.

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"If you do that again, I'm not responsible for my actions. Step. Away. From. Him."

For crying out loud, couldn't she wake up, for once, just once, to a normal morning, with coffee and breakfast, and silence? Florence sighed, opening her eyes. Eliot's voice sounded tense, and she slowly sat up, to see what the hell was happening now. The prospect of mafia killers having broke into the apartment only made her grumpy, not scared – she was so pissed off that she would deal with them all by herself, just to return to sleep for a few more hours.

"Meow?"

"Don't you meow at me, it's not working. I said move."

Shit. She jumped up, facing Eliot and Orion who were staring at each other; the man in the bed, the cat on the table, switching his tail. Orion's right paw was in the air, he was reconsidering the odds; when he heard her getting up, the paw went – again, obviously – into the soil of the plant that was placed on the table. With a victorious jerk, he pulled, and the soil went all over the table. She knew the exact amount of triumph in his eyes when he looked at Eliot.

A soft chuckle from the dining table located Sophie, with a magazine and coffee, fresh and beautiful, with her hair falling on her shoulders in perfect, shiny locks. When, for god's sake, when did she have time to look so awfully… impeccable? Florence ran her hand through the mess on her head, and went to save Orion. Or Eliot. Or kill them both. Whatever.

"Glaring the cat down doesn't work, Eliot," Sophie said. "It just makes it interesting for him, and encourages him to do it again."

"I thought that only applied to Parker," he murmured, hitting the cat directly on the nose with a foil ball.

Florence hurried up when she saw the triumphant look in Orion's eyes – one more human bent to his will, forced to play with him.

"Sorry about that," she grumbled, picking the cat up. Orion flapped his paws trying to catch the plant, but she put him on the bed and distracted him with the other balls. When she looked at Eliot she quickly changed her mind, rolled one ball onto the floor and sent the cat after it. He looked as if he was barely able to keep his eyes open, and a cat jumping all over the bed was the last thing he needed right now. His oxygen mask was on the bed, near his hand.

He just motioned it was okay and closed his eyes, so she moved away to gather her things and to go to the bathroom.

Orion was still busy with the balls when she returned, with Sophie's help, so she joined her.

"Eliot told me about our visitor," Sophie said; the bomb was now sitting on the newspapers, as if there was nothing strange about having a bomb on the dining table. Maybe for them it wasn't strange. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm getting used to this; one more reason for concern." She heard the sound of a shower above their heads, and she glanced at the bed, knowing that Nate would soon join them. "It was pretty intense between the two of them because of that bomb," she finished in a low whisper.

"You don't have to whisper," Sophie's voice went just one nuance lower than usual. "He can't hear this – we've found the exact volume that can't reach the bed. Plenty of time to practice in the past few days. And don't worry about them bitching at each other, it's a usual thing."

All of this was normal for them, obviously. Sophie was dressed in a fancy dark suit and dark red silk blouse, and it was only – she checked her watch – six hours after she had left the apartment, in the middle of the night. And she looked like she was ready for the exciting day.

"I brought you the things you asked for, and put them in the kitchen," Sophie said to Eliot, slightly raising her voice. "If you need anything else, tell me now so I can direct Hardison to get it. He's on his way."

"Thanks, Soph," Eliot responded. "Nothing for now."

He sounded as bad as he looked, and Florence frowned – quieter or not, their voices would be constant background noise and he wouldn't be able to rest. But if they didn't pay any attention to that, she shouldn't as well.

Yet, she wasn't quite able to keep her mouth shut, ever. "More than ten days have passed since he was shot," she said reluctantly. "Why is he still so…not well?"

"Because the bullet isn't what's problem here," Sophie said quietly. Damn, those dark eyes were so disturbing when she eyed her, deciding how much to tell her.

"I don't get it," she said, confused.

"Well, it is a problem – he took a bullet in the chest, and that would have killed any other man, but…" Sophie smiled and shook her head. "It's just… we've gotten so used to thinking he's indestructible, that him going down shook us all. So we weren't surprised when he got up on the third day and went to finish his job. I think that deep inside all of us expected that – no, worse – to be honest, we welcomed it because the indestructibility was back, and the world was in order again. We thought we would just grab him after That Night, bitch him out a lot, and he'd continue to recover in peace," she entwined her long fingers and looked at them for a moment; when she raised her head again and looked at her, her eyes were even darker. "Well, we were wrong. He paid for getting up, heavily," her voice turned bitter. "When we finally caught up with him, we were almost too late. Betsy said it was a question of minutes – his blood loss was almost fatal, he was in severe hypovolemic shock, balancing on the verge of organ failure and brain damage for one entire day. Oxygen deprivation. It's only been six days since we were sure he'd live… and only three days since he got up for the first time. If he was only shot, he would be almost okay by now – but those complications messed up everything, he's too weak. If the situation was normal, Betsy would keep him in hospital for weeks now."

"What's stopping her?"

"The hospitals are still full of people that fought each other That Night."

"And it wouldn't be wise to let them see the man who was very active in making that happen?"

Sophie slowly tilted her head and smiled. So, that was the piercing look she wrote so many times, and her actors only managed to make it look as if they were shortsighted… Florence smiled and shrugged when Sophie said nothing. "Look, my mind works in plots and scenes – the situation you were in only had several ways of being solved, and pushing your enemies to fight one another is the most economical. I would write something like that if I was not bound to heroic actions with a lot of explosions and car chases."

"To know a little about something is more dangerous than to know nothing at all, dear."

Nate coming downstairs stopped her from answering, and left her wondering if Sophie's words were a warning, or just advice. She might have written dangerous and life-threatening situations… but this woman was living them.

"Good morning, Eliot, good morning, George," Nate said passing by the bed, and got some growling as an answer. Who the fuck is George? She dearly hoped Nate wasn't greeting that picture that hung behind Eliot's bed.

Nate was wearing an awfully cheap gray suit, and his hair was greased and pulled back from his forehead. Only somewhat dull eyes revealed that his night was as exciting as hers was.

"Ready for our final dealing with Michael Wright, Florence?" he asked fighting with his tie, so Sophie helped him. His voice was also quieter than usual.

"No, I'm not, I have no idea what's going on. But you obviously are ready."

"Yes we are," he smiled, running over the implied question. "Or, we'll be ready this afternoon. You said it's an afternoon meeting, right?" He turned to the bed pulling his tie, ruining everything that Sophie did. "You won't make any lunch today, Eliot?"

"Are you trying to piss me off for some reason, or are you just bored? Do I look like I'm able to make. fucking. lunch?"

"So, that's no, right?" Nate looked surprised when Sophie slapped his hand away and tightened the tie again. "The three of you will stay here – do you want Parker to make something?"

The gasp was heard very clearly. "Order a pizza, for god's sake, food poisoning is the last thing I need right now."

"That's just hurtful," Parker said calmly, mouth full of cereal.

Florence slowly turned to the girl that was sitting on the counter enjoying her breakfast, surprised mostly by her own lack of surprise at her materializing from out of nowhere.

"You are aware that you're not allowed to get up for the next nineteen and a half days, if we calculate in the twenty three point five hours of rest that Betsy ordered in past two days which you disobeying her?" Parker continued very sternly, with no trace of a smile. "I was thinking, Eliot."

"Dear God. Take me with you. I can lay in the van."

"Nope," Nate smirked. "We'll eat out after we finish with Florence's meeting. We need fresh air, walking in the breeze, sun on our faces…"

"I would snap you in the half if that didn't mean there would be two halves of you being smart ass bastards at the same time," Eliot growled. Florence noticed that he put his mask on after replying – the conversation was over.

Nate's smirk disappeared when he sat down at the table and she realized he was testing him to see how he was doing – and it seemed that he wasn't happy with Eliot not trying to get up, or even sit in the bed.

These people worked together. She tried to imagine how her coworkers would take care of her if she was in a similar situation – she was very close with all her writers and that crazy bunch when they were shooting – and she knew they would probably close her in her trailer and bring her lunch, only staying briefly for awkward talks full of uncomfortable silences.

These people, all of them, had two different minds working at the same time, one for the present situation, and one adjusted to him, monitoring his every move without pause.

Hardison's coming interrupted her musing before she came to a conclusion; he rushed in holding his tablet, full of awful, unnatural energy – morning people were very rare in TV business.

"What? Nobody knows, or cares, what's happening in the big world?" His grin was broad and almost catchy. Almost. "Shame on you," he threw his jacket over the chair and pulled something from his pocket. A small package. "Orion, come here!" The cat was ignoring him, but when he threw the entire box of ping–pong balls on the floor, Florence was sure Orion wouldn't stop chasing them for the next two hours.

"I see you were all sleeping like babies," he continued, grabbing the remote and turned on all six screens, with full volume.

Eliot put a pillow over his face.

Hardison switched two channels before he found what he wanted to show them, and Florence gasped when she saw A BREAKING NEWS UPDATE, in red letters over the screen.

A young woman was in front of the statue near the lake and talking into the camera: "Michael. R. Wright, 69, CEO of the C4 Network, was arrested this morning after police searched his home and office and found incriminating material connected with children pornography. Wright was caught in Operation Red Hoodthat the police ran over five months, when he uploaded data to the one of the sites that police monitored. We are now in front of the C4 building, where the police continue to collect evidence, trying to find his connections to other suspects in this case. Authorities believe that he is just one link in the giant chain-" Hardison lowered the volume down. "That's enough. The things are in motion."

"But he is not a child porn-" Florence stuttered. "You did this, you planted that – I thought you were stealing information from him. What- why- This isn't collecting evidence for a case!"

"With our way of obtaining the evidence, it couldn't be used in the court," Nate smiled. "We needed the police to collect it themselves, without us interfering in that. An anonymous tip wouldn't work, and we had to draw their attention to him, and push them into action. Hardison knows all the police cyber actions, and child pornography is the one that's immediately answered. The important part is that everything that's in his office, all the data, documents, info and connections with other people, is now being noted and investigated. Hardison left one little back door for him, in case we need those charges rejected."

"He ordered the murder of my friend, and tried…is trying… to kill me," Florence stated firmly. "I don't care if he is charged with that, or something else, as long as he pays for it." She thought for a second. "Wait. It's over now. That recording he wanted is now irrelevant; the police will have much more on him. He won't try to kill me anymore."

"You didn't ask how it would stop the cancellation of your show."

"Would you answer me if I asked?"

"Not yet," he smiled. "Because the problem with drawing police attention to him with the child pornography is that they'll search only for that kind of info in his data. They probably won't even notice the irregularities in his reports to the board directors and his communication with reality show's producers won't be suspicious either. His deals with the producers, either."

"You're trying to say that you can bring him down, but you can't save my show?" she bit her lip and tried to look brave. "It's okay. More than I expected – I thought no one could stop him from anything."

"I didn't say that. I said I can't answer that question yet."

She sighed, she just couldn't stop herself. "Okay, I'll wait. In meantime, he is in jail, so that means I'm free, no one will try to kill me anymore, no more mafia killers in our corridor," she smiled while saying that, but felt strangely empty thinking she would just return to her apartment and… leave them? Right, as if she ever was a part of it, anyway – she was just a problem that they quickly solved.

Hardison pulled a bunch of papers in plastic binders out of nowhere and threw them to Nate. "Choose – there's plenty of everything." His grin faded a little when he saw the bomb on the table. "What the hell is that?"

"A bomb," Parker said calmly. "I wouldn't touch it if I was you, it can be armed again with that switch. We're lucky it can be turned off again after you turned it on… accidentally."

Nobody dared to ask her to explain, and the silence lasted a few seconds, interrupted only with a barely audible 'told ya' so', from the bed.

"Okay, it seems I wasn't the only one that didn't sleep last night," Hardison said flatly. He went to the fridge, bringing a bottle of orange juice, and in a minute he and Nate were deep in an unintelligible conversation about something technical. Parker was eyeing the bomb, Sophie listened the other two, going through the papers that Hardison had brought, and Florence had enough time to sort things out in her head.

They had removed a threat in two days and one action, and put the guilty behind bars with ease, relaxed and having fun – she would have needed more time to write it down, than they needed to act it out. Their usual jobs obviously were much nastier if this one was so easy.

Her relief was dampened only by the uncertain destiny of her show, but she put that behind her now, concentrating only on the thought that she was free, and there was no need to fear anymore.

She needed to get ready for the meeting but she had enough time and it was nice to sit here, drink coffee and enjoy the relaxed atmosphere – even though one of them still had a pillow on his head.

However, the door bell ringing ruined that atmosphere in a second; Florence could see the exact moment they all remembered that Betsy was coming. This time they didn't even try to pretend nothing had happened. Parker's face turned dark and cloudy, as if she held herself responsible for not obeying Betsy's orders. Jesus, if Eliot's tiredness from the last time triggered that wrath, what would she do now, when he was completely worn out, and his hand was wrapped up?

Strange, the only bright face in the room was Betsy's.

She must have noticed their caution, there was no way she couldn't, but she greeted them cheerfully, again with that tender smile that she remembered from the last time.

"He did it again, didn't he?" she softly asked when Sophie offered her coffee.

"I'm right here, Betsy, leave them alone," Eliot called to her before any of them could reply.

"Of course, sweetie, be there in a second," she said gently. Hardison almost choked on his juice, and even Florence stopped her coffee half way to her mouth. She had never, ever, heard something so terrifying.

Parker looked at her with something close to adoration in her eyes.

Eliot said nothing.

Betsy waited one more moment and looked at Nate, and Florence could swear that for a second she saw a demonic glint in her eyes, before she made them all velvet again when she moved to the bed.

"Look at that poor little thing," she cooed when Eliot looked at her with aghast eyes, sinking in the pillows as deep as he could.

"What's wrong with y-" he had to clear his throat before he could continue.

"It's okay, sweetie, I know, I know… sometimes shit just happens, right? It's not your fault," she smiled tenderly and ruffled his hair. "Let me see that hand. Does it hurt?"

Florence quickly got up and collected her bags that Parker provided, psyching herself up. "I have to prepare for the meeting... may I use the upstairs bathroom?"

Nate just nodded, obviously fascinated by Betsy creeping the shit out of Eliot, and Florence stormed past the bed with one encouraging smile to him. He looked like he needed it. The last time she saw the same look in somebody's eyes, was when they shot Vin approaching a Claymore mine to disarm it.

She went upstairs, and closed all the doors behind her, cutting off any voices from below.

She took her time, finally completely alone, though she didn't have time for a long bath. In the end, choosing and trying on what to wear took longer than the time she spent in the bathroom, including drying her hair.

She chose a warm brown jacket with a matching short skirt, knowing it made her hair glow like the sun, and made her brown eyes bigger. The emeralds in her ears and on her neck were brighter than her green shirt, as green as the touch of it on her eyelids. When she made her hair flow back in natural golden waves, tucked behind her ears to open her face and let it shine, she knew she was ready. Impressing her business associates was always a big part of every negotiation, and now, when she had to pretend she knew nothing, it would add confidence she didn't feel.

Okay, maybe, but just maybe, she also wanted to show them how she looked when she wasn't a messy bag with bad hair. She started down the stairs – it took seven stairs before she admitted to herself that wasn't them in question, it was him. They didn't smile at her hair, barely suppressing a joke. Eliot did. Now he would see her hair could look just fine, thank you very much.

She waited a second before climbing down, listening.

"Look, I don't need the damn Happy Aquarium." Eliot's voice sounded normal. "I don't want any new games."

"Why not? You fill the aquarium with fish, you breed them, they swim, you put plants and decorations in it, exchange gifts-" More importantly, Betsy's voice sounded normal, without that creepy softness. Their storms had passed pretty quickly, and it seemed that the rest of the crew was more terrified of her than he had been.

"And stare at them, hypnotized, until my stress levels go down? Fish go left, fish go right, fish go left…" he laughed. "C'mon, give me some credit, I know what you're doin'. Staring at fish won't calm me down, trust me."

Betsy sighed heavily. "Idiot. Okay, no Happy Aquarium. For now."

That sounded safe enough, she could join them without any danger of jumping into the middle of a fight.

In the end, she had no idea if he noticed the hair or not, because at the very moment she reached the floor, she realized that she had jumped into something much worse than a fight - right into Betsy changing his bandages. He was sitting in the bed, without a fucking shirt, with only some white linen across his chest, and she quickly turned her head towards the screens. "Oh, sorry. I thought you were done. I'm moving away," she said quickly, keeping her head turned away, passing by the bed to the dining table. She didn't even hear what Betsy answered.

She sat, not bothering to join the quiet conversation, determined to finish her coffee before they went out, and mentally going through all the important things she had to discuss in the meeting.

Yet, her fucking concentration was betraying her; she had looked directly at him only for a moment, and nevertheless, the image was in front of her eyes as clear as if she stared at him for hours – every muscle, every line of his shoulders and arms, as vivid as if she had recorded it. The man was a fucking sculpture. And she could tell, though she had no idea how the hell she knew that, that those muscles weren't made in the gym – there was nothing pumped up and artificial in them, they were made by using them.

Fuck, she wasn't… okay. She was, maybe, a little attracted to him. There was something appealing in his eyes and smile, something that made people look twice. He was intriguing, and dangerous, and the strange behavior of the others when he was in question definitely added to the mystery. And that was all. She was happily married, she desperately missed her husband, and one conman, no matter how good looking he was, was just like those pretty guys in the magazines - they caught your eye, made you look twice and admire them for a moment, but after that you simply turned the page.

Florence grabbed her cup with both hands and concentrated on Hardison who was still explaining some gibberish to Nate. Out of the corner of her eyes she noticed Sophie was watching her.

She turned her head and avoided her eyes.