DISCLAIMER: not mine, please don't sue.
[a/n - #1]
aprilf00l: thank you. So glad you're still here and enjoy the story. The pace picks up a bit in this chapter but the teasing most definitely remains - it's kind of a must for me at this point. ;)
Em: thank you so much, as always. :)
Nimeton: thank you for being so nice and patient, and for leaving me this wonderful review. I know you guys have to wait a lot between updates and it sucks for me, too, but I have very limited free time these days. I'll try to be quicker with the next chapter, I promise. :)
Anon: first off, you are quite excellent at reviewing. :D Second: thank you very, very much. The relationship dynamic you described is exactly what I'm aiming for but sometimes it's difficult to nail it down because there's just so much we don't know about Natalie, so I have to work with a lot of headcanon here. I, too, hope that one day she returns to the show. She kinda has to, right? :) Maybe next season if the gods of scheduling allow it. *crosses fingers*
Rachel: thanks a million, as usual. And let me give you a giant hug, too, because I totally agree: the Eli/Stacie thing is excruciating. And not because Eli is with someone other than Natalie. I don't have a problem with that. I was actually looking forward to seeing him have some fun but it was a slap in the face, tbh. They have no chemistry, their scenes are terribly written, and I can't stand Stacie. But I may write her into this story to exact my revenge. *evil cackle* And yes, Vanessa will appear, too. ;)
dawn444: wow! You are all kinds of awesome, you know that? Seriously. Thank you so much and welcome back to the loop! :)
Member: thanks heaps for leaving me that amazing review-chain. I read it with a giant grin on my face. I truly appreciate every word. I promise I will not abandon the story. I couldn't, really. It's way too much fun. :)
KrinWashu: I know the wait between two chapters is getting longer but it's just my lack of time, I swear. I love writing it and will not drop it, I promise. Thank you once again for your wonderful comments and that Pee-wee reference because it is perfection and totally made my day. :D As to the ending, yes. I am building/working towards a specific end, and I already have most of the major stepping stones figured out. Everything else is in an almost constant flux, though. But I hope this eases your mind a bit. :) Other cameos? Well, I already mentioned Vanessa above but Diane will definitely make an appearance as well. And that's all I'm willing to divulge for now. ;)
[a/n - #2]: don't hate me too much when you reach the end of this chapter, okay? :)
[a/n - #3]: once again I just want to thank everyone who still reads and enjoys the story. I never thought it would generate such traffic as it does. Thank you, guys!
~ SILENCE ~
His eyes are still fixed on the receding redness of the Lincoln's tail lights but soon the traffic shifts and his view gets cut off. His phone starts ringing and he pulls it from his pocket. It's Kalinda.
"I was just thinking about you," he says, pressing the BlackBerry to his ear.
"I bet you say that to all the girls."
He chuckles quietly. "And I hope you have only good things to say."
"You mean bad things?"
He breathes a satisfied little sigh. "You know, I just love that we speak the same language."
"Yeah. I'm afraid there isn't much to say, though. Nothing concrete. I've checked and on paper your Mr. Thomas seems like an upstanding citizen. No complaints, no scandals, no criminal record, healthy financials."
Hearing this angers him more than anything. "Oh, let me guess. He feeds the homeless and reads to blind kids as well."
"Actually, he does contribute to several charity funds and-"
His temper flares. "And in his spare time he walks on water. Yes, I get it, Kalinda. Thank you." He takes a deep breath, trying to regain at least some semblance of self-control. The mere possibility of this other guy being somehow more deserving of Natalie unsettles and infuriates him. There are no saints. The wind is picking up, its bitter coldness stinging and punishing, but he doesn't move. He doesn't speak, either.
Sometimes certain things are just too heavy for words. Silence can carry anything. Fear. Rage. Grief. Love. Gratitude. Shame. The inexpressible. The difficult. The deepest, most complex of emotions or a few simple words which, for some reason, often feel so impossible to utter. It is all there, hidden in plain sight, in thousands of quiet moments. But silence requires an accomplished translator – a keen ear and a willingness to listen.
And she hears the apology in his wordlessness.
"What's going on, Eli?" He finds the thick, quasi-detached evenness of her tone oddly soothing. She is always so focused, so pulled together, yet never closed-off. He envies and respects that strength. It might forever remain an unvoiced admiration but he hopes she still knows somehow. She strikes him as someone who would. "Eli?"
"It's nothing," he answers, his voice quiet now, his anger smoldering, his lie obvious.
Of course it's not nothing but for now she decides to leave it at that. "Like I said, he looks perfect on paper. But records can be easily lost or altered." She pauses and hears him sigh. It prompts her to add, "Or maybe he's just careful."
This grabs his attention. She was sort of worried it would. "What do you mean?"
Kalinda hesitates for a moment, trying to decide which is less likely to land him in trouble: sharing the information that is flimsy at best, or withholding it. Reluctantly, she opts for the former. "Well, a friend of a friend at the D.C. Police Department told me that Mr. Thomas is quite the party boy and has been keeping questionable company lately."
"Is he under police surveillance?"
"No. But some of his more recent acquaintances are and their records are not so spotless."
"Okay." There's a short pause followed by a question she isn't particularly keen on answering. "And who are these 'acquaintances'?" She doesn't say immediately and he feels the anger swelling up again. "Kalinda."
"Rumor is they are members of La Familia."
His eyes close shut as he hears the name. Peter had some pretty nasty cases involving them during his first term as State's Attorney. A desperate laugh escapes him. This whole thing is absurd. "Are you telling me that Prince Charming is cozying up to drug dealers?"
She isn't laughing. "No. I'm telling you that it's a possibility. They are expanding their influence over D.C., looking for a fresh client base."
"Well, it's a tough economy. I imagine even drug cartels need to revitalize."
"This is serious, Eli."
"I know." He wanted to get some dirt on the guy but this is a potential hornet's nest. He sighs. "Anything else?"
She watches absently as the busy employees of Lockhart/Gardner move about. "Well, there's only so much I can dig up from here. I am more effective up close."
He smiles. She must be bored. Her semi-veiled offer is tempting but there's a lot he needs to consider first. "I'll think about it."
"All right." There's silence on both ends again – his signals gratitude, hers a growing concern. She has a bad feeling and hesitates to end the call. He's listening, waiting for her to say something but she is silent. Is she waiting for him to say something? He draws his eyebrows together. She's being weird again and he finds that unsettling. "Kalinda?"
Her gaze drifts to the empty yellow of his office chair. "Be careful," she says at last and just for those two short seconds, for those two simple words, her voice sheds from its detached quality. This is what friendship sounds like.
And it throws him. He finds himself trying to frown and smile at the same time. He ends up swallowing instead. "You know me."
He is a bold man but if he's driven by what she suspects he is, that boldness can easily turn into recklessness and that is rarely an advantage. "Exactly," she replies, her voice already back to normal – even, smooth, maybe a tinge provoking.
He chuckles, then glances at the taxi pulling up to the curb. "I gotta go now."
"Then go."
He hangs up and she pockets her phone with a shadow of a smile on her face. Her life is a little bit more colorful with Gold in it. And she likes colorful.
He enters the restaurant and spots his client wannabe immediately. It's not that difficult since she's the only one there reading an actual newspaper. She seems completely engrossed in it but as he approaches, her focus shifts to him. Her face lights up and she lowers the paper into her lap.
"Mr. Gold."
He reaches her table but doesn't sit – not just yet. "Ms. Fiedler."
She glances at her watch. "How very punctual of you." It sounds more like a tease than a statement, and there's that strange look in her eyes again. It still makes him somewhat uncomfortable. And increasingly curious.
His gaze drifts to the floor and a tiny smile curves his lips. She regards him, trying to reconcile this boyish quality with the tough campaign veteran. She can't, really, and it only intrigues her further. "You're trying really hard to make up for this morning, aren't you?"
He glances back at her, now smooth and calculated. "Am I that transparent?"
She laughs and it rings true to his ear. "Please sit," she says, gesturing at the empty chair opposite hers. First meetings with high-profile clients are difficult, tricky, and tiring performances – they need to be carefully choreographed and delicately executed. He puts a lot of effort into them but something tells him this one is going to be especially challenging.
As he lowers himself onto the chair, she signals to a waiter nearby who nods, then gracefully glides away. When Eli looks back at her, he finds that mildly inquisitorial gaze fixed on him once again. "I hope you're feeling better."
He hesitates for a moment, deciding how to play this, and surprises himself when all of a sudden blunt honesty tumbles from his mouth. "I wasn't sick," he admits simply with an apologetic smile, then gingerly shifts in his seat. His back still hurts a bit after lifting those damned suitcases in a random act of experimental kindness. The slightly amused expression on Myra Fiedler's face suggests she has an entirely different idea about what's behind the skipped breakfast meeting and the sore muscles.
"Well, in that case, dinner must have been a great success," she remarks. He opens his mouth, then, not knowing how to respond properly, he averts his eyes. This is getting awkward for him but thankfully she is quick to backpedal. "I'm so sorry. It's none of my business."
Indeed not. He looks back at her, agreeing silently – politely –, hoping this puts an end to this particular subject. It does.
"Would you like something to drink?" she asks, trying to steer the conversation back to a neutral path.
His eyes flicker at the glass of water already on the table in front of him. "Water is fine, thank you."
"Then let's get down to our business, shall we?"
He smiles politely. "Let's." He's usually the one doing the pitching, not the client, so he feels especially eager today.
"So… how would you like to save some lives, Mr. Gold?"
She's pitching all right, and that's a curveball. His eyebrows go up. He isn't sure he heard her right. "I'm sorry?"
"There's this shelter nearby. My father helped build it. I help run it. And we are running out of money."
He's staring at her silently, struggling to see how he could be of any help. Bailing out failing businesses is not his area of expertise, never was, and she knows that. Yet she's looking at him with such hopeful and expectant eyes. The least he can do is make sure he knows exactly what he says no to. "Are we talking about a women's or a homeless shelter?" She bites her lip, looking slightly sheepish, and his confusion grows. "Or… or neither? What kind of shelter is this?"
"An animal shelter."
Wonderful.
"More specifically a pit bull shelter. The largest in the district area."
Strays. With bad reputation. He chuckles and runs a hand through his hair, wondering briefly if this is a set-up. Mrs. Green would probably pay good money to see him right now.
"I know what you think…"
He looks back at her with a smile. "I sincerely doubt that."
"These are amazing dogs, Mr. Gold, not more dangerous than any other, but they are the least likely to be adopted these days. Our founding has run out and if this shelter shuts down, most of them won't make it out alive."
"Can't your father help?"
She shakes her head and smiles. "This place is…" she trails off, searching for the right words. "This place is not about profit. I love my father and he loves me but he is a businessman and…"
"And love goes only so far when there's a money pit involved, right?" he finishes for her.
She snorts. "More like a fiscal black hole, but yes." It's his turn to study her and she lets him. She isn't uncomfortable. Head tilted, lips slightly pursed he watches intently but soon she breaks their silence. "He's already given so much but, as broke as we are, money isn't even the biggest issue here. These dogs are misrepresented and the recent breed specific legislations didn't exactly help. They have an image problem, and…" she trails off again and gestures toward him. "This is where you come in."
He smiles and nods. "Why me?"
"Because you're an image consultant, one of the best."
He shakes his head, brushing off what he assumes to be a clumsy attempt to appeal to his professional vanity, then leans closer and the smile fades a bit. "No."
She looks at him with an expression he can't quite read. "You're not one of the best?" she asks as innocently as possible. Maybe she's just baiting his ego to see if it bites. Well, today it does not, and he sidesteps the question.
"That's not why you're asking me." He knows that one thing for sure.
She sighs. "Why does it matter?"
It seems he's finally managed to ruffle her feathers a bit and it feels immensely satisfying. He leans back, never breaking eye contact. "I just like to see things clearly, that's all."
She regards him quietly and appears to be weighing her options. For a brief second she looks like someone who's on the verge of confessing something that's immensely difficult to put into words, then: "Everybody else turned me down."
He purses his lips – not quite the confession her brief yet intense inner struggle suggested but he works with what he is given. "What makes you think I won't?"
"You said yes to Peter Florrick when no one would. When he was nothing more than toxic waste."
He reaches for his water. "And what a smooth sailing that has been."
"You could have jumped ship a long time ago. Many would have."
He takes a sip but remains silent. She doesn't. "I heard how you talked about him yesterday. You're sticking with him for the same reason you chose to help him in the first place."
"And what reason is that?"
"You believe it's the right thing to do. You think he's a good man."
"He is." A little skepticism flickers across her features so he adds, "Good. Not perfect."
Her face softens. "Just admit it, Mr. Gold."
He arches an eyebrow and puts down the glass. "Admit what, Ms. Fiedler?"
"You'd like to make this world a better place, and you're willing to go the extra mile."
He shakes his head and smiles. He's racked up considerable mileage during his association with Peter, that's true, but most of those trips were made deep into Morally Gray Land and there's only one detour he feels truly ashamed about – even though the young woman whom he practically evicted from her life as a result has already forgiven him and more. She's given so much more than her forgiveness – so much he craves but doesn't deserve yet takes anyway because it drowns out the metallic voice of that jaded cynic inside his head. Can a selfish man with so much guilt ever be considered 'good'?
His glances to his lunch partner, eyes searching for an answer to a question never asked, and she offers him one.
"You, sir, are a closet idealist," she says and quickly runs her eyes over him. "Shrouded in an expertly tailored power suit." When he doesn't immediately react, she adds mock-conspiratorially, "For strategic purposes, of course."
He stares at her in silence for a moment, then bursts out laughing. He's been called many things before but this is something new. He can't decide if it's a compliment or an insult, the actual truth or just an idealized version of it. He doesn't have time to ponder it further because their waiter finally arrives. Eli can't quite tell what's heaped on the plate in front of him but at the very least it smells good.
"So, what do you say?" she asks, drawing his attention back to her.
He glances at his glass. "I think I'm gonna need something stronger."
"A dog shelter?" Frank asks and starts laughing again. He hasn't been able to stop for several minutes.
Eli stares at him with an icy little smile. "I'm glad you find this so amusing." They should have done this over the phone. It would have been much quicker and less taxing than this tête-à-tête in the busy lounge bar of the hotel. He checks his phone and frowns: no new messages, no calls, nothing.
Frank's laughter is quieting down and he pats Eli on the shoulder with such vehemence that the phone almost slips from the campaign strategist's hand. "I'm sorry," the chairman says and takes a sip from his drink.
"I haven't said yes," Eli adds a tad defensively. He knows it's a weak argument but he doesn't like being laughed at.
"You haven't said no, either," Frank counters, then gets a bit more serious. "Look, Eli, I get it."
Eli's eyes narrow. He doesn't like where this is heading. "Get what?"
Frank looks at him and smiles - not a good sign. "You like her and I can't blame you. She likes you too."
"I don't-" Eli starts but Frank cuts him off.
"You just wanna be nice, make a good impression." Eli shakes his head vigorously, his lips already forming a mute and very definitive 'no' but Frank doesn't seem to care or notice. "It's okay. Good for you, good for her, good for us. Am I right?"
Eli bites back a remark and drifts into silence, which Frank mistakes for agreement. It couldn't be further from the truth but it seems the chairman has already made up his mind and Eli suspects that any further argument or protest would probably only deepen his conviction. He glances at his phone again.
"Is something wrong?" Frank asks without looking at him.
"Hmm?"
"You keep checking your phone."
"Force of habit." And a lie. He had a missed call from Natalie earlier. He tried to call her back several times but always got her voicemail instead. He finally left an awkward message but it's been almost two hours since then. He's getting worried. It's probably just residual paranoia from his morning chat with Kalinda but he can't seem to shake it.
Frank swings down the rest of his drink and checks his watch. "Well, this has been nice, Eli, but I'm afraid I have to go," he says, rising to his feet. "See you tomorrow, top dog."
Eli nods with forced casualness and a strained smile. He waits until the chairman disappears, then bolts from his chair.
His taxi is approaching her building. An ambulance and several police cars are already pulled up at the curb, blue and red lights still flashing silently under the numb gray sky. The icy claws of raw panic grip and twist his insides and he reflexively reaches for his phone. Cold fingers dial the number she gave him. It's ringing.
One.
He can't remember the last time he prayed.
Two.
Holding the phone to his ear, he tosses the driver some bills from his coat pocket. It's too much but he doesn't care. He doesn't even hear the driver. He just wants to get out.
Three.
He reaches to unbuckle the safety belt and realizes he never buckled it.
Four.
He gets out and starts walking. There's a faint drizzle. And people – a murmuring mass of human curiosity with nothing to see and too much to assume.
Five.
His gaze searches for a face. For her. She's not there but she's fine. She has to be because he can't deal with the alternative – its horrible image is already circling the perimeter of his consciousness like some vicious creature ready to pounce.
Six.
As he gets closer he hears it faintly – a familiar sound. Her ringtone. He recognizes it from last night. He gets her voicemail again and quickly re-dials. Heart pounding, ears strained, eyes darting around, he's trying to locate the source of that faint thread of hope. He has a keen hearing but there's just so much noise – police radios, people, traffic, his own blood rushing in his ears – everything's pulsing with a wet and mute mixture of red and blue.
It takes a few seconds – an eternity – but his ears eventually lead him to the phone. It's in apurse in a trashcan near the entrance. Hers. Slick panic wraps around him like a heavy, numbing blanket but he shakes it off, grabs the purse and starts walking. Faster and faster, through the entrance, across the lobby, straight towards the stairs. He climbs them three at a time. His brisk steps and ragged breaths echo through the stairwell but all he hears is the violent pounding of his heart.
He reaches the fourth floor and dashes into the hallway, his eyes frantically searching for her door.
It's open.
No.
A uniformed officer emerges from the apartment – her apartment – and walks away in the opposite direction. He's followed by a crime scene technician carrying something large in an evidence bag. It looks like a baseball bat and the bag sticks to its tip. It's smeared with messy red.
Please don't…
Eli slows to a stop, heaving and reeling and begging without words. To God. To anyone who might be listening. Anyone who can hear what he can't say. Please. He runs a slightly shaky hand through his hair, then forces himself to move. He starts walking, dread and purpose dragging and pushing him along the hallway closer and closer to the door.
Her door.
Please.