A/N: Another shortie, but trust me when I say it's jam-packed with stuff that needs to be said in Nate's narrative. In this chapter, we learn more about Nate's dream world. Um, warning for implied (stated) character death. I don't want to say anything else to give it away, so I'm putting out a general WARNING for this chapter, since it's a little (A LOT) darker compared to the others. Thanks to Alice of Scots, LyleRay, LeeMarieJack, CaraLee934, Murakami no Kitsune, and mysticaljayne for reviewing!

Nate took his son out for ice cream.

It was a funny world he found himself in that doing a simple thing like buying Sam a frozen dairy product could make him so happy. Sam, on the other hand, was dejected and sullen (his team had lost three out of four matches). The boy stabbed his sundae with his spoon as if beating up the dessert would make everything better.

"Chin up, kiddo," Nate said awkwardly, still finding his sea legs in fatherhood. "You did great. Even got a trophy, right?" Nate tapped the small trophy on the old-fashioned ice cream parlor's table.

"Yeah, a participation trophy," Sam mumbled, swirling the hot fudge into the ice cream. "I don't know why you gotta lie to me about it. I know we sucked."

"Alright," Nate had no idea preteens sulked this much. Was it normal, or was his son just cynical by nature? It certainly ran in the family. "Fair enough, I won't coddle you. If that's what you want."

Sam glanced uncertainly at him, wondering where his father was going with this. "You won't?"

Nate shook his head, smiling a bit. "No," he replied, "no, you're too smart for that anyway." He sipped his vanilla shake.

"Oh," said Sam, blinking in surprise at the compliment. "Okay. Thanks, Dad." This seemed to calm the boy, and he tucked into his sundae without taking out his anger on the innocent dessert. Nate looked at his son and around the ice cream parlor, and was content for the first time in a long time. Content with just sitting: no scheming or planning, or worrying about a con. Content was... well, it was a little boring, but having Sam back made up for it.

By the time they returned to their little house in the suburbs, it was dinner time and Maggie was on her way out. She kissed Nate's cheek and Sam's forehead, told them the food was in the oven, and that she had to go to IYS for a last minute consultation.

"I'm not even on call right now," she complained, after sending Sam to his room to change and clean up. "And I'll be there all night most likely." Maggie sighed and grabbed something from the cupboard above the sink. It was a large plastic bottle with vibrant lettering and graphics on the label. It triggered something in Nate's memory.

"Let me see that," he took the bottle from Maggie before she had the chance to take out any pills. "Fastlive?" He asked, half to himself. Distributed by Earnshaw Pharmaceuticals. That didn't bode well.

It couldn't be right, he'd beaten them before. He'd taken down Earnshaw before it could buy out the little company that had developed Fastlive. He'd driven both companies into the ground.

Or rather the team had.

Nate dumped the contents of the bottle into the trash. There was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"What the Hell, Nathan?" Maggie gasped. She slammed her purse on the table top and stood with arms akimbo, staring him down.

"Don't take those," he commanded. "They'll make you sick." Or worse, he added silently. Maggie frowned.

"I don't have time for this," she said, taking her purse from the table. "Do I even want an explanation?" She placed her hand on the doorknob and turned back to Nate, an unspoken question written across her expectant (and fearful) expression.

Nate had seen her look at him that way before; nine months after Sam's death, the day Maggie confronted him about his drinking. She filed for divorce soon after.

He shrugged noncommittally. "I read something about the pills. Online. Yeah," he said, nodding, and rubbed the stubble on his cheeks, "there was a whole article about Fastlive causing heart attacks." It was close enough to the truth, but still a lie any conman with half a brain could have seen through it. Luckily for him, Maggie was disgustingly honest and, worst of all, believed he was honest too.

Maggie softened. "In that case," she said sheepishly, though a bit guardedly, "I guess I owe you a thank you." She blew him a kiss and left in a hurry, now several minutes late. Nate sagged against the counter the moment she was out of sight. He felt very old and very tired.

He pushed himself off out of his slouch and went into the next room where Sam was watching TV and munching on a bowl of homemade mac 'n' cheese. Nate smiled tightly at his son, sat down, and opened a laptop on the coffee table. He thought of all the terrible people the team had taken down. He thought of all the people they had helped.

Who protected them when four thieves and a functioning alcoholic didn't? Who was there when the Big Man put pressure on the Little Guy?

Who provided leverage?

He typed a few keywords into a search engine after a brief moment of contemplation. His search came up with results immediately.

"Flight I359 Crashes, No Survivors" one article proclaimed. It was a year old. Nate shook his head, skimming over it. GenoGrow had gotten away with spreading toxic fertilizer, and eighty people had to die just to hush up an accountant and a hit man. And that was just a high profile disaster they'd prevented. What about all the other bad guys who were actually the bad guys?

Nate's eyes widened as he thought of the last con the team (minus Sophie) ran, the one they played in their own backyard. He dug his cell out of his pocket and fumbled with the buttons.

"Hello?" a young voice with a barely-there Boston accent answered.

"Cora?" Nate choked, earning him a suspicious look from Sam. God, he hoped the boy wasn't a tattletale. He didn't know how he would explain calling the daughter of his father's old drinking buddy. "This is Nathan Ford." A beat. "Jimmy's son."

"Oh," recognition lightened Cora McRory's tone, "wow, it's been forever! How's life treating you?"

Nate smiled despite his worry. "Fine, fine," he said. "I just called to ask about the old watering hole. I was thinking about taking the wife and kid back to Boston for a week." He winked at Sam and placed his forefinger to his lips. "You know, show my son where I grew up, and the pub was always like a second home to me. Is your family, ah, still running it?"

Cora was silent. "Sorry to tell you this, Nate," she sighed at last, "but my dad passed away recently and I don't own McRory's anymore." She sounded strained, like she might cry.

"I'm sorry, John was a good friend," Nate paused. "Cora, if you don't own the pub, who does?"

Bitterly: "A dirty rat."

"Does the rodent have a name?"

"Goes by the name of Doyle," Cora said disdainfully, making it very clear what she thought of the loan shark. "Mark Doyle." Nate felt himself go cold. He made small talk and gave his condolences to Cora for a few minutes more before saying good bye.

"Who was that?" Sam asked curiously, but didn't take his eyes off the TV

He sat frozen, staring blindly at the cartoon movie playing. He was weighing Sam's life against the lives of all the people he'd helped in the two years of leading Leverage Consulting and Associates-or rather the team of master thieves it disguised. It wasn't fair, he thought.

"Old friend of the family," Nate replied in a monotone.

He suddenly needed to know where his family- team, he corrected - was. He already knew where Sophie was: locked up in a woman's prison. And he could use his position at IYS to find the others. It was a matter of minutes before he had their files on his screen.

He looked up Parker first. She was still stealing (no surprise there) and was wanted in three more countries than she had been before she joined the team. She also was the main suspect in the theft of a priceless brooch that had belonged to the last czarina of Russia. At least she hadn't been caught.

Hardison had been recruited by the CIA and was given full indemnity from past crimes (much to the dismay of Interpol). Nate was both surprised and amused by that. The hacker never struck him as the clandestine service type. But then again, he'd always been too good, too honest, to be a thief anyway.

He paused before he opened Eliot folder. He saved the hitter for last, knowing the type of man Eliot Spencer had been before the team. He wondered what he would find. Would Eliot have settled down and disappeared? Or would he have just added to his body count? With a steadying breath, Nate opened the hitter's electronic file.

"Ah," he said sadly.

DECEASED was watermarked in red over the top of Eliot Spencer's file. Of all the fates he'd imagined for his friend, he'd been too afraid to list this as an option. It wasn't fair that all that was left of the hitter was a digital file and grave. Did he even get a grave? Nate forced himself to look at the cause of death. He read it, and then read it again. And then a third time for good measure.

Eliot had added to his body count. But only by one.

Nate shut the laptop with trembling hands and leaned back into the couch cushions. Beside him, Sam laughed at something a talking yellow sponge on the television said.

His only wish in the world had come true, Nate observed, but at what price? What did he value more: his family or his son?

Sam, said the thin voice once more from the darkest, most selfish part of his mind. Always Sam.

The rational part of him told Nate that his son was dead, that he was in a coma of some kind or drugged and this was all a dream. He would wake up and Sam would still be gone and buried, Maggie would still have divorced him, Sophie would still have left him. At least Hardison would still be a criminal and Eliot would still be busting heads. The thought offered him a small comfort that was overshadowed by Sophie's absence.

If he couldn't make things right with Sophie in reality, maybe he could in Dreamland.