Title: By Paths Coincident 14/?

Author: Honorat

Rating: T

Characters: Jenkins, Eve Baird, Jacob Stone, Cassandra Cillian, Ezekiel Jones, Parker, Alec Hardison, Eliot Spencer, Damien Moreau, Chapman, Lamia, Others TBA as needed.

Pairing: Parker/Hardison, Cassandra/Jake, Cassandra/Eliot, just a touch of Eliot/OC

Disclaimer: Dean Devlin, John Rogers, TNT own these characters.

Description: The Librarians discover Leverage International. Jacob Stone and Eliot Spencer have a family past, but they aren't the only members of the two teams who've met before. Expect whiplash between light and dark.

By Paths Coincident

Eliot heard Parker scramble out onto the roof. The fact that he could hear her in spite of the rain meant she wanted him to know she was there. He would have preferred being alone, but Parker had no respect for privacy. Hell, bacteria had more respect for privacy than Parker.

"Hey, Eliot!" she called from over by the chicken coop, flipping on the area light.

Eliot squinted in the sudden glare as the world off the edge of the roof turned black, streaked with silver rain. Parker looked like a drowned creature, her hair soaked and hanging in seaweed-like strands. Just how long had she been out here before she made enough noise to alert him?

"Do you wanna help me steal the eggs?"

He was not going to be able to ignore her. City girl Parker never got tired of pickpocketing eggs from the chickens. Since she didn't usually share this chore, Eliot knew she was worried about him, and this was her way of asking if he was all right. If it had been Hardison interrupting him, he would have had no compunction at telling him where he could stuff his concern, but this was Parker.

Eliot resigned himself to reassuring his thief that he was perfectly fine. Getting to his feet with a twinge of muscles too long inactive in the cold, he joined Parker.

She did not, of course, have a basket. Parker collected eggs like she lifted necklaces off wealthy dowagers at embassy balls—you never saw her do it, and you never saw the eggs. Eliot had honestly tried to catch her at it, but Parker could lift an egg from under a hen so that the old biddy never even noticed. She would arrive in the kitchen, and the eggs would appear. Eliot always expected to find Parker oozing yolks and broken shells, but she never lost an egg. He had about come to the conclusion that she had an extra-dimensional space tucked away in her pocket where she stashed her loot.

Eliot only kept a few hens on the roof, enough to give him eggs for personal meals and to keep the bugs off his garden while adding a little fertilizer. The Brew Pub purchased its eggs from a local farmer after Eliot had assured himself that the hens were free range. He had bought these particular chickens with Parker in mind—an eclectic mix of Araucanas and Easter Eggers, so she could find colored eggs, and a couple of Silkies because he thought their fuzzy heads and feet would make her laugh. The Silkies worked far better than he could have hoped. Not only did Parker nearly sprain something the first time she saw them, scaring the poor things out of a change of feathers with her snorts of laughter, but she had the same reaction to them every time she saw them. "They look like David Bowie in Labyrinth," she said, and they kind of did. Her forays into the chicken coop were always punctuated by joyous cackling. Eliot never got tired of hearing her; Parker's laugh was one of the things that let a little sunshine into his darkness.

Not having Parker's talent for pickpocketing chickens, Eliot grabbed a basket and, making his way among the raised beds of his garden, joined her at the coop. Flipping on the low watt light, they ducked in the door. The roosting hens rustled at the interruption. Eliot could sympathize. Together, he and Parker collected the eggs, Parker stealing them and giggle-snorting at the Silkies, Eliot simply reaching under the hens and putting the eggs in his basket.

He'd done this when he was a child, with his mama. But these hens were far different from the giant black and white Plymouth Rock chickens his mama had loved. Eliot preferred not to be reminded. He didn't really know what he believed about an afterlife, except that if there was a hell, he was going to it, but he hoped that wherever his mama was, she couldn't see what her son had become.

When they emerged from the chicken coop, Parker skipped off, dancing from the edge of one raised-frame garden bed to another. Eliot had visions of yolks and shells, but he should have known better.

She stopped by the bed that was hers. Parker was making an attempt to learn to garden. It had been Eliot's idea when he had decided to transfer some of his home gardening to the Brew Pub rooftop. Both Parker and Hardison thought that real food came in boxes and plastic packs from grocery stores supplemented by things that came in cardboard and Styrofoam from restaurants. While Hardison had refused to detach from his technology or go anywhere near actual dirt, Parker had been game to try. Perhaps she would eat vegetables more often if she grew them herself.

Eliot had involved Parker from the start. She had helped him build the frameworks for the raised bed. This had proved to be a bit reckless since Parker had loved the skill saw and had destroyed several board feet of lumber cutting it up for fun. When they had filled the bed with dirt, compost from the kitchen, and peat moss, Parker had been extremely dubious that anything edible could emerge from such an environment. Eliot had selected seeds that he judged would grow fast enough to keep her attention. Parker had looked at him like she expected he was pulling her leg when he informed her that the tiny, round, dark, hard thing had a plant inside it.

Nevertheless the garden had finally been sown and all that remained was waiting. Eliot had caught Parker up on the roof several times staring at the barren soil as if she thought she could inspire it to do something.

"This is really, really boring," she'd told him.

"It takes time, Parker," Eliot had said, grinning at her impatience.

Tonight, she was finally rewarded.

"Eliot! Come see!" Parker called.

"What is it?" he asked.

Parker was crouched over her garden. "Something's growing!" she exclaimed. "Look!"

Unable to resist the half a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, Eliot joined Parker in kneeling by the wooden box, staring down at the expanse of soaked, black earth from which a green shoot was emerging.

"You got a zucchini there," he informed her.

Parker frowned at the plants. "It doesn't look like zucchini." At least she had progressed to knowing what a zucchini was.

"That's because it's just a baby," Eliot said. "It'll grow up and make flowers, and the flowers will turn into zucchinis, but maybe we'll make some into fried squash blossoms."

"Really?" Parker scrutinized her future crop again. "You're sure?"

"Positive," Eliot assured her. "Happens every time."

"How?" asked Parker.

Eliot shrugged. "Just does. Add rain and sunlight, and the plant grows."

"It's funny," said Parker, "how we filled that box with rotten stuff and then the chickens pooped on it, and we buried a seed in it, all covered in dirt, but look how clean and green it is now." She raked her slim fingers through the wet soil, scooping up a handful and letting it drop through her fist. Holding out her stained hand towards Eliot, she asked. "How does something clean come out of something so dirty?"

The two of them knelt side by side in silence, watching the rain gather up the dirt and rearrange it on Parker's hand but not wash it entirely away even when the water ran off. Finally, Parker scrubbed her hand on her leg, which helped but still left her with dirt under her fingernails. She reached out with one finger and poked at the green sprout with her thief-delicate touch.

"Weird," she said. Then she looked at Eliot with those wise-child eyes that always made him realize just how extraordinary Parker could be. "I think, maybe it just had to grow toward the light."

Eliot thought he stopped breathing. Parker was the most literal person he knew, but he could not lose the impression that she was not talking about plants anymore. Parker kept staring at him, her eyebrows drawing together in a bit of a frown as though he were a lock she couldn't quite pick, and she was searching for the right tumblers to drop.

Suddenly, she leaned in and laid her chin on his shoulder. "Haven't you added enough rain yet, Eliot?" she whispered in his ear. "You're awfully wet."

Then she bounced to her feet and exited the rooftop without saying another word.

Eliot stayed kneeling there as though she had knocked the wind out of him with a two by six.

Eve let Stone lead the way, following closely in case he faltered, up the steps from the sidewalk, then around the side of the house.

"This," said Stone with a brief burst of enthusiasm, "is an early 20th century American Craftsman Bungalow. It's pretty run down, now, but the interior woodwork is good. A lot of it got painted." His voice took on the tones of disgust usually reserved for raw sewage. It was well for the dastardly wielders of paintbrushes that they had long since departed for other parts. "But Mrs. Anderson told me I could do whatever I wanted with my room so long as I didn't burn down the house. Took me the whole first month, all my spare time, to strip the paint and the carpet—can you believe they put carpet tacks in a hardwood floor?"

Eve couldn't help smiling. Jacob Stone on an art-and-architecture rampage was fast becoming something she treasured. How strange that this little band of eccentric geniuses for which she had accidentally become responsible had become so woven into her heart.

They reached the back porch door, and Stone fumbled through his keys to unlock it. Holding it open, he ushered Eve inside.

The entry area was dark, but light glowed from somewhere in the front of the house. The faint sound of a television drifted back to them. A warbley, elderly voice called out, "Is that you, Jacob?"

"It is, ma'am," Stone called back. "Things went a little late at work. I brought a friend home, Colonel Baird, who needs a place to stay for the night. Just wanted you to know so you wouldn't worry if you heard I wasn't alone upstairs."

"That's fine, honey. Your friends are welcome any time," the voice said.

"Good night then," Stone said.

"Good night, dear."

Giving Eve a conspiratorial grin, Stone bent over to pull off his boots. That proved to be a mistake, and Eve had to steady him as he aborted the maneuver.

"I think I need to sit down," Stone said, his voice a bit breathless.

"Here's a seat thingy," Eve said, spotting what looked like a bench and helping Stone toward it.

"That'll do." Stone did not try to shake off her help which told her he must be feeling much worse than he was letting on.

"Oops, doily," she said before he could sit, snatching the crocheted item from the seat before Stone sagged onto it.

"There are," he said tiredly, "doilies on every possible surface of this house, a charming domestic artifact in the singular, or possibly even in the dozens, but becomin' tedious in the hundreds. I have not yet succeeded in convincin' the mistress of the house to set up a cottage industry and let me hawk them at the local farmers' market, but I have faith that I may yet carry the day."

Eve laughed. "My grandmother used to crochet blankets. Every member of her extended family had one. If she hadn't given them away, I think she would have buried her house in them."

"I wonder what our grandkids will say about our idiosyncrasies?" Stone asked.

Startled at the very thought of grandchildren, Eve stared at him. Although the fact that Stone made those assumptions about his own life shouldn't surprise her. He was a deeply traditional man from a conservative part of the country. Of course he visualized a picket fence sort of future. She wondered how magic was going to factor into that.

Eve herself had always imagined she'd end up a battle axe of a Brigadier General if she survived. She'd never considered raising her own military brats. Of course, Flynn might have his own ideas . . . and if it wasn't far too soon to be thinking about children when they'd only been around each other twice since they'd met. She was relieved that Stone did not continue the subject.

"Well," he said. "Once more with the safety net . . ." Taking a deep breath, he started to lean over.

"Wait," Eve stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "Let me."

"I don't need t'be babied," Stone growled.

"Look, you just clobbered your head. How about I agree to let you baby me once in the future in exchange?" Eve said kneeling in front of him and taking a hold of his boot.

Stone paused in the middle of trying to pull his foot away and eyed her consideringly, "Okay, it's a deal, but I get to pick."

Eve figured she was probably going to regret that bargain. She eased the well-worn boots off Stone's feet—a much easier task now that he was cooperating instead of resisting. Then, because she figured she'd better observe the house rules, she took off her own shoes, setting them in a neat row beside Stone's boots.

Getting to her feet, she held out her hands. "Up you get, cowboy."

For a wonder, he let her help him up without protest. She could tell his energy was flagging.

"One more flight of stairs," he sighed. "If I'd've known what kind of a job this was, I might have picked a ground floor room."

The entrance to the back staircase led off the entryway. The two of them padded up the slippery wooden steps in stocking feet.

"I feel like I'm fifteen and being smuggled into a boy's bedroom," Eve whispered.

"Little bit of a wild thing when you were a girl, eh?" He paused on the landing, where the stairs took a right-angled turn, to catch his breath, and she did not think it was because of the steepness of the climb.

He looked up the remaining stairs. "Once more unto the breach, dear friends . . ."

Gathering his determination and gripping the handrail, Stone made it the rest of the way to his door. Opening it, he flipped on the light and gestured for Eve to precede him.

Eve didn't really know what she had expected Stone's place to look like—perhaps something Western themed or looking like a boy's dormitory room. But this—this was like stepping back into the past. The first impression was of wood—beautifully re-finished wooden beams spanning the ceiling, heavy wood moldings framing the doorways and windows. The windows surrounded the room on three sides, looking out over the trees and the strip of industrial buildings to the Willamette River. A set of French doors opened onto a small balcony. The walls glowed a dull gold lit by period light fixtures. The floor was also hardwood, with a threadbare, antique rug in the sitting area. The furniture was obviously second hand but was wood-framed and leather with colourful cushions—what man concerned himself with cushions?

And she thought, of course. Given the chance to create his own space, Jacob Stone would make a work of art.

The art on the walls was not as prolific as she had expected, but she realized that every piece was original. And there were books—several tall bookshelves full, as well as stacks on the roll-top computer desk. Stone had been making up for lost time. A wrought iron bedstead stood in the corner opposite the seating area, the quilt on it likely handmade. There were even a few plants.

"This," she breathed, "this is beautiful."

Stone smiled at her a little shyly. "It was a bit of a wreck when I started, but I kinda like how it turned out."

Eve noticed he was looking pale. "You'd better sit down," she said. "Before you fall down."

"I think I will," he agreed. He made it to a chair on his own, but basically collapsed into it.

"Can you tell me what you're feeling?" Eve asked

"Head hurts. Just a little light headed. Maybe a little queasy. Can you turn on that table lamp and then switch off the lights. It's too bright in here."

"Okay, I'm going to get you some water and some more Tylenol. Can you tell me where it is?" Eve asked, just a little worried.

"Bathroom. Cabinet behind the mirror." Stone waved a hand in the direction of the only enclosed space in the room next to where the stairs came up. Tucked into the corner next to the bathroom was a tiny kitchenette.

Eve dimmed the lights as he'd requested and hunted down the Tylenol. Two for Stone and two for her. The headache wasn't going away. She found glasses in the single cupboard in the kitchenette and filled them with water. Swallowing her own painkillers, she set her glass back down on the counter and brought the other to Stone.

"If this doesn't have you feeling a little better in 45 minutes, let me know," she said as he took the medication.

Something alive came out from under the chair and wrapped itself around Eve's ankle, startling a squeak out of her.

A large, extremely fluffy feline of the black and white persuasion leapt from her leg into Stone's lap, butting its head under his hand and setting up a rattling vibration.

"That was the most adorably girly noise I've ever heard you make," Stone said. "And I'm includin' the princess singin'."

Eve glared at him. "Terrorists, I'm fine with. Minotaurs, I can take 'em. Things that grab my legs out of dark places—not good."

"This," said Stone, "is Thomas the Cat. Not Tom. Not Tommy. Definitely not Kitty. He has far too much dignity and insists on his full title. Thomas the Cat, this is Colonel Eve Baird."

"Pleased to meet you Thomas the Cat." Eve held out her hand to be sniffed and then rubbed by a deceptively fluffy, hard and insistent head. "He is certainly very large and . . . hairy."

"Since I keep the tangles and burrs out of his fur, clean his litterbox, fill his water bowl, and provide the thumbs to operate the can opener, Thomas the Cat considers me his valet and deigns to sit on my lap and allow me to worship him." Stone scritched his fingers along the cat's spine as the animal arched its back and increased in volume.

"Is he yours?" Eve asked, having never wondered if Stone was the sort of person to keep a pet.

"No, he belongs to my landlady, or she belongs to him. I do chores around here to cover a bit of the rent. Taking care of the cat is one of them. I also mow the lawn, weed the flowerbeds, fix anything that breaks down around here, and take Mrs. Anderson to church, to the senior center, to the hairdresser, to the mall and grocery store, and to her medical appointments. It allows her son, who lives in Seattle, to feel a little better about her living on her own."

"Do you have time for all that?"

"I make the time." Stone shrugged. "Every little bit of economy helps. And if I'm going to be gone, I make arrangements for someone else to fill in."

Eve had never really thought about the discrepancy between the income of a skilled oil rigger and that of a Librarian. Joining the Library had certainly meant a reduction in salary and benefits for her, but what did she have to spend money on anyway? She remembered that Stone had originally rejected the Library's job offer because of his responsibilities. Just because he was no longer living at home did not mean he wasn't still supporting his family. How many people was he taking care of? She realized she knew next to nothing about their art historian. But now she understood why he had shown no interest in even the very moderately priced apartments such as she and Cassandra had rented.

The cat settled itself like a furry lap rug. Stone leaned his head back against his chair and closed his eyes. "You should get somethin' to eat," he said to Eve. "There's sandwich fixings and milk in the fridge."

Eve realized she was starving. She hadn't actually eaten enough to count at the Brew Pub.

Stone's fridge was a tiny, antique sort of thing with an actual latching handle. It was amazing that it still worked. Eve did not want to eat too much this late, but a slice of bread with peanut butter and jelly sounded like comfort food to her.

Returning to the sitting area with her snack, Eve found Stone still resting. Rather than disturb him, she ate in silence, took her dish back to the kitchen sink, washed and dried it, and put it away.

Approaching Stone's chair again, she asked, "How are you feeling?"

"Better. I'm gonna head t'bed," Stone said not opening his eyes. "I don't suppose I can convince you to take the bed while I take the couch?"

"Not a chance," Eve told him firmly.

"You'll find the spare sheets and blankets in the armoire, bottom drawer," Stone pointed in its direction. "You can use one of the pillows off my bed."

Maneuvering himself to his feet, Stone evicted Thomas the Cat from his lap, for which indignity the creature stalked haughtily to the door and disappeared out the cat door installed in it. Stone followed, moving carefully as though afraid his head might fall off, in the direction of the bathroom.

By the time Eve had the couch set up to serve as her bed for the night, Stone had emerged from the bathroom clad in a pair of loose track pants and a t-shirt advertising some sort of motor oil. He made his way slowly over to his bed, turned back the covers, and slid under them. He sighed deeply as his head sunk into the pillow. "Feels good to lie down."

Eve had to resist the urge to go over and tuck him in like a little boy. Instead she took her bag to the bathroom to change into yoga pants and a tank top and brush her teeth. Returning to the room, she thought Stone was already asleep. But when she turned out the table lamp and curled up on the couch, pulling the blankets over herself, she heard his soft voice.

"G'night, Colonel Baird."

"Goodnight, Stone."

Because she was so exhausted, she set her phone alarm to wake her so that she could check on Stone. It turned out she needn't have bothered. Her nightmares were back.

TBC