Author's Note: Well well, lucky you, two posts in as many days . . . I wanted to get this out there to see reactions. This chapter is kind of like Conversations With Womenfolk, kind of a stand-alone chapter that has nothing to do with the con, just a bit of character building and plot thickening. Enjoy! And review!

Chapter 11: The Four F's

"So, you look normal," Elliot looked around the lab, "what do you do here?" Angela and he were in the room with the holograph. The team was gone and Elliot and the artist were alone. (He had even taken out his ear bud for good measure.) In the twenty minutes they had been in the lab he had seen a huge, dead hog being brought into a back room by a grinning goofball, learned from an especially chatty man that the ejaculation of a dolphin could seriously injure you if you were to engage in sexual intercourse with it (he really didn't want to know how he knew that . . . though at the same time he was oddly jealous of the dolphin species), there was a loud gunshot from the direction the pig had gone, and that Muslim had prayed four friggin' times already! (A/N: I have no problems with Muslim's I just thought it went with the paragraph.)

Angela laughed and Elliot gave her that smile, she went weak-kneed, "I'm an artist. Brennan finds their names," she gestured to several skulls that were lined up along the wall, "and I give them faces."

Elliot was looking from the skulls, to the sketches above them, to the giant computer thing in front of him. "So, you're like the Hardison of the group," this was almost muttered and he squelched.

"What?"

"Nothing," redirecting that conversation . . . "Wow, you're really good," the comment wasn't just chatter: Elliot loved art; he was especially interested in Waterhouse and Leighton. Angela was nothing like them, but that didn't matter the woman had talent . . . and an awesome ass and other features. (A/N: Yes, quite a few on this page, no, I am not boiling Elliot down into chauvinistic pig . . . merely setting up a few things.)

Angela blushed and then immediately hated herself, Elliot was a ladies man and he got by on his smiles . . . and, she noticed, the niceness of his ass . . . "From what I can see, your team isn't lying, these pictures aren't altered in any way," she used her pad to enlarge the clearest image of McGill, then ran her own facial recognition software. "And that is Conan McGill . . ." she trailed off, the man in the chair catching her eye. "Hm, one more piece to the puzzle," she focused the holograph on that image.

"He's, um," Elliot's voice broke but then he got it under control, "never facing forward, facial recognition won't help."

"Well then," Angela shut down the program after printing a few documentations, "it looks like our work here is done."

Elliot took a step toward her, "Looks like it is."

"Sophie, we're back!" Nate called for the grafter when the door to the hotel opened. She was still pouting on the couch where he had left her (not a real pout, just one to show her displeasure at being left out of the act). "Sophie, we couldn't all go into there, if we were caught . . ."

"You took Parker, Nate, we all know how well she grifts," now Sophie was indignant, "I'm your best actress!"

Being berated by Sophie, Nate was glad that Parker and Hardison had disappeared during the ride back. "Sophie –"

"No Nate!" The English woman stormed into her adjoining room, leaving Nate seething and confused.

Booth had stopped off at a Chinese restaurant to pick up orders for the lab, everyone was working overtime to gather as much information as possible on Willy Carson's remains before he and Bones went back to Texas to work out the arrest of Conan McGill. "Thank you," Booth said as he handed the cash to the girl behind the counter and picked up his bags. The wind was picking up as he slid into the front seat of his car.

"Hello!" Booth jumped, almost hitting his knee on the wheel as the voice piped up from the back seat. "I'm sorry Agent Booth, but you left your door unlocked."

Booth looked back, belted into the middle seat was the blonde form Brennan's office. She had changed clothes into black pants and shirt and suspenders (neon green of all things) and her hair was down. If not for the creepy "sitting uninvited in the back of his car" thing, he had checked the doors himself and knew that they were locked (when he brought this up she merely shrugged), she would have been cute, in that weird way.

"Parker, right?" Booth really didn't want to shut his door but did anyway. "What are you doing in my car?" Another thought, "How did you know I was here?"

She liked his voice. "I overheard that you were going on a Chinese run." She was crawling over the console now, her hip almost hitting Booth's face.

"Hey, hey I never said . . ."

"You don't have to say anything, Seeley," Parker, in all seriousness, put a hand on the agent's shoulder, "I've seen the looks you two share. We could never work out, Seeley Booth. You're in love with Temperance." The dreamy look in the thief's eye might have made Booth laugh if not for the present circumstance.

"W-what do you mean 'we could never work out'?"

Parker relieved him of the bag of food and put on her seat belt, "Your mushu's getting cold, might want to get back to the museum."

Booth sighed, good Lord and butter, that girl was strange. Knowing he couldn't well leave her at the restaurant (he shuttered to think what she would do if left alone) he said, "Do you want to join us for lunch?"

Hardison was pissed, no, more than pissed: pissed off, and peeved, and livid, and upset, angry, irate, cross, ireful, fuming and many other words that he would need a thesaurus to look up. Just outside of the Jeffersonian, he had refused to get into the cab with Nate and Parker, choosing instead to walk around town, blow off some steam. Yeah, he had been allowed to go on the mission, yeah, though he hated to admit it, Elliot was the better looking one of the two, but still! He couldn't believe that Nate wouldn't give him this one cool job. Hadn't he always been the one to save the day? You know, whenever computers could save the day?

The truth was, he was unable to fully hack the Jeffersonian's firewalls that kept hackers like him out of their personal files, including everything that the FBI had ascertained on Willy Carson. This was evidence that they would need to go any farther in bringing down McGill, and he hadn't been able to get them.

"Stupid Elliot, stupid computer's," Hardison mumbled as he got away from everything "Leverage Incorporated" related, "stupid part Chinese artist lady . . ."

(A/N: Let's see here, we have Fighting, Feeding, Fleeing, what are we missing . . . oh yeah . . .)

"Wow, just 'wow'," Angela was still panting, rolling onto her back. Elliot . . . let's just say the hair and badass ness? yeah, not compensating for anything.

"Thank you, doll," Elliot turned to face her, drawing circles on her shoulder with his fingertips.

Not long after completing their work, when Elliot had taken that step forward, Angela had closed the gap and they fell into a very intimate embrace. A few giggles, a few kisses and one short hand-in-hand sprint and they were in the ancient Chinese storage exhibit (formerly known as the ancient Egyptian storage exhibit) in a very large, very old, and very comfy opium wedding bed, naked and sweaty.

Angela smiled, taking her own hand and placing it on Elliot's face, "That was . . ."

"Wow," they said at the same time, then Elliot took over, "You said that already."

"Really?" she asked, "Well, did I say this?" With a firm tug she pulled Elliot back over on top of her.

"No, you most surely did not." Elliot grinned, nipping the artist's neck before falling back into rhythm.

Author's Note: So, how was it? Got some issues brought up. Any Questions, Comments, Concerns? Just push that little button right there || Thanx!

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