This chapter is considerably shorter than the last dozen or so. This is because it was actually part of a much longer chapter which I haven't yet finished, and rather than make you wait until the whole thing is finished, I decided to publish this little part. I know I've been absent for a while, and I apologize, but sometimes being in Eliot's head is just too much and I need a break. Thanks to all of you who have left reviews, even if I haven't responded to them - they keep me writing! And thank you to everyone who is still reading - the end is nigh, I promise (if only everyone would stop talking and let me wrap up)!

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Chapter 25

It was two-thirty in the afternoon when Eliot finally returned to the hotel. He'd spent nearly three hours in the car attempting to make a decision about whether or not he would stay with the team, and the only thing he had to show for it was a list of replacement hitters for Nate. Every time he decided to leave, after weighing the pros and cons in a logical and detached internal argument, his mind tossed out the result and started again at the beginning.

The good news was that Pete's voice — disembodied or … not — was no longer in his head. At least, the rational part of him thought that was good news; there was another part of him that, unhealthy as it was, missed the constant nagging and joking of his dead best friend.

The bad news was that, although Pete was no longer actively commenting on Eliot's every thought and action, his words still echoed in Eliot's head. So did Juan's. It was their comments that kept forcing him to go back to the beginning every time he thought he'd finally made up his mind. They had an answer for everything.

"Your team — you help people, and in each other you've all found a family to help yourselves, too. So tell me, Eliot — why are you leaving them behind?"

He had to leave. It was for the best.

"Why do you always run away? For the best hitter in the business, you're pretty cowardly when it comes to the people you care about."

He wasn't being a coward; he was trying to protect them.

"You'd give your life for them — and when was the last time you cared enough about someone to do that? But you know what? They'd do the same for you in a heartbeat. When was the last time you allowed someone to love you enough to do that?"

That was the problem. He'd promised himself he would never again allow someone else to die for his mistakes.

"These people you are with now, they're a good influence on you."

True. But so were Juan and Pete, and they were still influencing him years later, even when they weren't around. He didn't have to put the team in danger for them to have a good influence on him.

"They all need you, El. Almost as much as you need them."

Debatable. They cared about him, yes. But need? Why would anyone need him?

"Your team can see the good in you, Eliot. Why can't you?"

They only saw the good because that's what they wanted to see. They didn't really know him.

"They know the best parts of you. Why do you think that's not the real you?"

Because he killed fourteen men in a warehouse two weeks ago.

"You were defending yourself, and you were protecting your team. You weren't killing innocents, you were fighting a war. If you hadn't done what you did, you would be dead, and Nate, and your team. You saved us all."

Why didn't that change anything? He couldn't fathom telling the team the truth. He couldn't even look Nate in the eyes.

"All you succeeded in doing was showing him that you're an even better man than he thought."

"You started to run from him first. He's tried to talk to you, but you're too much of a coward to even look him in the eyes."

He wasn't a coward. He just couldn't bear to think of disappointing any of them.

"You haven't given them the chance."

But what if they hated him? He wasn't strong enough to live through that.

"Promise you won't close up again. Death's too easy, but so's life if you never live it."

In the end, that's what it all came down to. He already felt like he'd broken his promise to Pete; the thought of doing so again felt like a deliberate slap in the face to Pete's memory. But staying with the team frightened him.

Then again, so did leaving them. Just the thought made his chest ache with empty loneliness. He didn't want to be alone anymore.

"So tell me, Eliot — why are you leaving them behind?"

He sighed heavily. Back to the beginning. Again.

He was walking down the hall toward his hotel room when he saw Hardison. Even worse, Hardison saw him, so there was no avoiding a conversation.

The hacker was carrying a duffel bag, which was odd; his luggage always consisted of a messenger bag with his laptop and a wheeled bag of some sort that carried all the rest of his assorted gadgets. Duffel bags were too heavy; the few times he'd been forced to carry them were always accompanied by intense whining.

"Where have you been?" Hardison demanded. "We've been worried sick."

Eliot forced a growl, but the real anxiety in Hardison's tone did not escape him. "Around. So sorry I didn't tell you where I was going beforehand, dear."

"Come on, is that really too much to ask? And don't pretend like you were all innocent. I tried tracking your phone, but you turned it off. How many times do I have to tell you —"

"What's all that?" Eliot attempted to head off the tirade he knew was coming.

It worked. Hardison grinned.

"Knick-knacks. We just stole a country. I want souvenirs."

Without warning, Eliot felt himself overcome by a memory before he could stop it.

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Eliot had just finished his sub-par infirmary breakfast. The nurse had taken away everything but the pudding, which she'd left in case he "got hungry later." Fat chance. There was a reason he hadn't touched it — it was tapioca. He hated tapioca. You'd think getting stabbed would have at least gotten him some chocolate.

He lay back and closed his eyes in an attempt to get a little bit of rest before —

A knock sounded, and without waiting for a response, Pete Rodriguez barged into the room and asked, in the most annoyingly chipper tone possible at this hour, "Good morning! How are you feeling?"

Eliot sighed. Three days ago, he had saved Juan's life and gotten stabbed by Rodriguez — with his own knife — for his trouble. The doctors refused to let him leave the infirmary for another few days, and they'd essentially condemned him to complete bed-rest until then. So he was stuck, bored out of his mind, going stir-crazy, with awful food — Tapioca? — and to top it off, Pete Rodriguez insisted on "keeping him company" every damned minute.

Yes, Juan had asked Eliot to help Rodriguez. "He doesn't have anyone," he'd said. And yes, Rodriguez was a good kid with a good heart and a bad story, the particulars of which Eliot still didn't know. But Eliot hardly had any patience left after three days of Rodriguez's constant "company." He didn't know how much more of this he could take.

Rodriguez flopped into the chair next to Eliot's bed. "Ooh, tapioca. Are you going to eat that?"

Eliot slapped his hand as he reached for the pudding. "Yes, I am. And I'm feeling just peachy, trapped in bed in this room, going nuts, with absolutely no escape in sight."

At the phrase No escape, Rodriguez frowned at the floor, face flushing.

Eliot got a horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach. "He doesn't have anyone," Juan's words echoed in his head. "I think you would be good for him." Oh yeah, Moreau's Rottweiler, who three days ago had begged to die from a measly flesh wound, was definitely the right man to get this kid back on track.

Before Eliot could think of how to fix what he'd just said, Rodriguez looked up. His too-watery eyes made Eliot feel even worse.

Rodriguez cleared his throat and said, in a voice that seemed to be trying with all its might to stay steady and failing miserably, "Right. I just stopped in really quick to give you this."

Careful to look nonchalant, he tossed a tiny bundle onto Eliot's lap, which Eliot unwrapped. It was a knife.

The knife.

Rodriguez stood to leave. "Thought you might want it back."

"Why would I want a knife that someone else stabbed me with?"

It was an honest question, but Eliot realized too late how harsh it sounded. Rodriguez winced, blinking rapidly and biting his lip, as if trying not to cry.

He tried to shrug casually and even gave a valiant effort toward a smirk. "I dunno, a souvenir?"

Eliot attempted to dispel Rodriguez's hurt with a smile. "You keep it, then."

Rodriguez didn't meet Eliot's gaze, but he flushed again, mumbled, "Right, sorry," and reached for the knife.

Eliot almost yelled in frustration. He sucked at this. All he was doing was making things worse. What the hell had Juan been thinking?

But instead he firmly but gently grabbed Rodriguez's wrist with one hand and snatched the knife up in the other.

"Sit down, Pete," he said as kindly as possible.

He released Rodriguez's wrist only when it was clear the kid was sitting and not preparing to bolt, though he still refused to meet Eliot's eyes. Eliot held out the knife, handle first, and gave it a little wave until Rodriguez looked up.

"I'm giving it to you."

Rodriguez frowned, but took the knife. "Why?"

Eliot kept his tone light and his smile genuine. "Well, first of all, it's just a little weird to use a knife that was used to stab me. Call it a superstition." He winked, and the wrinkles on Rodriguez's brow smoothed a little bit. "Second, you're going to need a knife to practice with once we start lessons, and I know you're already used to that one."

Rodriguez's face lit up, and his smile was so big and contagious Eliot couldn't have kept a straight face if he'd tried. "Lessons?"

"I told you before that you're a danger to yourself and others without training. So consider that a souvenir of what happens if you don't practice."

Rodriguez beamed, turning the knife over in his hands. "Yeah. Okay."

"We can start as soon as they let me out of this god-forsaken place," Eliot grumbled. He pushed the pudding toward Rodriguez. "You can have it. I hate tapioca."

Rodriguez grinned sheepishly. "So do I. I was just trying to make conversation earlier. You'd think that when you get injured fighting for your country, the least they could do is give you chocolate."

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Eliot smiled. That was how the memories were now, after the visit to Pete's grave. Ever since he'd returned to San Lorenzo, he had attempted to repress them, which was like trying to hold back the sea at high tide and only resulted in Pete's disembodied voice irritating him, like so many grains of sand, until he lost his footing and the memories bowled him over, nearly drowning him. But now, Eliot allowed them wash over him like gentle waves, bracing for impact so that he could remain standing with his head above water. Moving on meant remembering without reliving; though the memories still hurt, the pain was a dull ache, not a sharp pang. Sometimes they even made him smile.

He was doing just that when he heard Hardison ask, "Where's your luggage?"

Luggage? Crap, what had they been talking about? Memories, souvenirs, duffel bags — luggage. Hardison was asking why he wasn't packed.

The real answer was that he hadn't been back to his room since the morning of the election — had that really been yesterday, because it seemed like months ago — and even if he had been there recently, he had no reason to pack yet because he wasn't leaving with the team today. But he wasn't about to tell that to Hardison just then, in the middle of the hallway. He only intended to have that conversation once, with the whole team present.

So he said the first thing he could think of that would get Hardison to focus on something else.

"I don't travel with luggage."

Before Hardison could even begin to respond to such a ridiculous comment, Parker came up behind them, dragging — no, wheeling — an enormous trunk of who knew what, and because Eliot didn't want any part of that conversation, he said, "I'm going to go get Nate," and headed toward the mastermind's room.

He knocked, wondering why he hadn't heard anything from Nate or Sophie this morning.

"Geez," said Hardison. "What have you got up in here, Parker, some of Moreau's gold bars?"

Eliot knocked again, this time calling Nate's name, his pulse speeding up. Why wasn't Nate answering? Could Moreau have gotten to him somehow?

"Hey," said Parker. "You got your souvenirs, I got mine."

Eliot's heart jumped to his throat, and he whirled around just as the elevator doors closed on Hardison and Parker. She'd been joking, right? Even Parker wasn't so foolhardy as to sneak into Damien Moreau's mansion just to steal some gold.

Who was he kidding? This was Parker.

The thought of her in that mansion that he knew so well — in which he'd committed too many cold-blooded acts and which he himself had mercilessly secured against intruders — angered and frightened him so much that he smashed his shoulder into the door without even thinking.

It wasn't until he heard Nate's groggy grumbling that he realized he'd just broken into a hotel room — Nate's hotel room. But the relief that coursed through him at the fact that the mastermind was safe was such that he didn't even have to fake a smile as he made an excuse.

"Let's go! Take-off!"

Nate moaned. "Yeah, I was just — I had a couple last night. You know, a drink, just to celebrate."

Of course. Nate hadn't been around because he was hungover, not because Moreau had gotten to him. Eliot laughed at his own idiocy, too relieved to tell anything but the truth. "I don't care, man. Moreau's gone."

As he stared at Nate, who was still in bed and in his undershirt, Eliot wracked his brain for something to add, something to distract from the fact that he'd just barged in on Nate after breaking down a door — add that to the hotel bill, along with all the exploded pillows.

"You're a free man," he said with a smile. "Things are back to normal."

Shit, that was the wrong thing to say. Whatever decision Eliot made about the team, things were the opposite of normal between him and Nate. Before the mastermind could say anything in response, Eliot gave the doorjamb a quick knock and left.

In the hallway, he leaned up against the wall for a moment to gather himself. Things are back to normal. Things would never be normal again. Nate knew what he'd done in the warehouse, and the bastard was smart enough to extrapolate about the types of things he'd done for Moreau.

"All you succeeded in doing was showing him that you're an even better man than he thought."

No, all he'd succeeded in doing was showing Nate Ford — the man so honest and guilt-ridden he wouldn't even let them break him out of prison — what type of man he still was. Eliot couldn't work for someone who would always see him as a monster.

That decided it. No more debating. He was leaving. He had to.

He took a deep breath and knocked on Sophie's door — literally two steps down from Nate's. That meant they were connected, Eliot thought absently. Huge security risk, sharing a door with the next room over.

He heard scuffling from inside the room and a shout of, "One minute!" before the door was thrown open, revealing Sophie in a flowery, satin robe. She was flushed, out of breath, and her hair was a mess.

Eliot blinked. He'd never seen her so disheveled. His heart started to pound again. "Are you okay, Soph?"

The grifter beamed. "Of course," she panted. "I just — I was in the bathroom when I heard a bang next door, followed by Nate grumbling and you talking about take-off." She waved her hands haphazardly. "I threw on my robe and rushed to the door before you could break mine down, too."

Dammit. She'd heard that. He was such an idiot. "Right, well, we need to get going, so …" He ran a hand through his hair and went to leave. "Meet you outside."

"Eliot."

He turned around to see her standing with her arms wrapped around herself and her brow furrowed slightly. She looked almost awkward. "Did you … find what you needed last night?"

Their conversation at the bar the previous evening came back to him in flashes — him crying on her shoulder, her and Mind Pete encouraging him to face the past, her tearfully begging him not to leave the team, her suggesting that he speak with Moreau. She'd helped him more than she would ever know, and he was grateful.

"Yeah," he whispered. "I did."

She smiled then. It was a genuine Sophie smile, not her grifter one, and Eliot couldn't help but return it. He felt a warmth spread through him. Seeing her smile made him happy, and she was smiling because she'd helped him. Because she cared about him.

The warmth swelled to fill the emptiness in his chest. It wasn't a gaping hole of loneliness anymore, but a solid sense of belonging that he wanted to grasp tightly and never let go.

"So tell me, Eliot — why are you leaving them behind?"

His chest deflated like a balloon.

Back to the beginning. Again.

Sophie sighed contentedly. "Well, I'd better finish getting dressed. Meet you at the airport in a few."

She closed the door before he could say anything more.

He turned and walked toward the stairs, pulling out his phone to send a text to Hardison: Meet you at the airport.

The response was quick and short: OK.

He didn't want to be with anyone right now. He'd be taking the long way to the airport.

He needed the time to think.