A/N- Hi guys! Heh, so let's pretend it hasn't been about a year since I updated…..Merry Christmas? Hey, at least we all had NT2. I went with low expectations and was pleasantly surprised. Yes, they didn't explain ANY of their methods, Helen Mirren was criminally underused, and Ian wasn't in it (mark of death from the start) but Ben in Buckingham Palace made me laugh, and I usually just sneer at Ben and wish the movie had been about Ian instead. Nicholas Cage clearly had fun with this one.

BY THE WAY, speaking of the second movie, I had the shock of my life when they were in Cibola and there was this GIANT ALTAR and Helen Mirren goes "oh yeah, that's where they made sacrifices." I was staring at the screen with my mouth wide open until my friend turns to me and goes "Honey, that wasn't a shoutout. The nice writers at Disney haven't read your fic."

But I can dream, can't I?

Anyway, enjoy, blah blah blah, review or I'll make you wait TWO years for the next chapter. Hah

And Justin Bartha in a suit-vest? Hot. HotHotHot.

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Fate of Fortune, Price of Glory-Chapter Four

In all fairness, Grant hadn't been expecting it. Why would he, when Riley was easily two inches shorter and fifteen pounds lighter than him. In a fair situation, he would have twisted the techno geek like a pretzel.

It was a testament to Grant's naivety of the situation that he ever expected Riley Poole to play fair. He never got up from the first blow.

The first punch sent him reeling into the rose marble cabinets, back colliding painfully with the countertops. Riley, staggering slightly from the follow-up of his amateur blow, didn't bother giving Grant a chance to recuperate. The second punch snapped his head back as a spurt of blood spat upon the counter.

Luckily, the sight of blood caused Riley to retreat a few steps. You didn't have to be a genius to see that Grant's nose was broken and Riley was, in fact, a genius. The commencement of his Rocky Balboa impression might have also had something to do with his right hand, which he was shaking with obvious pain etched on his face.

Claire, who had been standing rather uselessly on the other side of the breakfast table determined that it wwas safe to involve herself in the dispute without catching an accidental right hook to the face.

"That's quite enough," she snapped, striding between them before Riley decided to finish the job or, God forbid, Grant recover enough to pummel him. "I don't know what's gotten into either of you. Grant, tilt you head back, I'll get some napkins, you need a doctor. Riley, just get out of my-"

She stopped while turning to glare at him, realizing he was already gone. "-sight." she finished weakly.

Grant waved away her tentative attempts to mop the blood off his face. "I can do it, I've gotten my nose broken before," he said, his voice phlemy and defensive. "Stupid punter caught me by surprise, I could have kicked his ass in a fair fight."

Claire felt a pang as Grant called Riley a punter, which was Ian's official name for her ex-fiancé.

"I don't know," she said doubtfully, forgetting all the lessons in tact she ever learned from Abbie. "Normally he has the unfortunate propensity to say the wrong thing and get pummeled, but when he gets really mad I've never seen him lose a fight. I asked him about it once, and he said something about being Irish, but I don't understand how genetics-"

"Look, Claire," Grant interrupted, "No offense, but I really don't care about Muhammad Ali's life story. Now where should I go to get this fixed?"

It was unusually snappy for Grant; his nose must have really been hurting him. The Abbie-voice in Claire's head berated her for improper girlfriend conduct; she should have agreed with everything he said to lessen the blow of Riley beating the snot out of him. She had a sinking feeling that she had made everything worse.

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After three years in a state penitentiary staring at a blank cement wall and wallowing in the consequences of his actions, Ina Howe never thought he would act on homicidal impulses ever again.

He was coming close. Very, very, close.

"Hey Mr. Howe?" a voice chirped for the fifth time in the last fifteen minutes. "Wat'cha Doin?"

He mashed his palms against his forehead, trying to avoid the blood-smeared bruise. "Trying to ward off a concussion."

"What's a concussion?"

"The result of being hit over the head with a pipe."

"Didn't somebody do that to you?"

"Yes."

The light-haired boy looked up seriously at him. "I guess you have one, then."

"Kid, don't let your dad talk you into history; you were obviously meant for the medical profession."

As planned, Patrick fell silent at the mention of his father. Ian closed his eyes and smiled at the silence, trying not to feel one iota of guilt. He could get out of this; really, he could. All he needed was some silent contemplation. He'd gotten out of trickier situations as a "businessman". Then again, in his glory days he hadn't been hampered by a concussion. And a six-year-old.

What he needed were the parameters of what had occurred; once the basics were set down, he could get to work on who exactly was keeping him here as some kind of…bargaining chip for his baby sister. He cringed as much as his head would let him. It was all just a little embarrassing.

Ian tried to sit up, and when he received a fantastic fireworks display behind his eyes for the trouble, he relented and settled for a semi-recumbent lean against the corner of the cement wall. Normally when he analyzed data he had Dawes to write things down for him.

Oh no.

Dawes. He'd completely forgotten.

She was the only one who'd known where he was, one floor above the safety of the FBI. What if she'd come looking for him?

"Patrick," he demanded. "When I was brought in here, did you see anyone else? A woman?"

The boy shook his head solemnly. "No. But I was still sleepy from the chlorophyll."

"That what?"

Patrick shrugged. "The chlorophyll. Uncle Riley told me about it once. It's that stuff they hold to your face to make you fall asleep. That's what they did to me when I was in the bathroom."

Ian groaned. His sister sure did know how to pick 'em. Chlorophyll. Honestly.

"It's chloroform, kid," he corrected before the second part of the sentence hit him. "Wait a minute, you were in a bathroom when the attacked you? A bathroom where?"

"Th' Capitol. I was on a trip with my class." Patrick looked down ashamedly. 'They told us to go to the bathroom in pairs, but I didn't think I needed one."

Ian was deaf to the child's admission. This new piece of information disturbed him, more than the bruise on his head, more than the straggling drugs in his system.

What kind of kidnapper attacked his victims at the country's Capitol?

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Claire stormed into the den, cheeks red in indignation. How dare he? Who the hell did he think he was, attacking her boyfriend at the drop of a hat!

The analytical side of her brain pointed out that she had been about to do the same thing, if perhaps less extremely, to Grant for kissing her in front of Riley without her permission. The same side continued smugly that it wasn't exactly a testament to her relationship with Grant if he had to ask her for permission every time he kissed her, was it?

Unfortunately, Claire wasn't paying any particular attention to the analytical side of her mind. As she strode through the wooden doorway, she was too busy formulating an opening round to what would be a grueling argument of insults. She needed something cold, yet searing, haughty, yet aware that she held the moral high ground…

Rounding into the center of the room, head held high in outrage, mouth opened to execute a perfectly planned offense, Claire stopped cold, dumbfounded at the immobile figure on the sofa.

Riley was sprawled on his back in the same leather loveseat that he had slept in across from her last night, one leg dangling over the side, bare foot brushing the rug. His right hand was cradled on his chest, knuckles purple and slightly smeared with blood. His head was buried in the overstuffed cushions, exhalations blowing the hair hanging over his eyes.

He was sound asleep.

Claire's hands reached out, strangling air of the imaginary neck in front of her. "Riley," she said, her voice deceptively calm, "You are faking. I know you're faking so you don't have to talk to me, but by God you are going to stop it right now or I will make sure that sleep becomes permanent."

Riley didn't move. His breath remained calm and steady.

"For goodness sake, how old are you? Nine? That's about the age that the sleeping trick wears off."

Nothing.

"Look, we need to be adults and face the situation. I realize how difficult that might be for you, but that's how the over-eighteens handle it these days. The facts are that you punched my boyfriend without serious provocation, and that points to problems between us."

Nothing.

Claire threw up her hand in frusteration. He was asleep. He was actually asleep. Now, of all times. The infuriating man had strolled into the kitchen barely a half-hour ago, mauled her boyfriend, stormed out of the den and what? Said "well, today's work's done, might as well take a nap"? The cheek!

"Fine!" she snapped. "Take a nap to avoid your problems. You can't sleep forever! And when you do wake up, I'm going to be right here."

Planting herself on the adjacent counch, legs and arms crossed in indignation, Claire fixed her furious gaze directly into Riley's closed eyes and sat.

And sat.

Thirty minutes later, Claire was slounched over, elbows sliding down to her knees. She supposed it was her fault for keeping him up all night, but honestly, how long did he intend to sleep?

Eventually, she lost her focus, her eyes leaving Riley's lids and meandering along the rest of his face. His incredibly long eyelashes that she teased as girly to his face but secretly thought were sexy, his nose, cheeks, eyes, chin; the stubble around his mouth and down his neck indicating his lack of maintenece for the last few hours framed that ridiculous goatee that she never let him shave. She finally arrived at his mouth, her second favorite paart of his face, but the main attraction for the present, as his eyes weren't on display.

It was a pretty ordinary mouth, as they went; Claire had never spent any time examining the physiology of men's mouth unless they were deformed or punctured with those digusting piercings available nowadays. Riley's mouth was pink-ish, and mouth-shaped; nothing special, really, but what captivated her attention were the memories of what he had done with it.

Riley was an amazing kisser, she thought grudgingly. There was no denying that. She'd naver told him exactly how good he was; his head was swelled enough as it was, but she had a feeling he knew. She smiled, remembering how he used to kiss her when she least expected it, grabbing her in the middle of a historical lecture he hadn't been listening to a word of or, even more frequently, when she was angry at him.

God, she missed kissing him.

Maybe it was the fact that this was the longest stretch of time she'd been able to observe him without being snapped at or insulted, or more likely the fact that she hadn't slapt in more than 24 hours, but Claire was suddenly gripped with a dangerous urge to lean over and kiss him. Just once.

If he really was asleep, which was becoming more and more likely, then unless the kiss was accompanied by a fully outfitted marching band, a foghorn, and the dropping of several atomic bombs, there was no way he would wake up.

Tentatively, Claire leaned over from the tip of her counch, gently planting a hand on the armrest next to his head. Behind her, unseen, Riley's bloody hand twitched.

Claire had stolen ice cream from the kitchen as a child; the maid diverted, cleaning up another one of Ian's late adolescent messes of smashed vases and broken windows. She was never caught, because she always only took one spoonful; In, out, no one ever noticed.

She glanced at the den door, half expecting to see Abbie or Ben standing there, wondering what on earth she was doing. But Ben had gone upstairs, after descending to inquire after the ruckus in his kitchen and smiling in a "that's-my-boy" kind of way after learning about the fight. Abbie hadn't even woken up yet.

She edged closer, Riley's breath now blowing in her face. Ten seconds. That was all she would take. No one would be any the wiser.

Millimeter by millimeter, Claire's mouth drifted down, eyes closing and mouth opening slightly as they brushed Riley's.

One, she thought, withdrawing slightly before kissing him again, just as lightly, her head tilting to one side to prevent bumping noses. Two.

It was odd, kissing a sleeping person; his lips were not quite on status with inanimate objects, but it felt a bit like cheating. Offsides, her mind giggled. Three.

It was about that time that Riley's lips started to move. It was only slight movement, opening slightly and clasping hers as she kissed him for a third time, but Claire's stomach still jolted. Four

It was normal, she reassured herself groggily, kissing the slightly moving lips slightly less gently than she had before. It was probably a nerve reaction, like scratching your ear in your sleep. Nothing to worry about. Her hand slipped down from the armrest to clutch Riley's arm.

His mouth was moving more and more now, opening more each time they kissed, and his breath was definitely not as steady as it had been.

Five, slurred Claire's mind. Or Seven. What comes after Four?

A hand curled around the back of Claire's neck, pulling her deeper into the couch. It was around then that she stopped counting.

Quite more than ten seconds later, Claire's back was pressed against the arm of the couch, Riley's arm slung around her neck and hand tangled in her hair the only thing keeping her from tumbling onto the rug. By now, Riley could not be described as inanimate in any way. One could go as far as to say that he was completely awake.

Claire wrenched her head away and reluctantly opened her eyes. Riley stared at her uncertainly, eyes wide open, his hand still threaded possessively under her struggling ponytail.

"You….you were awake this entire time, weren't you?" she asked, slightly short of breath.

He grinned sheepishly, eyes darker than usual.

"I can't believe-" Actually, Claire had no idea what she could or could not believe, because Riley had cut her off and his other arm was clenched so tightly around her waist that she couldn't pull away if she wanted to. Which she didn't.

A throat was cleared loudly, and Riley lurched off of her with almost comical speed, swaying on his feet in near disorientation. Ben stood in the doorway, his arms crossed, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world.

"Sorry for the intrusion," he said with false cheerfulness, "but Abigail has a lead on the riddle. Thought you might want to help out."

Claire swung her feet around to the floor. "Yes, of course….ah, be right there."

Riley was already one step ahead of her, bolting out the door. She exhaled loudly and smoothed her tangled hair back across her head, looking up to find Ben fixing her with a stare usually reserved for her brother.

"Claire," he began evenly, "I know that you and Riley have a past, but you've made it abundantly clear that you're both with Grant and leaving once this ordeal ends."

Grant's name went down her throat like a piece of food too large to swallow. She had a boyfriend. How the hell had she forgotten?

"Ben, I-"

"We're all happy to have you back, don't get me wrong," he continued, steel entering his tone. "But if you've come back to screw with Riley's mind, then you need to leave. Now."

Unable to hold his gaze, Claire stared down, shame alighting her face. It was harsh, but she deserved it. They had always been so protective of each other, her old family. Facing that loyalty as an outside threat was lonely.

"Ben, I'm just here to get Ian back. What you just saw won't happen again."

"Good." He softened slightly, perching hesitantly on the arm of the chair across from her. "Look, ah, I know you've been having a rough time. Riley told me about the medicine. When was the last time you slept?"

Claire stood abruptly, ignoring the pretty swirls of color that obscured his face for a moment. "I'm fine." She said shortly. "What did Abbie find out?"

A cell phone interrupted the dreams of Katherine Dawes, who rolled over to bury her head into the pillows when something metal dug painfully into her hip, and she realized she had fallen asleep fully clothed. Dragging her cell phone from her pants pocket ruefully, (it had been an exceptionally good dream) she flipped it open, pressed the speakerphone button and laid it next to her tousled head. "Dawes. What do you want?"

"Agent Dawes?"

The voice was distantly familiar. She squinted at her bedside clock. "Do you have any idea what time it is?" she snapped.

"It's seven twenty-four," the voice answered hesitantly.

Bolting out of her bed, she squinted harder through contacts she had forgotten to take out. "Oh, shit!"

Well, at least she was already dressed.

Dropping down on her knees to search for her shoes, she had completely forgotten about the phone until the voice crackled again through the bad reception in her apartment. "Agent Dawes, are you there?"

Cursing under her breath, she snatched it up. 'Look, I'm very sorry about all of this, ma'am, but I'm going to have to call you back, I'm very late."

"It's Sunday."

She sagged down on her bed, one sock still in hand. "Of course it is."

Sunday. Of course. How could she have forgotten? It didn't seem like a Sunday morning, not without Howe sprawled out on her couch in the other room, where he usually stayed to bemoan the loss of his football team, proclaiming that he was never drinking again.

"Sorry to bother you, but it's Claire Howe. I believe we met a few years ago, but I know that you work with my brother."

Suddenly, miraculously, she was awake. "Miss Howe, of course, what can I do for you?"

What could she tell her? Claire didn't have the proper clearance to be informed about Ian's predicament. While, as his only living family, Claire would usually be informed immediately, the bureau wasn't taking any chance with a kidnap inside their home territory. Civilians remained ignorant.

"Actually, I have some information to share with you regarding my brother's kidnapping."

Dawes found herself back on her bed. "How do you…I mean, you're not…" she composed herself. "Miss Howe, how did this occur?"

At the other end of the converstion, Claire sat stiffly at the table in the library, Riley as far away from her as possbile on the other end of the table, Ben sitting across from her, was still reluctant on sharing information with the FBI. Abbie was the only cheerful one there, oblivious to the tension on the other side of the table. No one offered to speak the the agent on her behalf.

"Well Agent, I….we received some kind of reansom demand in the mail a short time ago."

Dawes' tone turned to ice "We?"

Claire cleared her throat uncomfortably. "It seems that the Gates' son Patrick was also included in the kidnapping."

Dawes sputtered. "That's impossible. Howe's disappearace was a matter of national security; there was a breach at the Capitol."

Ben lept from his chair "The Capitol? Ian was taken from the Capitol as well?"

"Mr. Gates, what the hell do you mean 'as well'? As well as what?"

Ben looked around carefully at the remaining members of the table. "Agent Dawes, I believe we have a great deal to share with one another."

"You got that right, Gates," Dawes snapped. "You first."

"We'll meet you at the intersection of Washington and Essex. Please come alone."

"Gates," Dawes threatened with thinly veiled fury. "you and your little gang are going to come into the Federal Headquarters right now. You are going to tell me everything you know and then I'll decide whether or not to arrest you all for obstructing justice."

"With respect, Agent," Ben said mildly. "I don't think you're grasping the delicacy of this situation. We've been contacted with a ransom demand from what seems a very high place. We have no way of knowing if the Federal Headquarters are infiltrated or not."

"For your sake, I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that."

Riley poked smugly at his computer. "Hey, look at Watergate, Deep Throat, and the Area 51 spill. It's not our fault you guys are such Chatty Kathy's."

Ben planted his hands on the table, staring resolutely at the phone. "One hour, Agent Dawes. The corner of Washington and Essex."

"I'll be there, Gates, if it's only to throw you all in jail."

"Oh, you never know, Agent Dawes. It might be enlightening."

The phone line died with all the spite Dawes could muster. Ben grinned at Claire. "You're right. I think she'll help us."

Riley snorted. "Sure she will. Help us into the state penitentiary."

Ben clapped him on the back. "Riley, get the van ready."

Riley lifted his hands into the air. "I can't tell you how long I've waited to hear those words."

"Is she ready?"

"Ready?" Riley scoffed. "This, my friend, is God's gift to the four-wheeled works of art."

Claire turned to Abbie. "What van is he talking about?"

Abbie groaned. 'Only his project for the last year. We haven't been allowed to see it."

"I should think not!" Riley exhorted. "Did Michelangelo show David before he was finished? Did Da Vinci unearth his Birth of Venus before he was finished?"

Abbie rolled her eyes. "Botticelli did Birth of Venus, not Da Vinci."

"Whatever. They were both Illuminati."

Riley's incompetence in art history was overshadowed by the Gates' front door bursting open. All members jumped to their feet, Riley stashing his compuer protectively behind his back, only to see Grant stride into the library, his nose swathed in white surrounded by a panicked face.

"Grant?" asked Claire uncertainty, afraid that a scarlet letter had somehow affixed itself to the front of her shirt. "What is it? Is your nose all right?" Riley struggled to contain his laughter.

"No, my nose is fine. It's the Institution."

Claire moved toward him. "Is there trouble?"

Grant held up one hand, his clphone clenched in it. Jerry just called. There was a break-in last night."

"What?" Claire gasped. "But our security, how could anyone…." She noticed the shock on his face. "Grant was anything taken?"

He nodded. "They breached the cave. The altar you're studying's gone."

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Dun Dun DUNNNNNN! Yeah, I know, i'm a little rusty with the cliffies. But in the next chapter there's a CAR CHASE!! Oh yeah, and the explanation of the cool historical mystery/battle/conspiracy/love child of my historical labors that this story is really about, but theres also a CAR CHASE! You have no idea how excited I am to write it. Provided I get anough reviews to continue on to the next chapter...I do have a European History thesis due on wednesday. Reviews draw me away from all- important, essential-to-my-grade papers. Just don't ask me to write a makeout scene again; ugh, I want to take a shower. I'm sure you do to. Just review first.