappointment. "Trying to get Nate to actually show you the classier side of Boston?" When she looked up from the screen, Bonanno stood.

"I'll…let you deal with that." The detective captain said, offering her another quick, calm smile before he turned on his heel and strode back out the door. She forwarded the text to Hardison, and drew in a slow breath before hitting reply.

"I wish that were the case." She typed reluctantly, "Maggie, Nate's in the hospital."


Sophie called Maggie for them, texted Hardison ten minutes later with the address of the only Joe's she and Nate had ever frequented. The hacker and the hitter stood at the bottom of the steps for a moment, staring up at the elegantly carved glass doors that read Josephine's.

"…I'm gonna guess they don't serve burgers an' fries here," Hardison muttered, watching the wait staff bustling back and forth inside. They were all clad in identical black and white, the monkey suits him and Parker and Eliot had had to wear so many times for cons.

"So they've got good taste," Eliot shrugged, his hands tucked in his pockets. "Zagat gave 'em a solid 23 for the food…"

One of the servers looked out the window at them and barely hid a look of contempt. "Oh, now, rude."

"Of course, they also got a ten for the service."

Hardison slipped his cell back in his pocket, and glared at Eliot's chuckle. "Hey, man, how're we playing this?"

Eliot grinned – a fierce, unfriendly thing – and dug into his pockets, tossing something to Hardison, who barely caught it. It was a police badge, heavy enough to be real. The other man held one that was identical, and a wad of bills.

"Falsehood and bribery. Whichever seems more appropriate."

It was something of a relief to do something that felt as normal as storming into a still-closed restaurant. The waiters and waitresses seemed vaguely horrified at someone bursting in during set-up time, though if they had honestly wanted to keep people out, they should have kept the front doors locked.

They just wanted something to fuss about.

Eliot prowled over to the maître d' as if he owned the place. The maître d' – his nametag said Jeffrey; he was a tall, gangly fellow who certainly didn't look as if he was old enough to wear the sneer that currently graced his lips, much less taste anything on the wine list he held – looked Eliot up and down and dismissed him with a sniff that offended Hardison on his teammate's behalf.

The badges, however, wiped the disdain from his face.

Hardison schooled his face into a hard expression. "Jeffrey, I'm Detective Randall, this is Detective Monroe, we're from the Boston P.D, an' we'd like you to answer a few questions."

The young man went almost as pale as a sheet. "Um, I…it's j-just Jeff. We're closed, no one's supposed to be in here except staff, I don't know where the manager is but…" He cast a helpless look over his shoulder. "…you should really talk to the manager."

"Or," Eliot said, poking a finger in the young man's skinny chest, hard enough that Hardison knew from past experience it would probably bruise, "You can help us out and we'll be out of your hair and you won't have t'explain to your manager why the whole place is closed for hours, Jeff." He smiled, sweet on the surface, and the young man gulped.

"Wh-what do you need to know?"

"Who was working front of house around 6:00 last night?"

Jeff flinched, swallowing visibly again. "I was."

"Well, that certainly makes things easier," Eliot said, and waved a hand at Hardison. Hardison pulled his cell out, flipped it to a picture of Nate and passed it off to the hitter. "You see this man?"

Hardison watched nervously as the maître d' took the cell phone. He only looked at the photo for a second before he was shoving it back at Eliot. "Yes." He didn't sound happy. "Him and that jerk of a boss of his."

Eliot's back straightened. It made him look like a hunting dog, somehow, focused on the young man. Like a laser, locked onto a target, sharp and attentive. "Boss?"

"Yeah, some…old guy. Pushy. Sent his meal back two or three times…everything was wrong, you know? That sort of thing. That dude, he was…he was fine. Friendly enough, polite enough…Left for awhile an' came back and his boss was still here." Jeff frowned, eyes narrowing below the fringe of his bangs. "What's this about? Last I checked, taking three hours to eat and being rude wasn't a crime…"

"National security," Hardison jumped to the go-to answer these days, almost chuckling at the expressions that flickered across Jeff's face in rapid succession. "There's good money in financing all sorts of horrible, horrible things these days. Could you show us where they sat?"

A fifty, a pat on the back and a you've been a big help sent Jeff on his way, with Eliot reassuring him that if they needed anything more they knew where to find him. They were left in a small alcove with a table big enough to seat six people. It wasn't truly set now, just a white tablecloth and candlesticks that Hardison was willing to bet cost more Jeff was paid in a month.

"What're we looking for?" He asked. Eliot held up a finger, shushing him for a moment as he circled the table, eyes on the ceiling and walls.

"It's a good spot," the hitter finally said, reluctantly, as if giving their mystery man even that much credit cost him something. "No security cameras, no windows, and you've got a prime view of most of the dining room…"

"Yeah?" Hardison looked back to the table, layering Eliot's observations into his mental profile of the guy besides pushy jerk. "So…what're you thinking?"

"I think…" Eliot kept pacing the table, but finally stopped at the furthest chair, the one back in the alcove proper, walls on three sides. "I think our guy sat here. Nate," he waved at the chair exactly opposite it. "Nate was there."

Anyone who sat there would have had their back to the whole dining room. Strange as it seemed, there was something horribly vulnerable about that concept, and Hardison – who liked his nice secure places, liked his enclosed vans and his back to things as long as those things were not the bottoms of coffins – shivered.

Mind games.

"Check the seat."

Hardison obeyed, ducking down to examine the antique brocaded chair as Eliot did the same on his side of the table. There was nothing on the seat itself, or under it, but as he ran his hand over the smooth, cherry stained wood of the armrest, his fingers snagged on something metallic. When he drew his hand out, Nate's St. Brigit medallion came with it. It flashed in the low light as he held it up.

"Eliot…"

"Yeah." There came the sound of tearing tape, and Eliot straightened up, an 8x10, torn and taped manila envelope clutched tight in his hand. "You know, sometimes, I hate being right."

"What's that?"

"Photos."

"And you know that because….?"

"It's a.." Eliot sighed and said the inevitable, "very distinctive weight."

There was a moment of silence while Hardison weighed the small gold charm in his hand, warming with his body heat. When he looked back up, Eliot was still staring at the envelope.

"Aren't you going to open it?"

"Not here, no. I-"

"Do you need any help with anything?" Hardison jumped at the unexpected voice, clapping one hand over his heart, his breath catching in his throat for half a second. Eliot snorted as the realization sank in. Jeffry was back, and apparently puppy-dog-eager to make up for his earlier surliness.

"No, I think…" Eliot looked down at the pictures for a second, then cocked his head. "Actually, yeah. Yeah, I…you said that this man," he snapped his fingers, and Hardison flashed Nate's picture at the young maître d' again. "You said he left…?"

Jeffrey nodded, eagerly. Hardison swallowed half a dozen comments that came to mind about puppies. "Yeah, before the food arrived. Which was weird."

"Ahuh." Eliot met Hardison's eyes, pulling out a notebook – one that looked an awful lot like the one that had been and should be in that evidence folder Bonanno had swiped for them back at the hospital – and pretending to scribble furiously in it. Hardison sidled a step closer so he could read the words.

Break the case scam?

Hardison nodded, once.

Sure, why not.

"And…what time did he come back? Did anything seem…odd?"

"He was back by 9:10, I remember because his boss," Jeffry stared at the notebook as Eliot continued scribbling. Half of it was gibberish, random lines and squiggles. The rest, Eliot's impressions: Nate went willingly. He left and came back. Why? "His boss pitched a fit about him being late. Like they were on a schedule or something." Jeff fell silent, thinking. "And he'd changed. My manager didn't even want me to let him back in. Said he was underdressed."

"Underdressed?"

"Yeah. Jeans and a t-shirt, hoodie. Sneakers. He only got back in 'cuz that old guy nearly threw a temper tantrum. I thought he was going to have a heart attack."

Jeans and a t-shirt…all easy to move in. The sorts of things Nate would wear under normal circumstances. Wouldn't raise any eyebrows, except at a place like this. Eliot held up a finger behind the notebook.

One more second.

"Alright, man, you've been a big help, I just have one more question for you…our guy, was he acting weird or anything?"

Jeffry thought about the question for so long that Hardison thought Eliot was likely to stare holes in the middle of his forehead. "Tense?" he finally said, shrugging as he did. "But then, I'd be tense with a guy like that, too." He stopped again. "And…when they left, he was acting almost…drunk. Or sick. Or something. They had to help him out."

The notebook closed with a swish of papers and a snap louder than Hardison thought it was possible to make with soft cardboard. Eliot's grin was so sharp he could have cut diamond with it.

"That's it!"

"What's it?"

"You just broke this case wide open!" Hardison said, in lieu of actually answering the question, enthusiasm and bluster layered over the bull. "You're a credit to Josephine's; wouldn't be surprised if you get an honorary medal or somethin' for this…"

It was eerily similar to the brush-off they'd given that cop at Bonanno's, but it worked. Jeff let them go, practically star-struck as Hardison laid it on thick. Eliot grabbed his arm and pulled him to the side as soon as they were out of the building.

"Get in the car. You're going back to the hospital."


The hospital room was mostly dark, though the monitors and machines cast an unearthly blue glow on Nate, stretched on the bed. Sophie sat in the chair next to him, her feet tucked beneath her, watching the slow, shallow rise and fall of the blanketed figure's chest. Parker lay curled on the other bed, sleeping fitfully, her hair over her face.

I have plans. Big plans.

Nate's words floated back to Sophie as if in mockery: mockery of Nate, for speaking them in the first place; mockery of her, for believing them.

"Mrs. Baker?" The doctor's voice had been soft, calm, but it failed to soothe as Sophie looked up at her, the worry on her face as real as the name was not.

"Yes?"

The doctor was a matronly woman with a shock of silver hair and a grandmotherly air, despite the strength in her stance. She smiled, and it was the perfect mix of bracing and comforting. "I wanted to talk to you about your husband's…condition."

"Doctor Keen, right?" The doctor nodded, and Sophie tried not to look pleading. "Has anything changed?" she asked, hopefully - she kept holding on to the thought that any moment now Nate would open his eyes and everything would be alright, but…it had been almost fourteen hours. He hadn't so much as stirred. And even once he did wake, nothing was going to be instantly better.

"No, ma'am," Doctor Keen sat down on the second bed in the room, sighing. "And that's part of why we need to talk." She leaned forward, concern in her green eyes. "Your husband…well. Are you familiar with the term 'psychosomatic'?"

Sophie knew what she meant, but Mrs. Baker wasn't always the quickest to speak so she paused as if thinking before she replied, "It means your symptoms are all in your head."

"That's a crude definition, but it's essentially correct." Dr. Keen looked sympathetic. "We've run test after test. We've checked everything. Your husband was drugged, yes, but…there is nothing drastically wrong, Mrs. Baker. He should be awake by now."

"…so why isn't he?"

"We don't know."

They'd agreed before Hardison and Eliot left that one of them needed to stay with Nate. Sure, there was Bonanno's promised uniform on the door, but the Boston police department could be bought and sold like any other organization. Until they found out who had done this, there would be a team member here at all times.

And…besides. You're supposed to talk to coma patients, aren't you?

"Nate," Sophie's voice was quiet in the stillness, but she still lowered it so as not to wake Parker, who dozed on. "Nate."

Nate didn't move. He looked smaller like this, so still; nothing flickering on his face: no thoughts, no schemes flashing in his storm-blue stare – just dark bruises covering what skin she could see past the oxygen mask. All the times she had ever wished for Nate to just shut up and listen paraded through her mind, and she sighed into her fourth Styrofoam mug of tea.

I take it all back.

"Nate, we don't know what happened to you…"

Saying it out loud felt like a betrayal of sorts. They were usually used to being in control of the situation in one way or another; the puppet-masters instead of the puppets. This…this was not in control, by any stretch of the imagination.

"And…it would really help if you could…wake up and tell us?"

Silence met her ears, filled only with the regular beeping and hissing of half a dozen machines. Sophie sighed, running her hand through her still-tangled hair. She must look like a fright, and…she couldn't be entirely bothered to worry about it.

All she could worry about was the barely breathing man in the bed.

"Nate, sweetheart…please? We need you."

I need you.

Sophie sat and watched, listening to the boys bickering in the earbuds. It was a long time before Parker stirred; the glow from the monitors casting her pale skin in shades of ice. Her eyes blinked open slowly, and when they focused on Sophie they cleared instantly.

"Did he wake up is he okay can we go hom-oh." Parker had seen the figure on the bed, and her slim shoulders slumped. Sophie reached out and patted her knee. Parker didn't move. She looked truly dejected. "No. No, he didn't, no he isn't, and no, we can't." She flopped back sideways, pillowing her head on her arm. Sophie bit her lip, and picked up her purse. She couldn't sit here any longer. Maybe there was something she could do anyway but here.

"Stay here," she said softly, though she almost felt the instruction was unnecessary. "Hardison will be back soon. I'll be back too." She stood there until Parker looked up at her, and gave her a small smile. "Text me if anything changes."

Parker nodded, and Sophie walked out the door.

I can hope, anyways.


Nate's old loft above McRory's Place was still empty – unsurprising, since Hardison held the lease. It was doubtful the young man would let anyone have that condo until he was over his sulk that they'd had to tear down HQ again and he hadn't even got to blow anything up this time - or keep the batcave.

He doubted that Hardison realized Nate had been staying there on and off since they decided to lay low after the showdown the dam. It fit with the older man's philosophy, anyway; hiding in plain sight. It was almost exactly like his end-of-con taunting, only without an audience.

But now the apartment – despite its lonely emptiness - offered a place where he could work without Hardison's nervous jabbering, or the conspicuous lack-of-Parker. Eliot sat cross-legged on the counter and opened the envelope, pulling out its contents.

The envelope held a pile of photographs, taken with a professional grade camera: Nate being escorted from the restaurant, dazed confusion evident in his glassy stare. Nate, sprawled on his stomach on a metal table, his wrists clearly tied over the edge, his clothes torn and dirty.

In some, a tall, broad-shouldered man's thick fingers pressed against his shoulder blades, splayed possessively over his back, pinning him down. In others, it was a different man, stocky and short, hands clamped on Nate's thighs. There were few where he was left alone. None of the photos showed either man's face, but they grew consecutively worse. He had less and less clothing in place in each one, more and more bruises tracing up his sides, visible even in photographs. The last photo lay facedown under the others. He couldn't even look at it for more than a second before he'd felt his blood pressure rising.

Eliot stared at the pictures spread out on the counter, and tried not to think about how satisfying it would be to hit the streets and pick half a dozen fights.

That won't help Nate. That won't help us.

He wasn't surprised when the floor above him creaked; wasn't surprised when he heard feet on the spiral staircase down. He recognized the footsteps – size eight sneakers with a light, leggy step. It wasn't her normal gait (high heels with the tight pace required by a pencil skirt), but Sophie still had a distinctive walk.

Somehow, he wasn't surprised that she was already here.

"Oh, I see you've got photos too," Sophie's musical voice held a tired tone; it was out of place, made the beautiful woman sound worn around the edges. She sat down on one of the high chairs, leaned over and peered at the fanned-out pictures before he could sweep them out of sight.

"…oh." she said again as she slumped until her forehead pressed to his knee.

Eliot reached around her to slide the incriminating photos into a neat pile before he shoved them back into the envelope and clawed one hand through his hair, resting the other – gently – on Sophie's shoulder.

"I showed you mine," he said, grimly. "Now you show me yours."

Sophie let out a noise that could have been a laugh, could have been a sob. He waited, the yin-yan of his own patience versus impatience warring within him, and finally she straightened up. She began to place the photos down in neat rows. "I found these under his…the…" She paused, thought for a moment, and then nodded, decisively. "His bed."

Eliot glowered at them. Like the others, they all held a single main subject. This time, that subject was Parker. Parker, at the door to her safehouse-slash-apartment. Parker, tugging Hardison down the street by his hand towards what looked like the pet store…

And, the worst, Parker, sleeping curled like a cat on top of the blankets on what was definitely her bed, Bunny tucked under her arm. She looked so much like a child in the last one that Eliot almost thought that finding that fight might be a good idea, before he punched a hole in the wall.

"Well." Sophie broke the awkward silence. "I think we found out why he was there, anyway."


If I could make these moments endless
If I could stop the winds of change
If we just keep our eyes wide open
Then everything would stay the same…


Nate still hasn't gotten around to the door by Tuesday night. He has, however, finished Sam's tree house, fixed the basement stairs, painted the garage door and fought with the bathtub's faucet until he'd snapped something off and had to call the plumber to stop the geyser of water before it created a river down the stairs.

He only moderately succeeded in the last one, but the carpet would survive.

"You know," he tells Maggie after dinner, after Sam has disappeared outside to find the nightly neighborhood soccer game, "I live in the hope that one of these stay-at-home vacations, I will actually relax and not have to play Tim the Toolman."

Maggie laughs tossing her golden hair back over her shoulder as she started to clear the dishes. "I have no idea where you got that idea…"

"Mhm." Nate stands, crossing the kitchen to pull Maggie into a loose hug, arms snug around her waist, nose buried in her hair. "No idea, hmm? Well, I can tell you a few other ideas, since you didn't like that one…"

"Nate!" Maggie laughs again, lightly, easily extricating herself from the circle of his arms to dump the dishes onto the dishwasher's top rack in a messy pile. He hrmphs under his breath and starts organizing them so they would actually get washed, trying to ignore the strangely strong pang of loss. "I have a meeting tonight, remember?"

"…ah, yes, more of the Maggie Collins-Ford Benefit Gala planning?" He raises his eyebrows at her when she starts trying to put the dishwasher soap in the wrong slot, relieving her of the bottle and dumping it in correctly. "A little more flustered than you'd like to let on?"

"I'm not flustered," Maggie protests, "there's just a lot to do, and…" The doorbell saves her from explaining whatever she'd been about to say. "I have to get that." She hurries off, leaving him with the rest of the messy kitchen. He shakes his head, and finishes the dishwasher before helping himself to a beer and moseying out to the living room, where he can eavesdrop on Maggie's meeting without being available for comment.

The next half-hour is lost to strangely loud discussions about decorations and flowers and seating arrangements. He listens for maybe five seconds before online Sudoku and a really loud CD suddenly seem like a better alternative. Certainly much better than answering emails from James Sterling about figuring out his expense account, which is what he eventually finds himself doing.

The nicest thing about the desk job is that I am not your calculator anymore, Jimmy. There should be one on your cell phone. By the way, Maggie's expecting you Saturday. Don't make me come find you.

"Ooh, that's kinda mean. I like it."

The voice is right at his elbow.

Nate jumps, spilling beer all over his keyboard. There's a girl there – young woman, really – perched on the ottoman, reading the screen over his shoulder. She turns a brilliant smile on him when he stares, brushing a curtain of blonde hair out of her face and pointing at the computer helpfully.

"You didn't hit send yet."

"Who are you and what are you doing here?"

The girl doesn't answer either question. She just leans past him, takes the mouse from his hand and clicks the envelope icon, sending the email before beaming at him again. "There! Now you can check that off your to-do list." She gestures in the air as if doing just that. "Email Sterling – check! What's next?"

"No, seriously. Who are you?"

The young woman shrugs her bony shoulders. "That's for me to know and you to find out?" She offers. Nate stands, grabbing a wad of Kleenexes to mop up the worst of the beer before he wads them into a ball.

Maybe she's part of the mob of party planners Maggie's dealing with…?

"Sounds like the flower-power soiree is wrapping up, might want to get out there before your bosses leave…" He tosses the Kleenexes towards the trashcan and, unlike any time he plays anything with Sam, they go right in.

The girl cheers.

"Nothing but net – three points!"

"Out!"

The girl sinks back onto the ottoman, cross-legged and cross-armed, like a slim blonde Buddha. "No."

Nate cards his hand through his hair, and heads for the kitchen to find paper towels. The girl waits a second before following on his heels.

"Nice house y'got here," she comments, eyes flitting from paintings to replica statues to the framed crayon drawing of Sam and Maggie and him, all in their respective places of honor. Her gaze lingers the longest on Sam's drawing, and Nate lets the idle notion that she was the world's worst cat burglar fall away.

"Thank you, we like it…" The carpet squelches underfoot as he moves past the stairs to get in the kitchen, and he winces. "…most of the time."

"Don't tell me, let me guess – you tried to play plumber?"

"Shut up," he grumbles back, but he doesn't really need to, because the girl had found Sam's cereal stash.

"OOoooh, Cap'n Crunch!" The top of the box is gone before he so much as waves his permission, utterly bemused by this peculiar home invader. "I didn't even know they made them in teeny tiny boxes, these are so cute…"

He's just found the roll of paper towels when the idea hit him and he turns, slightly horrified. "Are you…you're not…you're not Dad's new girlfriend, are you?" It's happened before, Jimmy and his trophy girlfriends, ten, twenty, forty years younger than him. As much as he loved the old crank, some things…

The girl jams another handful of cereal into her mouth, giving him a highly disgusted look. "What? Jimmy? No. Ew. Ew, ew, ew."

Nate just watches her, head tilted just slightly to the side, feeling like he's stepped into some strange Twilight Zone.

"…so how do you know Jimmy, then?"

The girl swallows the cereal in her mouth, looking almost pained when she discards the rest of the box on the counter. "I gotta go." She gives the abandoned box an almost-loving pat before she's gone, the screen door slamming behind her.

Only spilled beer in the living room and scattered cereal in the kitchen prove she even existed. Nate stares after her for a moment, a streak of gold disappearing through the bushes of the backyard, before he shakes his head and goes to retrieve the broom.