Summary: Everyone's 25th birthdays.
AN: This is it! The last one in this collection. I hope you guys enjoyed it as much as I have, and I hope to see you all next year for 26! (Oh jeez, what should I write for that one? *pulls out hair* Is it just me, or does this get longer every year? Hm, I wonder why I feel like that...*sarcastic*) Thanks for reading!
Thanks to zippy zany for the idea. I tweaked it a little bit, but I hope you like it!
Serendipity
1987
On Nate's 25th birthday, he gets drunk. It's getting to be somewhat of a tradition. But that's okay, really.
He's with friends, in particular, his new friend with whom he's already become particularly close, Jim Sterling.
Jim's just moved here from England, and in an attempt to get his new coworker settled in and fully comfortable in American culture, Nate had, of course, invited him out for a drink. They'd discovered that they share the same appreciation for a glass of fine whiskey and a good game of chess.
Nate's never met his match in the game, at least until Sterling. It's good to be challenged.
But tonight, no chess, just whiskey.
"To Nathan Ford," Sterling says, for the fifth time, raising his full glass, "A damn jolly good fellow."
Amid the echoing cheers of "To Nate" "Yeah, Nate" "Damn good whiskey", Nate catches a flash of pale gold out of the corner of his eye.
When he turns watery, unfocused eyes in that direction, he sees nothing untoward at first, then when he blinks a few times, he sees…
Big hazel eyes, a child's eyes, look up at him from a dark corner of the bar, half hidden by strands of long gold hair. Lonely, bright eyes.
"Hey, brat!" a man's voice growls, and the girl disappears with a startled gasp.
There's a sharp yelp, and the man's voice mutters, "Serves 'er right, the damn nosy brat."
"Hey!" Nate says, rising in his seat, "don' hit 'er. Y' shou'n' hit 'er," he slurs, and…
Well, he sort of accidentally starts a brawl.
"Was it worth it?" Sterling asks drily at the office the next day. He'd ended up with two black eyes. This on top of the hangover.
"Women and kids, Sterling," Nate replies through his fat lip. He touches a tooth gingerly with his tongue. A bit loose. Should be fine if he's careful about what he eats for a few days. "You shouldn't hit them. The powerful bullying the weak, that's wrong." He thinks about the way his father used to do things. "It's wrong."
"Nothing's going to change for that girl," Sterling says, but without a whole lot of conviction.
"I called social services," Nate replies. "They ought to take care of her, at least for a while."
. . . . .
1993…-ish…maybe…
She walks along the streets of Paris, taking in the sights, the smells, the sounds of the city, her city.
She's thinking of what new name to give herself – a new identity just for today, for her real birthday – and someone bumps into her, a sullen-looking young girl, blonde, and rather pretty in a sharp, determined kind of way. The collision almost knocks her off-balance.
Teetering on her new high-heeled shoes, she briefly considers telling her off for her rudeness.
She gives the girl no further thought until she tries to pay for her expensive birthday lunch and finds that her wallet is gone.
"That bloody little pickpocket!"
. . . . .
2000
Eliot's in Damascus for his birthday. It's not his first time there – the first time had been for a mission, but this time around, he just needs somewhere to spend a couple of weeks in between jobs.
So he sits in a bar, thinks about calling Aimee, think about calling his mama, thinks about calling his sister, and doesn't think about calling his daddy.
He ends up nursing a drink and watching the news on the beat-up dusty old television set sitting on the counter at the bar.
The flies buzz lazily near the ceiling, swooping down occasionally to land on the sleepy rum-drinkers and the sticky glasses.
Eliot shifts in his seat and stamps down on a wince. Wouldn't do to show anyone that he's injured. The broken ribs, dislocated shoulder, and the graze a flying bullet left on his leg throb.
A news story on the television catches his attention: a set of very famous and very expensive earrings have been stolen from the National Museum here in Damascus. Huh, well, he thinks, it wasn't him.
The door swings open, and a woman walks in, swathed in a silk headscarf and wearing sunglasses.
Expensive-looking, he notes, looks like she's on the run from something.
She walks with deceptive calm to the counter and orders a whiskey on the rocks in pretty good Arabic, and tells the bartender to give it to the man who'll come in a few minutes looking for her. Then she turns mysteriously, winks at Eliot, and walks past the puzzled-looking bartender, through the door leading to the back room of the place, and presumably, out the back door.
Interesting, Eliot thinks, taking another sip of his own whiskey, interesting. She didn't even pay for that drink, he thinks, just as the bartender finishes pouring it out and comes to the same conclusion.
Luckily for the bartender, a man comes in soon enough, just like the woman had said, and asks which way she'd gone, just like she'd said he would.
The surly bartender just puts the glass of whiskey in front of the man, an American from the sound of him.
"Uh," the American says, a little puzzled.
Poor schmuck, Eliot thinks, gonna lose his girl while he works out what's goin' with that bartender.
He briefly considers helping a brother out, but just then, the man goes and says that he's an insurance investigator trying to catch a criminal, and well, Eliot's just glad he didn't say anything.
In fact, since he's just stolen something, too, he probably shouldn't stick around for too long, just in case this guy knows his face.
He slips out of the place while the American's bargaining with the bartender for information.
. . . . .
2003
It's her birthday today. Well, she thinks. She's pretty sure, at least.
"Happy birthday to me," she whispers to the wind, checks her special new birthday harness, and jumps off the roof.
"Wa-heeeeee!"
Paris is a pretty place to be at night.
The lights are just like the lights on a Christmas tree.
She'd climbed the Eiffel Tower earlier that day, right up to the tippy tippy top…from the outside. People had yelled at her, but she was really only trying to get away from that insurance man who'd been really good at chasing her.
She'd gotten away, though, like she always does.
She's good like that.
She'll steal something shiny tonight, and then when she gets back to her warehouse of the month, she'll snuggle down with Bunny in a bed made out of money.
"Happy birthday, Parker. Good night, Bunny."
. . . . .
2011
"So that's how everyone spent their twenty-fifth birthdays?" Hardison asks, amazed. "Damn. That's some coincidence."
"You get to spend yours with everyone," Parker says, a little wistfully.
Sophie huffs, still a little miffed, years later. "I can't believe you stole my wallet on my birthday!"
"I didn't know that it was your birthday," Parker says, pouting, "How was I supposed to know?"
"My birthday," sniffs Sophie, turning her head.
"I'm sorry," whines Parker petulantly. "I told you, I didn't know!"
"Aw, come on," Hardison says, "Don't be fightin' on my birthday! Come on, ladies, make up."
"So what day was that?" Nate asks Parker, "When's Sophie's real birthday?"
Parker shrugs. "How should I know? It wasn't my birthday."
Sophie makes an offended sound.
"Aw, come on," Hardison tries again.
Eliot snorts. "Women and birthdays, man. Don't get between a woman and her birthday. Don't forget it, either."
"That's why I'm trying to find out when it is," Nate says, frustrated. "You're telling me you can't remember when it was you stole Sophie's wallet?"
"Of course I don't remember," Parker says defensively, "I steal stuff all the time! How was I supposed to know it was Sophie?"
"But you remembered that it was Sophie," Eliot points out. "You just told us that it was you."
"That's 'cause the ID and stuff turned out to be fake," Parker explains, "Archie was kind of mad about it."
"That was a damn good ID, too," Sophie says, "Do you know how hard it is to replace a fake ID? It's not like you can just go to the DMV to get a new one."
"What was the birthday on the ID?" Nate tries again.
"Just give up, man," Eliot says, "She probably don't want you ta know how old she really is."
"Hey," Sophie cries, rounding on him, "I resent that!"
Eliot points his glass at her. "But it's true. Can't deny it."
Sophie huffs again, but doesn't argue.
Hardison puts his head on the table. He groans. "Anyone actually want to celebrate my birthday instead of squabblin' like a coupla cats in a wet bag?"
The sounds of his teammates arguing continue over his head.
"Happy birthday to me," he mutters into the table.
Eliot bumps his shoulder with his. "What are you moanin' about? It's your birthday. Here," he says, emptying a random bottle into Hardison's glass, "have another drink, if you can hold it," he teases.
"Hold it?" Hardison says, rising to the challenge, "Hold it? I tell you, bruddah, this black boy can hold his drink a-plenty, I'm tellin' you."
"Probably fruity drinks," Parker giggles into her own drink.
"With umbrellas," Sophie agrees, forgetting her scrap with Parker.
Nate just smirks at him. He'd seen the bottle that Eliot had poured into the hacker's glass.
"Hey, fruity drinks are good. Don't knock my fruity drinks," Hardison says, grinning at his teammates' friendly ribbing, "I can take my real drink too," he says, and tips the whole glass back.
"Oh damn, that burns! Water! I need water! The hell was that?"
"That was a real drink, boy," Eliot says, with a smirk, hiding the bottle away from sight. "Welcome to bein' a real grown-up. Put some hair on your chest!"
"Grown-up my ass," gasps Hardison. "You're tryin' ta kill me!"
. . . . .
Notes and References:
Rogers said somewhere that Nate isn't the same age as Tim Hutton. I forgot how much apart they are, but that's why the birth year is different here.
In "The Mile High Job," Nate and Sophie mention that they first met (not saw each other – very important distinction) 8 years previously…which would be 2000. That's why Eliot's 25th birthday is in 2000, not 1999, like it was for Kane.
Parker: "The last time I used this rig, Paris 2003." ("The Nigerian Job") I wanted to use that, so I shifted Parker's birthday from Beth Riesgraf's a bit.
AN: The end. Thanks should go out to all my readers, but especially to my regular reviewers: patty cake rocks, StellaBelle24, Harm Marie, A Lyrical Dreamer, hope1iz, floralisette, zippy zany, (gosh, I love your name! Makes me think of vampires!), LoveMyShows, Sci F.I. Warper, kt8a, rmonroe, splerison, and irma66. Hope I didn't miss anyone, but if I did, thanks to you, too!