In the months that followed their week in Boston, Nate learned a lot more about Sophie Devereaux than he ever dreamt he would. He realized that she had an addiction to shoe shopping, the expensive kind, and that she was more than happy to drag him along whenever she went. He discovered that she loved chicken alfredo, but mostly only if they were in Italy. She also enjoyed getting take out from restaurants and eating it while watching old movies. He found that she likes it rough almost as much as she likes it gentle, that she purrs when he kisses her breasts and moans when he bites her neck. He noticed that her feet are almost always cold and that waking up to her naked and pressed against him was the most glorious feeling.

The most interesting thing he had learned was that stealing made Sophie horny. This fact was gleaned after extensive observations made over the course of 2005. These instances may be important to consider currently:

He formed his theory after Sophie stole two million dollars' worth of diamonds in March of 2005. She was waiting for him at his apartment. She flirted excitedly and was rather over involved in taunting him with her body. When she kissed him, she seemed almost drunk on the thrill. Then, once she'd had her fun, she left.

Once, in June of 2005, he chased her from an auction house where she had stolen over eight hundred thousand dollars' worth of artwork. She led him through a maze of unfamiliar Scottish streets. When he found her, she was in a secluded alley, leaning up against a house wall. She was breathless and pulled him against her. She kissed him passionately and tore at his shirt to find skin and release his belt. The adrenaline coursing through him made him response easily, without an inhibition at all.

There was a time in Venice when she robbed a dirty lawyer of nearly three million. After that, she laid splayed out on the floor of her penthouse with Nate thrusting inside of her. There was something more acceptable about this con for Nate and they stayed up most of the night celebrating.

Sophie robbed a bank in Boston in October by convincing the manager that she had rights to a billionaire's account. She never told Nate just how much she stole but she bought him a new car- some kind of very expensive looking foreign sports carwith leather seats. They drove together well out of the city and stopped somewhere where they wouldn't be seen. Nate had never had sex of any kind in a car; Sophie corrected that tragedy that night- all kinds of them.

She showed up at his apartment in December. He never learned what she stole or how she did it, but he recognized the glow of success by that point. He gave her wine and lit the fireplace. That night they had sex while laid out on a blanket in front of the fire. They cuddled together in the warmth; the afterglow and endorphins and remnants of wine quieted them until they fell asleep wrapped in each other's arms.

When he turned up at the Victoria Art Museum (Bath, England) in February of 2006, he found her halfway through one of her cons. When he watched her grifting, there was always an energy surrounding her, a glow of power and confidence. She even seemed high almost, high off the euphoria and attention. She used that to string him along, turn him on, and finally seduce him that night.

While their meeting in Bath had led Nate to be certain about his theory, it also had quite a number of other ramifications for their relationship. The most important of which began just as Nate lowered his drained, sleek body over Sophie's. He nuzzled her hair with his nose and kissed her jaw. She sighed beneath him, warm and content and satisfied for the night.

The night was silent. They were alone in the world and happy with that fact. Only Nate's voice shattered that allusion. "Is Sophie your real name?"

Her hands, which had been lightly scratching his back, caught his face between them and brought his face level with hers. "Does it matter?"

Something in her dark gaze made him want to say no and some voice in his mind was nagging him to say as much. But he listened to neither. "Yes. You're my best friend. I trust you more than anyone else on this Earth, and yet you've never trusted me with something as basic as your real name. So, yes, it matters."

Sophie pushed him off of her. She rolled onto her side, held her head up in the palm of her hand. She pulled the covers to her chest. "The woman you met back in Paris, the woman you've chased all over Europe, the woman you've kissed and bedded and... and trust- that woman is Sophie Devereaux. I won't lie to you, Nate, Sophie isn't the only person I live as. Every persona I portray has some personal meaning to me. I know everything about them- they are me, in a sense, some more than others. Sophie is my favourite. I spend the most time as her and, maybe, that makes me her. I don't know."

Nate was silent as he tried to wrap his mind around the complex reality of Sophie's life.

"When you're not being Sophie, when you're conning different people, do you just stop thinking about me?"

"Not exactly." Nate just looked at her. She held the blankets tighter to her chest. "You're like a constant to me, Nate. You're always a part of the story, always somewhere in each persona's life. You just vary in... exactly what role you play in my life."

"And what role do I play in Sophie Devereaux's life?"

Sophie tried to smile, but her eyes didn't quite shine enough to make it real. She cupped his cheek in her hand and stroked his cold skin with her thumb. "You're my best friend and confidant. You're the one who keeps me on my toes and keeps pushing me to get better, cleverer. You're my rock, Nate, the only reason, I sometimes think, that I remember exactly who Sophie is."

"But who are you really?"

"I really am Sophie."

"I know..." She kissed him gently, but he pulled away. Her eyes searched his but all they found was confusion. "I don't know if I can do this."

"Do what?"

"Be half involved with a criminal." Sophie had no idea what to say to that, so she said nothing. "You lie for a living. You're entire nature is to be dishonest." He paused to realize exactly what he said. "And that's why I have no idea why I trust you so much. You're... I... I shouldn't like you. I should avoid you- I should actually turn you in to the authorities, but I haven't and I'm still not completely sure why I haven't."

"Because, on some weird level, you completely understand what I do. Admit it, Nate, you weren't really that bothered in Paris when you helped me. You don't completely condemn my kind of theft because it doesn't mean anything. Steal from a rich man and he'll simply get the money back some other way. Hell, he'll even enjoy it on some crazed level. There's no real crime, as long as no one gets hurt. And the thrill, that's completely worth it."

"You're still a liar."

"So are actresses, and yet they're paid millions and are plastered all over magazines." She leaned closer to him, until their breath mingled and her nose almost touched his. "Why haven't you turned me in? You've had plenty of opportunities." When he didn't answer, she rolled away from him until she could see his whole face clearly again. "Because you know I'm right."

Something changed ever so slightly in their relationship after that. Nate could never tell exactly what it was that changed, but he could sense it. Sophie left him letters much less often. Her crimes were even more meticulous than usual, almost like something had possessed her to perform at her absolute height. Like always, she still found him and spent his days off with him, she still invaded his hotel rooms and still seduced him when she was in the mood. But her actions seemed less heated, less intimate and more like habits. He thought that, maybe, she was just waiting for something.

As it turns out, had Nate been able to read Sophie's mind, he would have found that he was quite correct. Sophie was waiting for something- she was waiting to be handcuffed and stuffed into a cop car. She was waiting for his trust to wear thin and his good-guy morality to finally flare up inside of him. It never did, of course, but Sophie was always well on guard waiting for it.

In June of 2006, Sam was diagnosed with cancer. After that, the doctor's appointments and radiation and chemo and nausea started. Nate was living with Maggie again, though he slept mostly in the guest bedroom. He hardly took any cases and did his best to remain on the west coast. He worked tirelessly and spent nearly every waking hour at the hospital with Sam or caring for him after his treatments. He held Maggie as she cried and he drank into the early hours of the morning before he shaved and showered and headed back to work.

He didn't see Sophie during this time. When he found out about Sam, he had no idea where she was or how to get in contact with her. He had expected to see her, or at least hear from her, as was her tendency. They were together, after all, only when it suited the will of Sophie Deveraeux.

Nate got a call in September. Sam's birthday was the day before. They had celebrated with cake that Sam could hardly keep down and a few portable toys that could be brought to the hospital. Nate hadn't slept properly in days. He was half drunk and making his way back to the hospital to see Sam. All of which was why he didn't bother with the caller id when he answered.

"Hello?"

"Hey." Her voice was soft but her tone brief and slightly confused.

"Sophie?"

"Sorry it's been so long. I, em… I had some trouble in Peru. Anyway, I'm here in Boston. I went to your apartment but… you moved?"

"I'm back in LA."

"Oh." It's rare to know someone well enough to determine their mood with one short word, but Nate knew Sophie that well. He heard the way that one sound echoed with uncertainty. He heard the way she broke herself off and the way her breathing had changed- he heard her guard come up.

"Sam's sick. Really sick, Sophie."

"What's wrong?"

"He has cancer. Leukemia. He was diagnosed in June. He's been through all sorts of treatments, but nothing's working. He's just getting worse. He's been in the hospital all week… I moved back in with Maggie to help."

"Oh god, Nate. I am so sorry… I don't know what to say. Do you, do you need anything? I…"

He knew the gist of what she was going to say. 'I have money, if you need it' or 'I know people, I could help get him in to see the best doctors out there'. He knew how true those statements were. He knew that she could open doors that he never could get near and that she could dole out millions without it damaging her worth. He knew that and he was tempted by that fact, but he also knew that he could never accept such help from her. She knew that too.

There was one thing she could do, one thing that he wanted her to offer, but he knew that she wouldn't offer that either. Not when their relationship was already so confused and Maggie was back in the picture.

They spoke for a while, with Sophie leading the conversation much of the time. They didn't talk about Sam or Maggie or what it all meant for them, they just talked. That night, Nate slept in a hospital chair again and he woke up to the sound of his son's heart beeping on a monitor. It was a pattern that continued day after day, week after week, for three months. Sophie would call every Monday and Thursday at seven and for an hour they would talk. He rarely had much to say; she told him "stories" about "fictional people" and "made-up" thefts. He still drank too much and hardly laughed, but it never seemed to drain her, not like it did Maggie.

When Sam died in December of 2006, Nate held Maggie until she had worn herself out crying. He drank the last of the whiskey he had stashed in his room and dialled Sophie's number. They didn't talk about Sam or the funeral arrangements or the numbness spreading throughout his body, but Sophie still knew.

Since he last held his son in his arms, all of life had been a blur. The bills, the funeral, the coffin, the flowers, the mass. He didn't hear anything. He saw the world in fast-forward.

And then he saw her. She stood far from the funeral procession. She wore a modest black dress, so very unusual for her. Warm, black boots, with heels that added to her height. Her hair was twisted back and hidden beneath a classy little European- looking hat that fit her style so well. She wore a netted veil over her face, but he still recognized her.

The priest spoke his final words to the mahogany casket. Maggie placed flowers, someone patted him on the back, the priest invited everyone back to the church for food- he only saw her.

The procession faded until everyone had left, even Maggie who had ridden back with her parents. Sophie approached slowly. She laid a lone daisy against Sam's tombstone- his son had a tombstone. It didn't seem possible; it couldn't be real.

There was a murmur in the wind, almost voice-like. Then Sophie's arms were around him, pulling his head into her neck and rubbing her fingers through his curls. Her scent broke through the fog. It all brought him back to the world- forced him to experience the ice whipping through his jacket, to realize the finality of what happened, to be overwhelmed by pain and sorrow and joy and anger and guilt and hatred and love- and it broke him. He stood on frozen cemetery ground, stock stiff against his best friend, and cried.

Time had no meaning to Nate. Once he calmed, he pulled away from Sophie, dried his face and breathed as deeply as his snotty nose would allow. He couldn't tell how long ago everyone had left- enough for his feet to go numb, or maybe they had before hand.

"Thank-you for being here."

"Not even an offer to steal the Mona Lisa could have kept me away... well maybe." She winked and he managed a small smile in response.

"I- I feel lost, Sophie."

She stroked his cold, damp cheek. "You're going to be ok. You've got Maggie-"

She felt his head shake against her palm. He couldn't quite meet her gaze. "I need- I'll just make things worse for her. I need some time on my own. I need... I don't know, Sophie." He took her face between his hands- he could hardly feel her smooth skin his hands were so numb. His lips were cold and chapped from the wind, but somehow hers seemed immune to the weather. They were soft under his, delicate and warming. He tried not to cry as he kissed her. His stubbly cheek grazed over hers; his lips pressed against her ear. "I love you, Sophie Devereaux. I just need some time before I can be in love with you."

She kissed his cheek and stepped back from his embrace. "I know. I'll be waiting. Whenever you're ready, come find me."

She didn't say any more. Didn't kiss him one last time, or hold him. She just turned and started walking. He watched her walk away and, this time, he knew that it was final. He wouldn't find anymore letters on his hotel pillows. She wouldn't show up and demand to be taken out for drinks or dinner or, god help him, shopping. Right then, standing next to his son's grave, he couldn't imagine a day when he would be ready.

He kept his hands shoved in his coat pockets as he stood there, simply unwilling to move. His eyes bore into her retreating back and they begged her to turn around, to come back. He waited, ignored the wind and the cold and his own exhaustion, but she was gone.

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