Author's Note: Happy Halloween! Two chapters for you today because I was in a good mood. I'm running out of secrets to incorporate; please let me know what you think and/or what you would like to see in upcoming chapters.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

It's one of those mornings. She simply can't keep her hands to herself, and really, he's not dumb enough to try and stop her. When he wakes up to her lips and tongue tracing along the scars on his torso, he willingly bets they're going to be late for work. His estimated time of arrival alters again when she slips into the shower behind him. His professionalism should be kicking in right about now and all but dragging her to Nate's to talk about the latest client, but then she does that thing with her tongue and he can't bring himself to think, much less care.

Parker begs to take the motorcycle. Flat-out pleads. Whether her reasoning is for the thrill of the ride, the intimacy of being pressed against him, or the pleasurable rumble between her legs, he rolls his eyes and agrees. They share the usual pointed looks back and forth, silently arguing over his insistence on her helmet. She should know by now that he doesn't joke when it comes to her safety.

The ride takes much longer than necessary because he has to stop every so often to swat at her meandering hands. When Nate's place finally comes into view, Eliot almost sighs in relief. That sigh morphs into a squeak (a manly squeak, mind you) when her hands drop from his torso to below his waist, casually brushing over his package. "Jesus, Parker," he grunts.

"What," she asks innocently, her blonde hair spilling out from the helmet as she removes it. The sight of his thief in a leather jacket and riding helmet never ceases to shock him, and it takes him a second to put his thoughts back on the right track. "C'mon, slow poke." With a shake of his head and a trademark eye roll, he follows her into the bar and up to Nate's place.

Immediately, he navigates to the coffee, humming gratefully as the steaming liquid fills the mug. "Ha," she shouts victoriously in his ear; years of training keep him from jumping like a startled animal. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he turns to look at her.

"Damnit, Parker. Don't do that." The counter supports much of his weight as he leans into it and slowly sips his coffee. She stands just within his personal space, practically pressing him into the counter. He doesn't seem to mind, so she doesn't make the effort to move.

"You owe me five bucks!"

"And why is that, darlin'?"

"'Cause you said all the sex was gonna make us late, but see, we're the first ones here. You were wrong, so I win the bet!"

"Or they started the con without us."

"They wouldn't start a con without the thief and the hitter. That's just stupid. Plus we're awesome. They would wait," she states definitively before skipping off to find cereal. Nate appears from upstairs somewhere and takes Parker to the client meeting, despite Eliot's insistence that it's a bad idea. No matter how much better she gets about socializing, Parker will never be normal; he has a point when he tells her there's something wrong with her. Then again, all the morning sex screwed with his usual routine, so he stops arguing and enjoys a bit of peace and quiet.

Hardison strolls in later jabbering about some technology thing. With the magazine open on his lap and his mug in one hand, Eliot doesn't understand why the hacker insists on explaining the damn thing. He doesn't care. He really doesn't care, not when his brain is still happily relaxed from going a few rounds with Parker and the coffee is making his gut feel all warm and content.

"It generates a magnetic field… are you even listening?"

"Yeah, man."

"What'd I say?"

"You're explaining how you're still a virgin?" The irritated scowl on Hardison's face pulls a humorous smirk from the hitter. Parker and Nate walk in, and they catch the end of the conversation about Parker's social skills, or lack thereof. "I told you not to take her," Eliot reminds the mastermind, setting his coffee down within reach.

"Well you were right. Where's Sophie… Well we're not waiting. Let's go." Nate gives his cue and Hardison pops up to do the run through of the mark. When Parker returns from the kitchen and sits on the arm of Eliot's chair, he quirks an eyebrow at the two. He can't understand why the hitter isn't pushing her away. Hell, he can't understand why Parker chose to sit there in the first place. Usually, his hitter and thief are extremely touch-averse. Having Parker practically sit in Eliot's lap strikes a strange observation, which gets filed away for further analysis at another time when a clinic isn't about to close its doors permanently.

Eliot says nothing when she invades his space; he doesn't even acknowledge her presence. He is beyond used to it by now. Somewhere in the back of his mind sits the realization that it's different from their normal interactions with the team. It should bug him- this slight change in her behavior. After all, the original point of keeping their relationship a secret was to prevent it being used against either one of them through the course of their criminal careers. Their history was a secret because neither of them trusted the makeshift team constructed by Dubenitch, and in their line of work, the standard is trust no one. Now though, after countless jobs, bonding, and saving each other's asses, he knows the team members wouldn't leak their secret.

Secret Seventeen: it's in that moment he realizes the depth of his trust in each of his team members. He trusts them with her life. She is his most important responsibility, the one thing in his life he has sworn to protect regardless of anything else. In their line of work, that is considered a weakness and is likely to be exploited in a violent and traumatic way. The list of people who want him hurt and/or dead is a long one. Yet, he realizes he would tell Nate and Hardison about the relationship because he knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that each man would move heaven and earth to protect her.

Her concentration doesn't break. The noise of her bickering teammates goes in one ear and out the other. She vaguely hears Eliot's complaints about spending time with kids. The charcoal pencil scratches softly against the pages of her sketchbook. Her thumb swipes at a few of the lines, smudging and shading appropriately. As Eliot's whistle swings in a fast circle, she puts the finishing touches on the drawing.

"But one of you two can identify the gunman, right," Eliot asks.

"Oh yeah. Sure, he stopped and let me take a picture of him while I was chasing him," Hardison emphasizes exaggeratedly.

"Ya know what, I've been around little kids all day. I don't need to come home and do all of this crap." Hardison adds his complaints into the pot as well. Parker silently hands Eliot her drawing, effectively halting the boys' pity party without a single word. "Is this the guy?" She hums. "See," the hitter gestures, dropping the pad on the table in front of Hardison. He resists the urge to say something childish about his girlfriend being smarter than his best friend.

"Wow, I didn't know you could do that." The hacker is clearly impressed. Eliot wants to add that he didn't know she could do that either, and after all these years, it's strange to think there's some things about her he doesn't know.

"I thought everyone could do that." She doesn't know how to take a compliment and shrugs as if being able to sketch out a near-perfect drawing based on a ten second glimpse of a man is an inadequate skill. She is actually a little baffled to learn that it's not a common ability. He takes it upon himself to prove to her that she is more than a thief, starting with her recently discovered talent.

There is a mix of confusion and raw excitement on her face when the doors to the art store open, revealing to the thief's greedy eyes to isles and isles of supplies. "Eliot, what are we doing here?"

"Darlin', we're here because you are damn good at drawing and we're going to get you the right tools. When Archie helped you become a thief, you practiced with all high-tech laser grids and safes, right? This is the same idea."

"But everyone can draw," she counters, restraining herself from getting more excited. "I mean I don't need special pencils or anything."

"Parker, you're good at it. You're right; you don't need special anything." His agreement finds her frowning slightly. "Let's try it this way. Remember when we went and got ceramic knife sets?"

"Yeah, at that fun cooking place?"

"Yeah, darlin'." His good-humored laughter bubbles in his chest. "Well, does it make sense why we bought special tools, good tools, for the kitchen?"

"Well, yeah, because you're a chef and you're good at it and to make the best food you need the best stuff."

"Same logic. You're an artist. You're good at it. You need the best tools to make the best art." The grin she shoots him is his definition of perfection. Her eyes shine with happiness as the corners of her lips turn upwards. Before he has a second to enjoy the toothy smile, she skips down through the isles, eagerly throwing supplies into a basket. Shoving his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, he laughs and follows her merrily around the store.

Secret Eighteen: her absurdities and quirks no longer surprise him. In fact, when it comes to Parker, Eliot embraces the crazy and expects the unexpected. Yet, there are things that still surprise him, particularly facets of her personality he never noticed shaped by her upbringing, which primarily is still unknown, even to him.

Sophie takes over the con, and Parker panics when she realizes they're all switching roles. Eliot grumbles again about the last con Sophie masterminded and how said con ended with their office building exploding. He just knows it's going to suck.

Bright side: he gets to screw around with Parker's gullibility. The hitter knows he shouldn't, but it's just too easy, especially when she sets him up for it. Nate, who resists the temptation to engage in silliness as a general policy, chimes in. "Eliot, these conspiracies aren't real, right?"

"What'd ya mean?" His arms cross in front of his chest and he channels Men-In-Black as he fixes her with a glare. His eyes glaze over the board that has every crackpot conspiracy known to mankind affixed to it.

"Like that one of there that says all the major wars in the past 50 years were ordered by members of the Council?"

"Parker, I'm not at liberty to discuss that with you." He stalks away, not being able to contain his smirk any longer and not wanting the teasing to end just yet.

"Ha, you're not a member of the Council… are you? Eliot! Is he? Uh… Nate, is he?" The thief trails after the men desperately trying to figure out if the conspiracies are real and if her boyfriend is part of a Council. Quite honestly, she wouldn't put it past him in the scheme of things.

Not so bright side: the con takes a weird turn because Monica Hunter refuses to sell the story about underground, secret prisons. Of course, somehow, that translates into Parker getting hit with a car. Obviously, that's the only alternative.

"Are you out of your mind, Sophie? You want me to hit her with a car. Hit her with a vehicle," Eliot whispers heatedly as he stabs the air for emphasis. "You've lost it."

"She's been hit by a car before! Would you rather I hit her with a car?"

"Damnit, Sophie, no. I would rather she didn't get hit by a damn car in the first place."

"You're a hitter. Can't you just hit her in a way that she doesn't get hurt?"

Eliot sighs, throwing his hands up in the air dramatically. "You've lost your dad-gum mind. Never again, Sophie! Never again."

The act of hitting her with a car is bad. The act of leaving her on the ground after hitting with said car is infinitely worse in his book. Later when she walks into the makeshift base, she smiles, knowing Eliot would blame himself for any injury she showed. She actually enjoys this whole switching-roles thing, so it's not that hard to act excited. Eliot leans against the conspiracy boards, and she sidles up next to him, hiding a wince when her bruised shoulder bumps his. He smiles at her sadly, but they're still in the middle of a con and it's not the time to talk.

The gullibility continues as Parker sifts through every conspiracy she has ever heard. Eliot laughs to himself, as he slices bell peppers; Hardison gets in on the joke by telling her the Loch Ness Monster is really a submarine. He adds his two senses about testing. When she stomps away in annoyance, the hacker offers his fist for the semi-traditional fist bump. Eliot rolls his eyes, but knocks his knuckles against Hardison's anyway.

Soreness settles in her muscles when the two finally break away from the team and head home. A random sweatshirt gets tugged over her head in a feeble attempt to camouflage her stiff movements and hide the developing bruises. It's a feeble attempt indeed because the second they're alone and the door of their apartment locks solidly behind them, he demands, "Let me see 'em."

"What?" Her question and tone feign innocence, but he isn't buying it. One eyebrow quirks upwards in disbelief. "Aren't you going to do your little yoga, deep breathing thing?"

"Tryin' to keep me busy, so you can take a shower without me seein' your body?"

"No," she drawls. "I was just wondering. Ya know because…" Her mind comes up blank and can't formulate a plausible excuse. "… because I was gonna go steal stuff."

"Why don't we just skip this whole thing and you just show me everywhere that hurts?"

"Eliot, I'm fine. I mean, a car hit you when Alice had jury duty, and you were fine."

"First of all, you are Alice, remember? Second, a car that was barely moving hit me. Third, I'm trained to get by cars. You're a thief. Your training has nothing to do with getting hit."

"You know, it's okay that you hit me."

"My mama would disagree with ya on that one, Parker."

"Well, I'll tell her it's okay because it was for a con. I needed to get hit so Monica Hunter would believe the story and sell the fear or whatever creepy thing Sophie was talking about."

"You don't get hit, Parker. It's my job, not yours."

"But technically, you're the hitter, so your job is to hit. And you hit me, so you were doing your job. I wouldn't have let anyone else hit me."

"None of that made me feel any better, darlin'."

"Oh." Her fingers fiddle with the hem of the oversized sweatshirt.

"You know what would make me feel better? If you would show me your bruising," he tells her pointedly. His patience is wearing thin, and he needs to assess her injuries for himself. He learned long ago not to trust her perception of her own pain.

"But you'll get all mope-y and grumpy."

"Do not," he counters petulantly.

"Pinky promise you won't and then I'll show you." A large part of him can't believe he sticks out his little finger without a second's hesitation. If anyone would have told him a decade ago that he would be living with a crazy-ass thief who puts more faith in pinky promises than contracts, he would have laughed himself to the bank. Yet here he is, internationally known hitter and retrieval specialist, holding out his pinky like it's the most normal thing in the world.

Secret Nineteen: there are times when her innocence and naivety bleed over and color his world. It's rare, but when it happens, it feels like he's a kid again, before all the bloodshed and blurred lines. He cherishes those moments because he thought he lost that part of his spirit long ago, buried under regrets, mistakes, and followed orders. She doesn't just believe he's a good man; she makes him remember a time when he believed it too.