AN: Short chapter, sorry, but I think it's a good cut-off point because it tells you where this story is going…Besides, the last chapter was super-long, and so was the one before it.
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No
The man hasn't been back, not since he'd promised to save them. Some say he's been taken by the Shadows, too. Some say he's dead. Old Lulu Elder says the ducks must've et 'im, but no one pays much attention to the crazy old bat anyway.
They talk.
They whisper.
No one says that he must have lied about helping them. Because no one believes that. No one was taken last night, or the night before last. No one since Moniqua from Fifth and Maple last week. She was the last.
They watch.
They wait.
There have been people at the man's apartment, often with a small boy. The people take boxes out of the building. And they wonder, did the bad men get their friend after all? Where has he gone? Why did he leave?
They wonder.
They worry.
The boy sees them and he tells them, he tells them that they're safe now. They can sleep safe on the streets now. No more Shadows, he tells them. No more fear, he says to them with serious blue eyes. An old soldier's eyes in a boy so young.
It's the man, they whisper. So young now, he's a boy. But it's him, it's the man. So young, old soul.
They whisper.
They watch.
They watch over him, see that he's safe, see that he's fed and warm and has a place to sleep (because that's all that's needed to live, to survive), they watch the people who were the man's friends take care of him and watch over him.
They see the boy smile and laugh, and they smile to see it.
And they sleep safe, safe on the streets where they've always lived.
They disappear into the background of the busy city streets.
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"No."
Eliot crosses his arms and scowls. "No way."
"Eliot," Sophie says coaxingly, "Eliot darling, we don't know how long it will take your brother to find a way to reverse the spell. We need to make sure you're all healthy and strong."
"No doctor."
"I hate going to the doctor, too," Parker says from her perch on the kitchen counter and swings her feet, "They always try to give me a shot. I don't like getting shots. Except for the lollipops. I always make sure to steal all of them because the nurses are mean."
"Parker, not helping," Sophie says out of the side of her mouth.
"C'mon, lil' man," Hardison starts, and backs off at the glare he gets. "I mean, Eliot. We know adult you was all healthy and badass and shit, but little you…smaller you? Younger you might step on a rusty nail and get all tetanus-y and septic-y and stuff. None of us want that, man."
"No."
"Eliot. You're going to see the doctor," Nate says sternly, and walks out the door without a second look back.
Eliot holds out for about thirty seconds, then reluctantly follows Nate out with a heavy sigh.
Nate's waiting outside the door, as if he'd known the whole time that Eliot would do as commanded. Eliot glares at him half-heartedly from under his curly mop of hair.
"Come on," Nate says with a small smile and puts a hand on the back of the sullen boy's neck. "We'll get ice cream after."
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"No," Eliot says from the tiny space behind Nate's couch.
"Come on, Eliot. Quit the Parker imitation and come out of there," Nate says. It's late, and the six-year-old should have been in bed an hour ago.
"Not goin' ta bed," Eliot maintains adamantly, "I'm not tired."
"Eliot!"
"You ain't my daddy. Ya can't make me!" It's punctuated by a pout that Nate can just barely see in the darkness around the couch.
He sighs and ignores the unintended jab. It's not unusual for the boy to forget things he'd known as an adult, things like how Nate had really been a father and how he'd lost his son. Otherwise, Nate knew, he would never say anything to hurt him or anyone else on the team. "Eliot."
There's no response, only a stubborn silence. Nate shakes his head and sighs. He'll be back later, when Eliot's more malleable from exhaustion.
The boy yawns as he waits for more coaxing words, but the wait is long, and his eyelids start to droop.
Five minutes later, Nate lifts up one end of the sofa and pivots it so that he can pick up the peacefully slumbering Eliot, and carries him to the end of the hall to the newly-refurbished bedroom in his apartment. Tucking him in is an action that comes back like riding a bike, and he brushes the boy's tangled curls back from his forehead in a gentle caress.
"Sweet dreams, Eliot."
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"No," Eliot says again, marching up to Nate and jabbing a sticky finger in the direction of his face (but only managing to reach up to about his diaphragm), "You ain't doin' a job without me."
"The client needs our help," Nate says, and the matter's settled, whether Eliot likes it or not.
He doesn't get a vote; he's not eighteen yet.
(In case anyone is wondering, no, he hasn't been allowed to touch alcohol since he'd turned into a kid. And he really needs a drink. You'd think it would be easy getting just that one sip he really, really needs, living in the same apartment as an alcoholic, but no. Nate's smart. Don't ask, but it's very clever and incredibly infuriating. But he's working on it. He has a plan. He's sick of milk and fruit juice.)