NOTE: Finally! Sorry for the late posting this week. The whole story is written, but I like to do a final revision of each chapter before posting and just didn't get the time to sit down with it this week. I don't love this chapter - feels like it could use even more revision - but I figured it was time to get it out there.


The first location they needed was a place to hide stolen goods. Doyle had suggested an old, abandoned farm about an hour outside town.

Rocking back in his chair in the cafe, puffing on a cigarette, Doyle had winked at Sophie. "Lots of nooks and crannies, secret spaces. If I had a few . . . special things to store away, that's where I'd be storin' 'em."

"Farmhouse it is then," Sophie had purred.

So the piled into the rental, Doyle driving, Hardison in the passenger seat, prattling on and on about the movie and Hollywood and Ireland.

The first half hour was all rocky hills and tall brown and yellow-green grass, with the bay on their left shining in the sun like silver. Eventually, though, they curved away from the water,and the hills gave way to tidy squares of brilliant green pastureland and black-brown soil in plowed fields.

Sophie ran interference on Hardison and Doyle and ignored Eliot, pretending to be enthralled by the scenery whenever he so much as glanced in her direction. Which Eliot found annoying but also - he had to admit - a little justified, so he amused himself by watching Doyle's knuckles on the steering wheel. They were a very distinctive mood indicator. Pinkish meant all was relatively normal. A bit of yellowing, and Hardison was starting to get to him. And bone white. Heh. Eliot liked bone white. That meant Doyle was out-of-his-skin pissed, and the only thing keeping his head from exploding was the lure of drinking with A-list actors and sleeping with Celine Duval. They were bone white for a good fifteen minutes when Hardison jabbered on in his over-thick accent about running with "his boys" as a "lad" in Dublin, and in the back seat, Eliot hid his grin behind his closed fist. That was the most fun he had had since they left for Ireland.

When they reached the farmhouse, Doyle parked in the grass just off the road. There was no driveway to speak of anymore – just an ash-grey stone house in the middle of a field with gaping holes where the windows and doors had been. Doyle and Hardison walked ahead, Hardison talking up a storm, while Eliot took Sophie's elbow and held her back, so they could pull up the rear.

Sophie didn't resist him, but she didn't speak either, and they walked in silence for a few seconds, Eliot knowing full well he was in trouble and in trouble big.

"Look Sophie, if you-"

Sophie gave him The Hand. "Uhn-uh."

"We're kind of a –"

"No."

"Things have a-"

"Eliot," she warned.

"Sophie!"

He moved in front of her, blocking her path. She crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows.

"Alright, you know what, who cares?" Eliot growled. "You slept together and everyone found out. Big deal. That's not exactly a secret you can keep forever. And you two haven't exactly been acting normal around each other lately."

Sophie didn't argue, and Eliot sensed that he had scored a point. But she wasn't ready to give up the game just yet. She rolled her eyes and stalked around him, and Eliot jogged after.

"Maybe you oughta still be sleeping together," he said, coming up beside her.

She didn't break stride. "Oh, is this where you give me relationship advice? Because I'm sorry sweetie, that's not exactly your cup of tea is it?"

"I'm not in a relationship, Sophie, because I don't want to be in a relationship."

"Well maybe I don't want to be in a relationship either."

"Whatever."

"You don't know me, Eliot."

"I don't need to know you to know you're in love with Nate. Half the people off the street could tell you that."

"Okay, Eliot, you've got me. I'm in love with an alcoholic control freak with anger issues! What a fool I am for not rushing into a relationship with one of those!"

Eliot started to speak but stopped. He raised his eyebrows and considered this. The woman made a good a point.

Up ahead, Hardison and Doyle were walking through the house, Hardison going on about some fictional studio head who was apparently trying to wrap him up into a ten picture deal. Sophie was walking with her arms crossed again, eyes fixed straight ahead.

Eliot sighed. "For what it's worth, Sophie, you're good for him."

Her eyes flickered, her focused stare waning a tiny bit before it snapped back into place.

Eliot pushed on. "Trust me. The man's definitely less of a control freak with anger issues when you're around."

Sophie said nothing, but her shoulders loosened, and Eliot decided to risk an impish dig.

"You know, not a lot. He's still an enormous prick. I mean, seriously. Enormous. Just maybe a tiny bit better. And he's still a raging alcoholic, so . . ."

Sophie rolled her eyes, the anger replaced by a wry exasperation. "Oh well, I feel much better now. I am so glad we had this talk."

Eliot chuckled. "Does that mean you accept my apology?"

"You call that an apology?"

"It's as good as any one I ever got from you," he smiled and ducked out of the way as she punched at him.

"Is that so?" She arched an eyebrow at him and started walking up ahead, so she could deliver her last line over her shoulder for dramatic effect. "I hope you like tea, Eliot, because you'll be pouring mine for a year."


Nate slept until almost noon and woke to find Parker dangling upside down from a set of suspension boots mounted in the doorway between his bedroom and the main room. Her back was to him, blonde hair skimming the floor, and he blinked several times to make sure he wasn't having a narcotic-fueled hallucination.

"Parker," he rasped.

She lifted her head and arched her back until her head and chest were facing him, the crown of her head even with the backs of her knees. Nate raised his eyebrows as much as he could, impressed.

"Water."

She let herself swoop down and curl up at the waist, nose to knees, unfastened herself from the bar and bounced out of the room. He could hear her knocking around the kitchen, cabinet opening, tap running, before she strode back into his room with a glass with a straw. She stood next to the bed, watching him while he drank.

"I still can't believe that kid set you up. He seemed so nice."

Nate sighed. Tell me about it.

"He gave me a tour."

"Sounds like great fun."

His words were still slurred and imprecise, but Parker was used to it now, could understand him better than anyone else on the team. As Hardison liked to say, she now spoke Broken Jaw. Nate handed her the glass back, and she put it on the bedside table and stood over him in a lack-of-personal space kind of way that made him feel awkward. He shooed at her with his good hand, scowling, and she took one giant step backwards, like she was playing a game of Simon Says.

"Yeah, he took me down to the morgue, which was creepy, but you know, I had to pay my last respects."

"You paid your last respects to my father?"

"Well I am his granddaughter." She crossed her arms across her chest. "It was kind of weird, you know? I mean, he was an old guy, but he was pretty spry back in Boston."

Then she added after a beat. "Dead bodies are weird."

Nate had a bitter half-laugh at that. "Yeah, dead bodies are weird."

He glanced up at her and saw an unusual, faraway look on her face, and something occurred to him.

"That wasn't the first one you've seen?"

"Yep, the first. Numero uno."

"I thought - " Nate started but hesitated, not sure how to broach the subject of her brother. Parker understood exactly where he was going.

"Nope, never saw him. I mean, they had an open casket I guess. So I heard. They didn't let me go, since it was my . . . you know . . ."

Nate watched her mouth shrink into a tiny circle, and she turned her head away from him, a lost look coming over her, and his heart swelled with a fierce protectiveness that he hadn't felt since Sam's death.

Those fuckers.

"You listen to me, Parker," he said, enunciating every word with special effort. "What happened to your brother was an accident."

She looked at him and looked away again.

"Did you run him over with a car?"

Parker looked at him, stunned and not a little horrified by that question.

"I mean it, Parker. Did you?"

"Of course not."

"Did you push him in front of a car?"

Parker uncrossed her arms. "No."

"No. Of course not. You taught him how to ride a goddamn bike. That's it. Anything after that was an accident. And if your parents or step-parents or whoever said anything to you, Parker, if they said anything to you to make you feel like it was your fault, then those people are not worth the dirt you walk on."

She stood still, fastened to the floor by his intensity. She re-crossed her arms again, and stared at the wall on the other side of the room, and Nate thought her eyes looked wet, and he had a sudden sinking feeling that he had gone too far and let his anger get the best of him, and he felt like a heel, and Sophie was really going to kill him now.

But then Parker looked at him, and her mouth stretched into a little Mona Lisa smile, and he felt suddenly very relieved.

"You know that right?" he said in a softer tone he worked hard to get to after working himself up so much.

"Yes," she said after some hesitation. She did know that. Even though it sometimes felt like it was her fault, she could honestly say that she knew better, and she could not have said that before the five of them.

"I'm not just saying it Parker. It's a fact."

She rolled her eyes, mock exasperated now. "I know."

"Good."

He watched her for a moment, and then a knowing smile crept across his face. "You must be kind of bored."

"Oh my god!" Parker waved her arms and flopped in the arm chair. "Yes!"

"Want to break into something?"

"Am I going to get in trouble?"

"Only if you get caught."

Parker pulled her knees up to her chest and narrowed her eyes, all interest. "What are we talking about?"

"Police station. All the files on Doyle – Mark or his father. The stuff Hardison couldn't get online."

A devious grin spread over Parker's face. "I like it."

She was out the door in a matter of minutes. "Oh, and hey!" Nate called as she was on her way out.

She turned back to him.

"Get anything they have on my mugging."


MORE NOTES:

Thanks for the continuing reviews - I definitely appreciate them. I have or will be responding directly to everyone who's sent me a verified review. For the unverifieds:

Mag - I agree. Doyle always seemed like the type to come back, like he wouldn't let it end in Boston.

Stella - Don't worry, Eliot's gonna get his fight groove on. :)

Anon - Awesome! One of the major goals was to capture the voices as they are on the show, so glad to hear it's working for you!

Anne - It may be true that there are no sub-basements in Ireland. I would bet that Phlebotomy and Radiology and Linen Services are not even in the basement at the Clifden District Hospital. But as writers do all the time, I have changed details to fit my story. I did add a disclaimer up front to hopefully alleviate any confusion as to my intentions, though. Also, any "errors" in narration can usually be chalked up to the fact that most of the narrative is third person limited, limited to Nate's - or another American's - viewpoint. There are some careless mistakes on my part (I fixed Feichin's reference to cell, e.g., and if I get the time, I will add the accents to Feichin's name), but fidelity to Ireland was not the primary goal, and it's not a major concern.

At the end of the day, this is a silly little fanfic about a silly little show, and if you're a fan of the show, you should know that it very frequently takes huge liberties with cultural, geographic, historical and other details. My advice: when riding the fun train, don't look too closely at the tracks. And if you're looking for a 100% realistic portrayal of Ireland, this may not be the fic for you.

Sphinx - Thanks!

Fortnight - Glad you're enjoying!