Chapter Thirteen

Eliot started blinking. Eventually, he woke up. He was on his back, his head lolled to the left, facing a wall covered in pictures. It took a few minutes for his eyes to focus. He tried to lean forward to get a better look, but his head screamed at him to stop, so he sank back against the pillows. The photos were of him and those people; the ones from his dreams, and the ones who took him down. He tried to focus, but it hurt his eyes.

He'd recently stopped allowing anyone to take pictures of him. He was getting a reputation; he was even wanted in two countries. These weren't surveillance photos, though. His head cleared and he studied the wall. He was smiling at the camera in some of them. In one, he was at the beach in jeans and a t-shirt, sunglasses covering his eyes, hair blowing in the wind. His face was expressionless, his stance waiting, his arms folded over his chest. He looked like a bodyguard. The blonde was behind him, her arms draped over his shoulders, her head resting in the crook of his neck. Hardison was standing behind him on the other side, holding two fingers above Eliot's head. They must have photoshopped it…but why?

In another picture, he was in some kitchen, wearing an apron with the words 'People are like knives. Everything's in context.' hand-stitched in red letters. He was holding a frying pan in the air, just above the stove. It looked as though he was caught in the second before setting it down, but at that angle, the pan would have missed the stove and ended up on the floor. He was looking to the side, laughing hard, as though someone had just said or done something hysterically funny. All the photos were snippets in time, candid shots of a life he didn't know.

There was a movement to his right, and he clenched his fist, ready to defend himself. Something pulled his arm back and he heard the clanking of chains. He pulled but both hands and legs were shackled to the bed. His pulse quickened.

The blonde walked into his field of vision.

So, the interrogation begins. She was probably about to say the most irritating thing in the world like, 'How do you feel' or 'are you comfortable' or simply 'you're awake'. It usually started out neutral—unless you were already bloodied and tied to a chair in a tiny room with one light bulb swinging above your head. Then it was all business. He would guess this was one of those that would start benignly. He waited for the vanilla question. He'd heard them all.

"Do you like my scrapwall?"

Okay, so that was…unexpected. "Your what?"

"Hardison calls it a scrapbook, but it's not in a book, it's on a wall. It's my scrapwall. Well, it's your wall. I made it for you. To jog your memory, and then we can be us again."

"Us?"

She pointed to his other side.

Eliot turned his head and gasped. They were all there; Hardison, Ford and the British woman/first lady. He hadn't even sensed them in the room. That had only ever happened in the military, when he could unconsciously tell who friendlies were. His concussion must be getting worse. They smiled and waved at him.

"How do you feel?" Ford asked.

"You're awake," Hardison said.

"Are you comfortable?" the lady asked.

Eliot leaned back against the pillow and shut his eyes.

"Eliot?" Ford called.

Eliot heard a chair scrape across the floor. "Why am I not dead?" he ground out. He felt something brush across his cheek, and he opened his eyes. The blonde was leaning over him, her face completely in his, their noses almost touching. Her hair fell into his eyes. He sucked in a breath in surprise.

"Parker." Ford pulled her back. "Personal space."

Eliot scoffed.

Ford looked questioningly.

Eliot regained his composure as best he could, and held up his hands. The cuffs slid down his arms. "Personal space? Really?"

Ford frowned at him. "We'll be patient for you. I assume you're feeling better. You look a lot better. You've got color in your cheeks again."

"What do you want, Ford? Or Chesler or whoever you are."

"I see we've dropped the 'Mr.' and the 'General'."

Eliot pursed his lips. Ford wasn't going to tell him anything. He was obviously the one calling the shots, since the others took their cues from him. He'd be the one to watch, the most dangerous of them.

Hardison squeezed in next to Ford. "Sorry about the scruff, man." He rubbed his own, smooth chin. "But we all agreed that letting you near a razor was a bad idea."

The blonde's face contorted comically as she mouthed the words 'bad idea' in an exaggerated fashion.

Eliot refused to feel helpless. He wasn't dead. He'd take that as a win for now. He'd wait. An opportunity would present itself. He did wonder why they were treating him well. They were playing with him. He must have some information they needed. Did they get into his head? Make him think he was losing touch with reality so they could take him down? They knew about his injuries and concussion, where they using that against him? Pretending to be long lost friends to get the intel? "What do you want?"

"Ignore him." Skipper waved a dismissive hand. "To catch you up from last night, the doctor checked you over and you do have a concussion—which we all knew—and you've got bruises and scrapes all over your back—which we all could have guessed. You were also suffering from exhaustion and dehydration." She invaded his space again and he pulled back, but, as he was trapped, he had nowhere to go. "Bad Eliot. No matter how homicidal you feel, you have to keep hydrated."

"I'll try to remember that."

"Is that another joke?" she asked hopefully.

"Not really."

Hardison pulled her back. "Because you don't believe us about your amnesia or because it wasn't very funny?"

Eliot glared at him.

Hardison drew back. "Yeah, well, how come you've got fresh bruises on both shins? I mean, you've got injuries all over your backside 'cause of the fall, and that makes sense, but what did you get yourself into since then?"

"None of your business."

"That's mature." Hardison crossed his arms and made a face at Eliot, well back from the bed.

Skipper continued her catch-up. "You've been on IV fluids all night and half the morning and you slept twelve hours. We all think you need to get more sleep."

Eliot examined his arm. There was a bandage across the crook of his elbow. God knows what they injected into him.

"We took it out long before you woke up." Ford sounded apologetic. "But now, it's time for more rest."

Skipper started leaning toward Eliot again.

Ford grasped her shoulders. "We're going to leave you alone to do it."

"But I want to watch him sleep."

Hardison pushed her back. "That's creepy, Parker."

"I watch you sleep."

Hardison paused and shook his head at her. "You-you really need to learn about boundaries."

"I already know about boundaries. How else could I break into places?"

"You-you-we need to have a talk, you and me."

"Oooh!" She clapped her hands together. "Can it be about mushrooms?"

Eliot strained to see them walk out. The room was large with four chairs to the right, a door in the middle of the wall across from him, the bed he was in and the scrapwall. There wasn't anything he could immediately use to pick the locks on his cuffs, or as a weapon to overpower one of them if they came in alone. He'd have to come up with a plan eventually. He looked at Ford. "There's something wrong with her. You know that don't you?"

"Oh, yeah." He looked across the room. "Sophie?"

"Can I have a minute?"

Ford nodded, reached down to squeeze Eliot's shoulder, then walked from the room.

Suddenly, Eliot was in a different room in a hospital, only Ford was handcuffed to the bed. Eliot was still handcuffed, but this time to a chair. They stared at each other until Ford asked, "Do you trust me?"

Eliot responded, "Of course, you're an honest man."

Eliot blinked back to the present. It had felt like a memory, but he'd never been in that situation with Ford. The feeling was so real—he sincerely believed in that man. He had an overwhelming sense that Ford was trustworthy, and Eliot did his best to shake it off. What was happening to him?

The lady finally stood up.

"Eliot, I'm not very good at these types of things." Her British accent was prominent, her voice soft. "If I had taken more care on the job, I wouldn't have tipped off Anderson. You weren't even supposed to be at that pier. Not only were you there, you saved me from a bullet. And what do you get as a reward? You lose everything important to you. Everything you worked so hard for, everything you suffered for."

"I'm fine, ma'am."

She lowered her head and put a hand on his chained arm. "You're alone."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

She patted his arm sadly. "It's the worst thing you can imagine." She turned and walked to the door, but stopped and regarded him. "And the name is Sophie."

Eliot fell asleep again, and when he woke up, he was more than grateful for having no dreams. They brought him food or water like clockwork every time he awoke. At first, he refused to eat, assuming they meant to drug him again, but Skipper grabbed his spoon and slurped his soup. "That's meaningless." Eliot scowled at her.

"No, it's French onion. One of your favorites."

He blanched at that because it was true. "You could have thrown arsenic in there yourself, and you'd still offer to taste it."

She shook her head. "Arsenic doesn't go with onions."

Ford grabbed the spoon and dipped it in the soup. "Hmmmm. That's not bad."

"It's because there's no arsenic in it," Skipper said.

Ford offered Eliot the spoon. "No." Eliot glared at Hardison. "You."

"Me? I'm not in the mood for soup."

Ford sighed so loudly Eliot thought he'd sprung a leak. "Hardison."

Hardison flung his arms in the air. "Fine. But y'all are witnesses to this. He's forcing me to touch his soup. I'm not going to be accused for the next fifty years of eating Eliot's soup." He wrenched the spoon from Ford. "I do this under protest."

"Hardison, just do it," Ford said.

He dipped the spoon in the soup. "I do this under extreme duress." He slurped it up. "Hmmm. That is good." He looked up at Ford, annoyance spreading over his features. "Tell me again why he hogties Sophie, tasers Parker, almost shoots you, comes at me with a knife, and he gets food like this while we're eating stale sandwiches and drinking well water?"

Sophie—Eliot gave her the courtesy of accepting that as her name—scooped up the spoon. "It can't be all that good." She tasted it. "Hmmmm, that is heavenly." She put the spoon back on the tray and turned it toward Eliot.

Eliot's hands were still secured to the bed, but he had enough freedom of movement to reach the food. He didn't, though.

"See us?" Skipper bounced on her feet. "No one's keeling over or clutching their stomachs. Go on. Bon appétit."

Eliot pushed the tray away. "I'm not eating that. You all used my spoon and ate from the same bowl. That's disgusting. I don't know where you've been."

They stared at him for a moment, and Eliot thought this might be it. They'll turn on him now, drop the façade and demand the information, or announce that they'd sold him to one of the many groups that wanted him dead.

And then—in the same instant—Skipper, Sophie and Hardison reached for the bowl. Hardison grabbed it, but Sophie elbowed him and got both her hands around the bowl then started to lift it off the tray. Eliot raised his arms as far as the cuffs let him, covering his face, but he looked through his fingers. Skipper slammed her foot on Hardison's toes, and he fell back with a wince.

Sophie held the bowl to her chest. "I've got the soup."

Hardison waggled his fingers. "I've got the spoon."

Skipper grabbed the little rolls from the tray. "I've got the bread."

Hardison advanced on Sophie. "Gimme that soup."

Sophie backed to the door, and the three of them bickered as they went outside the room and down the hall.

Eliot lowered his hands and glanced at Ford, a little stunned.

Ford was staring at the door; the two guards stationed outside had closed it, drowning out their voices. "Yeah. Yeah." He nodded to himself. "Okay, Eliot. I'll bring you some more soup."

"I won't eat it."

"You will. You will or I'll find arsenic, toss it in some bourbon and drink all of you away, once and for all."

Eliot watched him go, shaking his head. If it made any sense at all, Eliot would say Ford almost looked embarrassed. Eliot figured that he was the one chained to the bed, so if they'd wanted to poison him, they'd slide a needle into his arm again, and there was little he could do about it. If they wanted him dead, they could simply shoot him, right where he lay. But if he was given untainted food, he could keep his strength up and be ready to make his move when the opportunity arose. So he ate.

They brought him his favorite breakfast, lunch and dinner and more snacks than he thought he could stomach in one day. He guessed about a day had passed. The room was interior and windowless. It was an old torture technique. The prisoner had no sense of the passage of time and could be manipulated into believing three weeks had gone by, when in reality, it was a few days. He didn't get that impression with them, though, but he was being given an awful lot of food. To make him think days were going by? Possibly. Knowing this, he guessed on the low side.

He couldn't track his naps—he kept falling asleep—and the visits were quite frequent. It made it seem like more time had passed than it likely had, but they made one serious error; every time they came in, they were wearing the same clothes, and the women had the same hairstyles. They always came in the same group of four…except the one time Parker came in alone.

Eliot was sleeping and she actually woke him up. He was a little groggy. They'd never woken him up before. The whole day, they always came in a few minutes after he'd opened his eyes. At first, it was disconcerting; they must be watching him sleep after all. Then he figured it was probably just Parker on some hidden camera, and then she'd call the others.

"Eliot!" she whispered. "Are you awake?"

Eliot blinked up at her. He didn't like the jarring realities. "Go away, Parker."

"You remember me?"

Eliot closed his eyes and growled.

"I actually don't know which way to take that. Do you remember me?"

He rolled over on his side, away from her, tucking his hands underneath his chin, the cuffs no longer bothering him. He was getting used to them. "No, Skipper. I still don't know you. I'll always not know you."

"Aw, poor Eliot."

He felt something pat his rump. He opened his eyes and stared at the empty chairs against the blank wall. "Skipper, what are you doing?"

"Patting your back in a soothing manner because you're so sad."

"That's not my back, darlin'."

"Oh. Well, do you want to know why I came in here?"

"If I say no, will you go away quietly?"

She rounded the bed, knelt down and stuck her face in his. "Awww. That proves you don't know me."

"What do you want?"

She held out a little rubber-looking thing. "I was told that the best way for an amnesia victim to regain their memory is to take them around familiar surroundings."

Eliot pulled on his chains. "Is this what I've been missing?"

"Sometimes. You're a very dangerous man, and we have to keep you like this to keep you safe. I told you I'd protect you. Anyway, familiar surroundings would be us, and we can't exactly take you through a typical day. First of all, we don't really have typical days and second—"

"I'm a dangerous man."

"You sure are. Evidently, lots and lots of people work in an office, so a typical day would be in your office, only you don't work in an office, so I figured," she handed him the tiny device, "I'd bring the office to you."

Eliot refused to take it. "What is it?"

"It's the com. Oh my, you really don't remember, do you?" She shook her head sadly. "You put it in your ear."

"Why would I do that?"

She reached for her ear and pulled out an identical device. "I'm going to wear mine around the others. They don't have theirs in because we're not on a job. You'll hear us talking and planning—things like what we'll do when we get home—and we talk a lot about you and it's bound to jog your memory."

"I've witnessed you in action. The soup incident was like nothing I've ever seen."

She scrunched her nose and bopped her head back and forth, the ponytail bouncing around her shoulders. "Actually, that's not true by a long shot."

"That soup thing only serves to humiliate me more by knowing you people somehow managed to take me out up on the roof, and then chain me up like this."

"Ooh…that was hard for all of us. We struggled and fought with each other. Losing you like this has divided the group a bit. None of us is good at failure, but all of us ended up losing. That soup got everywhere."

Eliot laughed, surprising himself. He couldn't help it and immediately shut his mouth.

She clutched his earpiece and raised her chin up. "I love that sound!"

"Get out," Eliot growled. How could he slip like that? He was not growing comfortable here, and he refused to get used to these strange people.

"Are you going to take it?"

"Leave me alone."

"It's either this or my other idea." She walked back to the door and peeked out.

"What other idea?" Eliot frowned at the nervous way his question came out.

"Push you off a pier."

Eliot forced himself not to react.

"It would get your memory back right away. Are you feeling all right? You're suddenly so pale."

"You're not really going to push me off a pier?" Eliot forced himself to look on the bright side. He might be able to escape during transport—depending on how serious she was.

"The others absolutely forbade it."

Eliot glared at her.

She marched toward him. "I'm putting it in your ear." She brushed the hair away from his face and gently placed the com in his ear canal.

Eliot shuddered at the sensation.

She stood back and put hers back in her own ear. "Can you hear me? I mean, in your ear?"

"Yes." Did he just answer her absurd question?

"Don't speak."

He glared at her again.

"No, not now. I mean, if you talk, I'll hear you and it'll distract me and I might give us away. Don't tell the others. They'd be really mad."

A crack in the enemy's armor? "Why?"

"They want to baby you." She flopped into one of the chairs across the room. "Sophie feels sooooo bad you're like this. Hardison is afraid you don't like him and if you don't get your memory back then you'll never be friends again. Nate is just a mess. He feels like it's all his fault because he came up with all the plans and none of them quite worked out how he thought. It turned out okay because you're safe and sound—finally—but you got hurt. It's different when one of our butts is on the line. It's harder for him to think dispassionately. Actually, he never thinks dispassionately."

"Your point?"

She sighed. "They're afraid if they push you, your mind will lock up indefinitely. I'm the only one who wants to push. I want us to be us again but…it's weird. Now I want you to be healthy because you're so sad and lonely. Not just for me to get you back."

Eliot opened his mouth.

"Save it." She stood up. "I don't want to hear about how fine you are because you're not, and I can't wrap my head around how you actually think you are. I don't want to go back there. I never want to be…I never belonged anywhere before. I never had a real family. I know you asked me to let you enjoy it if you ever got amnesia, but I can't do it, Eliot. We need you back." She walked out of the room.

Eliot didn't know what to think. She was so genuine and awkward and open. A term flitted across his mind, 'Parker-logic'. He heard humming. It was her, over the com.

Could she really hear him if he spoke?

"Yes, Eliot, I can hear you if you speak."

Eliot jumped to a sitting position, pulling on his restraints. "How did you know?"

"You weren't saying anything."

"I'm in a room alone."

"I could tell by the way you weren't saying anything."

"What does that even mean?"

"Shhh."

He heard a door open and close.

"Parker, where have you been?" It was Ford's voice.

"I told you I had to go to the bathroom."

Hardison's voice sounded tight. "I don't believe you. Don't believe her, Nate."

"I don't."

Sophie's voice came over the com, all British and silky. "You went to see Eliot again, didn't you?"

Eliot tensed. Would they punish her?

"Eliot wasn't in the little girl's room."

"And neither were you," Hardison said.

Ford spoke again. "We agreed to see him together. First, we're less intimidating as a group."

"Less?" Hardison challenged.

"Soup." Nobody said anything for half a minute then Ford continued. "Second, if he breaks free, one of us is vulnerable."

"Yeah," Hardison said. "If all of us are there, there are four chances of screaming for help."

"Parker, don't do it again."

"Okay, Nate, but I just drank an awful lot of water."

Eliot smirked. Again, he couldn't help it. He settled in, getting as comfortable as he could, and he just listened. They were crazy. They were unfocused, they were disorganized and somehow, they were familiar. And impossibly, they were almost likable…