A/N: Apologies for the obnoxiously long wait, but this chapter's finally ready to see the light of day. Or the light bulbs of night, whichever applies. Make note: this is another Nate chapter in which I dump a lot of information (it could be seen as a filler chapter, but I promise this stuff all leads to something) into roughly 2,000 words. Apologies in advance for any confusing or wordy passages. Also, from what I have outlined, this story should total about seventeen chapters. Probably. Many thanks and all the love in the universe to floralisette, LeeMarieJack, CaraLee934, LyleRay, BranchSuper, Alice of Scots, mysticaljayne, Looneyloops, Murakami no Kitsune, I'd-Rather-Be-A-Winchester, SocerersScone, windswept lane (Glad it tickled your fancy!), Crystal (unfortunately, Cas will not be appearing in this story -is that a hint? I don't know, maybe- and as for Crowley... let's just say I have plans...), Guest (You're really too kind, but I accept your flattery with humble gratitude!), and stellaru. Side note: Sterling makes a bad life decision in this chapter. Don't drink and drive and all that... okay, PSA over. Onwards.

Nate was itching for a drink. No, that wasn't quite right. At this point, he would have sold his mother's kidney for one. His own kidney, Maggie's kidney, his crew's kidneys—all of them to a sketchy organ surgeon in a dark alley just for one lousy shot of crappy, bottom-shelf whiskey.

He paced through the house—basement to roof, bottom to top—trying to distract himself from the inescapable need tearing him apart from the inside out. It was dark, the middle of the night or very early in the morning. Nate didn't care; either way he didn't turn on any lights. No need to wake his family.

He couldn't sleep. But more importantly, he couldn't drink.

He shuffled into the kitchen and started opening cabinets at random. There had to be something, anything, at least mildly inebriating in this house. He threw open a cabinet and paused, looking thoughtfully at the vanilla extract. Desperate times…

Slamming the cupboard door, Nate turned away in disgust. He wouldn't stoop so low. He slid into a chair and rested his forehead on the kitchen table. Had it been three days already? Four? He couldn't be sure, it felt like one day went into the next so smoothly there was no telling the difference. What had he been doing before he woke up in a scene straight from Before?

There was a foggy memory of scoping out the headquarters of a couple that was buying out farmers in the heartland. That had been in… Kansas. But there was more; something had happened. He'd gone to –where was is?—Nebraska. He thumped the palm of his hand against the table. If only he could remember. Maybe he wouldn't be haunted by teenagers' limp bodies if he figured out how he got here.

The tremors in his hands were enough to tell him his next pick-me-up was long past due. But there was an AA one-year sober chip on the nightstand and a dozen people watching his every move. Nate highly doubted Maggie would allow even a drop of booze into the house.

Except… Nate slowly raised his head as a thought dawned on him. In two seconds, the only sign of him ever being in the kitchen was an upturned chair on the floor.

Would it be easier to drive to a bar? Yes. Was he going to do that? Absolutely not. As he remembered, the pubs in the area were tasteless, noisy boxes that were always too full or too empty and always cut him off after "he'd had too much."

Seven splinters and one perilous journey to the basement later, Nate found himself sitting on the edge of the front porch with a tumbler in his left hand and the bottle of fifty-year-old Irish whiskey he'd stored away when they first bought the house in his right. It had been a wedding gift from his father all those years ago—ironically, it was Jimmy who'd suggested that he hide it in case Maggie ever dumped the liquor cabinet down the sink.

He took his first sip, followed quickly by his second and third. God, it had been too long.

He'd been sitting for some time, long enough for his second glass to turn into his third, when a pair of headlights slowed to a stop in front of his house. At first Nate thought it was a cop, coming to arrest him for public intoxication or something equally ridiculous, but the familiar silhouette walking across the lawn was no police officer.

"Hello, Nate."

He topped off his glass before answering. "Sterling. Bit late for you to drop by, isn't it?"

Sterling snorted and sat next to him on the porch. "Bit late for happy hour, isn't it?" he quipped. "Whatever happened to 'Never again' and 'Sam needs me sober?'"

"Sam needs a father, not a saint."

"Fair enough," Sterling said, craning his neck to look at the pale stars dimmed by city lights on the horizon.

Nate squinted at the dark shadows obscuring most of his face. He couldn't begin to wonder what the man wanted at this hour. The Jeannie in a Bottle was going smoothly—or at least smoothly according to Sophie—so he couldn't be here about that. Nate wasn't happy about leaving Sophie to convince Sterling she would give him the David in return for a lighter prison sentence in a minimum security prison, but there was only so much a two-man crew could do when their faces were so recognizable.

"Want a drink?" he offered, breaking the suspiciously easy silence between them. He couldn't have Sterling going around thinking he actually enjoyed his company, now could he?

"God, yes," was the immediate reply.

Nate handed him the tumbler and took a swig of the whiskey directly from the bottle. Sterling swirled the liquid in the glass, gave it an experimental sniff, then carefully sipped it. His eyebrows shot towards his receding hairline. "This is good," he sounded surprised.

"Why are you here, Jim?"

Sterling frowned and downed the rest of the whiskey in one go. "I was kicked out."

"Of prison?" Nate laughed. "Overstayed your welcome?"

"More like a man in a suit told me to leave or my visa would be revoked."

Nate froze. That wasn't—that shouldn't have happened. "You're kidding?" he tested. "Can they do that?"

Sterling snorted. "They can do whatever they bleeding want, they're the CIA."

Oh, that wasn't good. In fact, that was at the top of the list of Things That Could Go Very Wrong. Nate mentally smacked himself for being so cocky; he should never have called—but it didn't matter anymore. It was too late to change the past. He'd just have to adapt like he always did. He cleared his throat. Okay, time for plan E.

"And this guy's negotiating with her? She's a con artist, I thought that was, ah, beneath the CIA to mingle with the, you know, riffraff," he pressed for more information. Not too hard, of course; they still had a game to play on him.

Sterling refilled the tumbler. "All I know is as long as the U.S. government's involved, IYS isn't going to see the Second David for a very, very long time."

"You mean, you're never going to see it."

"Naturally."

Nate paused. "Tell you what, I'll see what I can do. I have a few contacts in the Agency who may be able to throw some weight on our side." That was a lie. Sterling shook his head and told him he could do what he wanted, but it wouldn't amount to much. Between the two of them, they finished Jimmy's wedding present just as weak rays of light peaked over the western horizon. Sterling, only a tad bit tipsy, bid him farewell and drove off into the sunrise.

Nate stashed the empty bottle under the porch and weaved into the living room, making a beeline for the sofa. Hopefully he could get in an hour of rest before he had to deal with this new roadblock. The Jeannie was geared entirely for Sterling, how could he involve a new player?

Even as the sky grew lighter, the shadows around him seemed to grow darker. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a pale figure hanging in the corner, but when he turned to face it fully, there was nothing there. He shook his head. It was paranoia, that's all. Well, paranoia and whiskey.

He fell into the cushions of the couch, shutting his eyes tight to block out the weak morning sun. He felt a dull burn in his wrists and shifted uncomfortably. His limbs were heavy, his breathing shallow.

Nate let out a shaky breath and opened his eyes.

The room was so dark he could barely see across the room, but he could just make out two limp bodies hanging from the low ceiling by their wrists. He rolled his head along his shoulder until he stared up at his own bound hands. It should have bothered him that he didn't feel anything in them.

His dry tongue ran over his lips as he tried to wiggle his fingers. After a minute of concentration, his pinky finger twitched. A small smile twitched the corners of his mouth upwards, breaking the skin of his chapped lips.

His neck itched.

He flicked his eyes to the bag of blood on the IV stand next to him. A small tube ran from the full bag towards him. That couldn't be his own blood, could it? Nate had a sick feeling that it was. What kind of sick bastard drained people of their blood? That was disgusting. And unsanitary.

A soft cooing noise distracted him from his rambling thoughts. He tried to move his head again, but the energy seemed to drain from him. He shifted his eyes towards the corner where the boys were suspended. A vaguely female shape moved between them.

He watched in horror as a hand haloed in blue flames inched towards the boys' own blood bags. He must have gasped because the pale creature turned sharply and looked at him. No sooner had the creature moved, that Nate's vision was blocked by a face.

At least, he assumed it was a face beneath all those tattoos… And were his eyes glowing blue? The tattooed man – again, Nate could only guess—gently traced Nate's cheeks and jawline.

"Shhh," the tattooed man hushed. "Sleep." Nate felt his body relax under the stranger's touch. It was better than whiskey, better than painkillers. He leaned into the touch, craving its sedating effect. It was an addiction he hadn't realized he'd had, but made him want more. He couldn't feel the fiery burn in his raw wrists, or the ache in his head, or the itch in his neck where the needle entered his vein. He was numb, seeing nothing and hearing one last command. "Sleep."

And then he was gone.

He jerked awake and found himself face to face with Maggie's accusing glare. He pinched himself, digging his nails into his arm, just to see if he felt it. His nails left little crescents on his arm and a sharp sting that confused him more than it assured him. He'd been so sure that this was the dream, but the glowing eyes didn't exactly shout "reality", now did they.

"Morning," he said cautiously.

Her eyes narrowed. "That's it?"

"Good morning?"

She tossed the empty bottle of Jimmy's whiskey onto his chest, angry tears in her eyes. "You promised," she spat.

Nate stared at the bottle. "Ah." Right. "You found that." He didn't try to deny it, not with the alcohol still on his breath.

"How long?" she sighed. The anger vanished as she asked the question, replaced by resignation. She sank into the soft chair next to the sofa.

Nate stared at her. Now that right there, that didn't sound like Maggie. Maggie would have thrown a fit, kicked him out, and forced him into therapy, made him sleep on the, well, the couch — not sit there like she'd given up hope. Maggie had fought for him, right up to the very end. It was Nate who had given up. Not her, never Maggie.

He didn't say any of that. "Three days."

"Nathan," she said, then bit her lip and looked away. As if she couldn't even look at him. It was a long time before she could begin again. "I don't—"

Nate phone chirped at him, interrupting whatever Maggie was about to say. "I need to…" he trailed off awkwardly.

"Answer that," she finished. "I know."

He listened carefully to what the person calling him had to say, nodding even though the gesture couldn't be seen, then hung up. He coughed. "I'm sorry," he said. Maggie looked to the floor.

"You need to go." It wasn't a question. If Nate hadn't known better, he would have said it was a command.

"Ah, yeah," Nate said. "I need to go."

"Okay," Maggie nodded. "Nothing keeping you here." She stood and walked out of the living room without another word.

Nate tried not to think about it as he straightened his gaudy tie and walked into the private visiting area he'd been escorted to. He was starting to know the prison better than his own home, and not only because he'd studied the blueprints. Sophie looked up from the table, cuffs around her wrists and guilty expression on her face. That wasn't a good sign. His thoughts were jumbled and confused, but everything stopped when he saw the tall man folding several sheets of paper into his laptop case.

"Hardison?"