See Chapter 1 for disclaimers.
Author's note: You've probably already figured out the complex mathematics of this, but, just in case not, this is the final chapter and covers the third (and the half) time Eliot walks into Toby's kitchen. Thank you for reading!
This chapter picks up when the Leverage team makes the move to Portland at the beginning of Season 5.
The third time Eliot Spencer walks into Toby's kitchen, it is one of the teaching kitchens at the Northern Culinary School, and Toby is in the middle of a class. There's a knock at the door and the whole class, always easily distracted, immediately swivels to stare as it's pushed open. Eliot looked mildly disconcerted to find himself under the intense scrutiny of ten teenagers, most sporting assorted piercings and tattoos. Toby feels his own mouth dropping open in surprise, not just at the fact of Eliot's appearance, but that he actually knocked. He shakes it off as he sees Eliot raise an apologetic hand and start to retreat. Toby waves him inside. Eliot hesitates a moment, but then slips through the door and takes a seat at the back of the room, arms folded across his chest as he settles in to observe.
"Okay, guys, eyes front," Toby says to his class. "There's still fifteen minutes of class left, which is plenty of time to finish the reduction sauces you're working on, and get everything cleaned up. Anyone got any questions?"
Toby keeps his attention resolutely on his students for the remainder of class, as liberal with praise and encouragement as he is with questions and pointers – and with instructions about cleaning their equipment properly.
"Take care of your tools, and they'll take care of you," he reminds them as they cart their utensils to the industrial-size sinks lining two walls of the room.
But through it all, Toby sneaks glances at the silent observer at the back of the classroom. The change in Eliot is startling, going far beyond the longer hair (thought that is a surprise) and the glasses he slides on to read the notes the kid nearest him is making on the day's recipe. That his day-to-day life still has its violent aspects is apparent in the bruise sitting high on one cheekbone and the scuffed knuckles that suggest a recent fight. But for the first time, when Toby looks into his eyes all he sees is Eliot looking back at him – not staring inward at something he can neither confront nor look away from, and not reflecting the ghosts of either of their pasts. Somewhere in the last six or seven years, Eliot has found a way to carry his past. It's not quite self-acceptance; Toby gets the sense that Eliot is protecting the world from what he knows lies within, but there is a confidence in his ability to control it that wasn't there before. Toby finds himself thinking in clichés about how what doesn't kill us makes us stronger, and knowing yourself, you will win all battles. He realizes with a sense of shock that part of him envies Eliot's clear-eyed honesty with himself, even as the rest of him breathes a sigh of relief that he has not been pushed into the extremities where that kind of self-examination can no longer be avoided.
-000-
The room finally empties of students, and Eliot approaches Toby, arm extending for a handshake. That's something else new; in their previous interactions they had, by unspoken mutual agreement, kept even the most casual contact to a minimum. Toby shakes Eliot's hand, but it feels unnatural, as if they are both acting a part.
"It's good to see you," Toby says, trying to force his way past that awkwardness. "Been a long time."
"Yeah," Eliot agrees. "Wouldn't have been if you didn't keep moving your restaurant."
Toby chuckles at that because the move to Portland is the only one he's made since he last saw Eliot, and, anyway, Eliot is far harder to keep track of. Not that Toby had tried; he may not have much practical experience on the other side of the legal line, but his instincts told him that tracking Eliot would only end badly for everyone involved.
"So you opened a school this time?" Eliot goes on.
Toby nods, and tells him about the "Second Chances" program he has for foster kids and kids with juvenile records.
"That's great," Eliot says, his eyes shining with warmth as if Toby had done a favour for him or a close friend. "There's a lot of kids out there who need something like that to hang on to. And if they learn even half of what you taught me..." he trails off, shrugging self-consciously.
"Well, you gave me the idea," Toby tells him. Eliot frowns, so he continues. "You found something in my kitchen you hadn't anywhere else...I figured that if it worked for you, it might for others, too."
Eliot nods.
"So, what have you been up to?" Toby asks – for the first time feeling that it might be a question Eliot could answer. "You look...happy." It's not quite the right word, but it's the closest Toby can come.
Eliot looks embarrassed, but in a good way.
"Been running with a different crowd," he says.
"Oh?" Toby prompts.
"Yeah," Eliot replies. "I think you'd like them...especially Nate, the guy who kind of put the team together."
He pauses, looking for a way to explain.
"We help people," he eventually tells Toby. "A thief, a hacker, a grafter, and, well, me, and he showed us ways to use what we know about getting around outside the law to help people when the good guys can't."
Toby stares at him.
"Let me get this straight," he says. "You work with a bunch of criminals – grown men –"
"And women," Eliot interrupts.
"- and women, playing Robin Hood?"
Toby can't help a chuckle escaping, both at the irony and at the mental image of Eliot Spencer as one of the Merry Men, but he sobers immediately when Eliot's only response to the teasing is a shrug, eyes everywhere except on Toby's.
"Hey," Toby says, voice serious again. "I'm not laughing because I think it's stupid. I'm glad you've found a way to put your talents to good use, and that you've found a good team to work with."
Eliot nods, and Toby continues his explanation.
"I laughed because I may have watched Robin Hood: Men in Tights a few times too many with my niece and nephew over the summer, and that was what sprang into my mind when you described what your team does."
There's a smile twitching at the corners of Eliot's mouth now.
"That's a good movie," is all he says, but Toby reads the apology accepted between the lines.
"So, what are you doing here in Portland?" Toby asks. "Working a job, or just looking up chefs of your acquaintance?"
"Both," Eliot says. "Looks like Portland is going to be the team's home base for a while."
Toby nods, but doesn't press when Eliot fails to offer more details.
"So, are you still cooking?" he asks.
"Whenever I can," Eliot replies.
"Well, if you don't have plans for the rest of the afternoon, I have a couple of recipes I need to test out for classes next week," Toby offers. "You want to help?"
"I'm free," Eliot says. "What do we need?"
Three weeks later, Eliot walks into Toby's kitchen to find him sitting at the table with makeshift ice packs pressed to his eye and to his ribs.
"Let me see," he says, and before Toby can marshal any objection, experienced fingers are probing the swelling around his eye and checking for tell-tale signs of broken ribs.
"What happened?" Eliot asks, when he's satisfied that there's little immediate danger from Toby's injuries.
Toby tells him about Lampard and what he's doing with the culinary school, and about the drug deal Toby had stumbled in on. He sees the anger that wells up in Eliot as he describes being beaten and thrown out of his own school, and sees him tamp it back down.
Eliot sits in silence for a moment, apparently contemplating his hands.
"We should get you checked out," he says, looking up. "Just in case there's internal bleeding or something. And then I think it's time you met Nate."
-000-
Hours later, Toby sits in the Brewpub, riding a comfortable wave of painkillers and Nate Ford's assurance that he and the rest of Eliot's team would look into Lampard's activities and get Toby his school back. He suspects it would be wiser not to inquire into precisely how they are going to achieve this. He knows Eliot wants to help as some sort of repayment for what he feels he owes Toby, and Toby is far too wise to throw that gratitude back in his face just because a couple of legal lines might be crossed.
He's waiting now for Eliot, who drove him here and was about to drive him home, when some sort of crisis erupted in the brewery requiring Eliot's immediate presence. Toby waved him off to go deal with it: as long as the painkillers are floating around his bloodstream, he's not terribly picky about where he spends the next hour.
He's surprised, however, when Nate Ford slides back into the chair opposite him, placing a fresh cup of coffee in front of Toby.
"It would be whiskey," Nate says, "but Eliot can be pretty fierce on the subject of mixing alcohol and painkillers when he's not the one doing it."
Toby smiles a little at that.
"Coffee's fine," he says. "Thank you."
He feels the weight of Nate's gaze stay on him as he lifts the mug to his lips and takes a sip.
"He told me what you did for him," Nate says as Toby sets the mug back down. "Said you taught him everything there was about the art of food...that you stopped him from falling all the way down."
"Oh," Toby says. He's sure he used to be more eloquent, but Nate just smiles.
"I wanted to thank you," he says. "For Eliot. For myself and the rest of our team, and everyone else he's passed that gift on to."
Toby blinks. It's been almost ten years since he first met Eliot and he's slightly ashamed to admit that in all that time he hasn't thought that Eliot might take the lifeline he had thrown him and pass it on to others.
Nate smirks a little, obviously reading the thoughts crossing Toby's face.
"Well," he says, standing, "I'll go see if I dig him out from whatever he's embroiled himself in back there so he can take you home before those pills wear off."
"Mr. Ford," Toby stops him. "I rather got the impression that you played your own part in stopping that fall."
He looks up, meeting the enquiring gaze the other man has turned on him, carefully blank of either confirmation or denial.
"I gave him a rope," Toby says, wishing he was having this conversation with a clearer head and a better grasp on his metaphors, "but he can't climb all the way out. And ropes fray."
He pauses, seeing understanding start to dawn on Nate's face, but decides he needs to spell it out, just to be safe.
"So, please, don't let go until you're sure he has something else to hold on to – and, preferably, that someone else has a hold of him."
For just a moment, Nate goes so still that it is almost a flinch, and Toby wonders what nerve he struck. It passes in a second, however, and Nate smiles.
"I won't," he says, a promise passed between two men responsible for saving the same life. "I'm going to go and get Eliot now."
Toby nods, drifting a little further into the painkiller haze until Eliot appears in front of him...or maybe beside him, because they seem to be in the car now, and what was in those drugs they had given him at the hospital? He remembers, suddenly, a thought he had when Nate first pulled Eliot aside for a tête-à-tête during their meeting.
"Have you thought about doing something with the menu?" he asks Eliot.
"Huh?" Eliot asks, attention mainly on the road.
"The Brewpub," Toby elaborates. "It's a good little restaurant, but the menu could use a bit more imagination."
Eliot snorts beside him, muttering something about anchovies and pineapple. Toby doesn't worry about that. The seed's been planted, and he trusts Eliot to figure out what to do with the idea.
THE END