DISCLAIMER: not mine, please don't sue.

SSLE, Nat, Anon, and aprilf00l: you rock. Thanks so much for taking the time to give me some feedback. It's appreciated big time. In fact, it's like crack cocaine to me and a great relief, too, because after reading through a chapter for the hundredth time, I can no longer tell if this or that is in-character or not, believable or not, good or not. So once again, thank you. :)

~ GRAY ~

After about 20 minutes he finally emerges from the bathroom and crosses to the kitchen. Natalie's full concentration is on the shirt and she doesn't notice him. Not wanting to startle her, he keeps a safe distance and clears his throat to signal his presence. She raises eyes at him and smiles. His headsuit seems to be back to normal – meticulously combed, every hair in place, perfect.

"I see you found the hairdryer."

"Yes." Along with various other useful items but she doesn't really need to know about that. "Thank you." He sits down on a chair at the kitchen counter, shifts a couple of times, pokes at various things, rolls his shoulder blades, flips through a magazine, stretches his back, then tugs at his new outfit – all that under the span of two minutes. He is like a slightly hyperactive 9-year-old. Or a giant, well-groomed cat with some pent-up energy. She hasn't decided yet.

"Do you like the t-shirt?" she asks.

He glances down at the piece of clothing in question, then back at her. It looks good on him but it itches a bit. Also, it has "I have issues" written on it with white capital letters. It's just a t-shirt but it's mocking him on some level, he's sure. "I believe it's a perfect fit," he declares in a serious tone. He does talk like a newspaper sometimes – one with cartoons and puzzles and fun mixed in with the serious stuff and the compulsory b.s.

Her focus is back on the shirt but a smile lingers on her face. He watches her.

"How's the war on stain going?" he asks.

"I'm so gonna win," she declares without looking up and he doesn't doubt her. He takes out his phone and begins typing.

She glances at him. "And how's the party planning business going?"

He grins. "Great. But ask me again next week."

"Is this meeting important?"

"Oh, yes," he answers, slightly distracted.

"And where is it?"

"At the Fairmont."

"That's not exactly next door," she remarks but he is oblivious to the change in her tone.

"I know. That's why…" he trails off as he finishes typing, "I ordered a taxi." Quite satisfied with himself, he looks up but his smile fades when he sees the serious expression on her face. Oh god, what did he do again?

She sets aside his shirt. "We didn't meet by accident, did we?" He swallows, his brain already switching to risk assessment mode. "What were you really doing in that coffee house, Eli?" Her voice is soft – pleading not demanding.

"I-I was told they had really good coffee," he lies and his mouth suddenly goes dry. He doesn't care how wrong it feels. Telling the truth would probably be riskier and more embarrassing. He can't. He doesn't want to.

"I would think you could find even better at a five-star hotel."

"I…" he starts but trails off as she slides a key card in front of him on the counter. His key card for his room at the Fairmont. He stares at it silently, his mind racing. As a crowning touch, she places a slip of crumpled, wet paper on top of the key card – on it the now smudgy blue lines of her work address, her home address, and her personal cell number.

"I wasn't snooping. I needed to empty your shirt pockets."

He feels the blood drain from his head. "It's not what it looks like." That's all he manages to squeeze out. His mouth has become so terribly dry.

"Well, it looks like your trip wasn't all that last minute after all," she says, correctly assessing the situation. She isn't angry. She's just wary. The last time he approached her in this less than straightforward and rather confusing manner, she ended up in the middle of a scandal, got kicked out of the university and almost got deported. This time she wants – needs – the truth up-front so she can properly deal with whatever comes next. "Eli?"

He doesn't look up. He chews on the inside of his mouth, staring at the "evidence" in front of him. She wants black and white and he lives in gray. He loves gray. Gray is familiar. Gray is comfortable and safe.

"What did she tell you?" he asks, still avoiding her eyes. When she doesn't answer, he clarifies, "Mrs. Green… in the elevator."

She hesitates. She doesn't want to offend him but maybe he needs to hear it – needs to hear her say it out loud. "She told me that I should be careful about bringing home strays because one never knows where they have been." Slowly, silently, sadly, he glances up at her and she continues, "And when they bite… it hurts like hell."

She would know all about that. "Nannygate" was a pretty serious bite – one he didn't deserve forgiveness for. She stares at him and he stares back. His face is granite now, his gaze is intense. "Wise woman," he says, then looks away.

She rests her hands on the counter. Her fingertips are only inches away from his. He stares at them. She stares at the gray in his hair, wondering what it would feel like to run her fingers through it. "I like you, Eli." His shoulders rise and fall with a silent, heavy sigh. "Against my better judgment… and, apparently, everybody else's." She sees his jaw clench but he still won't look at her. He's clamming up. "I really like you." Her index finger brushes against his and he finally lifts up his head. "But I need you to be honest with me."

He swallows dry. Honesty is a very nice concept but he often finds it to be resistant to practical application. Especially if there's a considerable risk of being hurt as a consequence. But sometimes it's worth it. He already lost her once by staying silent. The possibility of the same happening again unsettles him but it takes a while before the words come out.

"I'm not stalking you," he says abruptly, his voice hoarse. "I do have a meeting to get to." He stops, takes a breath, then more words lurch from his mouth. "But that's not the only reason I came here. I wanted…" he halts again, struggling, searching, and she waits patiently at the other side of the kitchen counter. He looks away. He glances up, down, sideways, everywhere but at her. His gaze finally settles on that wet, smudgy piece of paper. "I wanted to see you, to see how you were getting along. I asked our investigator to find your address. Your work address, nothing more. But she is always very thorough so… Anyway, I didn't really plan any of this and I didn't want to bother you. I just waited there but then-then it started raining and… and I'd left my umbrella at the hotel, and then you walked in and it was… you... you were happy so I left."

There. Honesty. It was a bit jumbled, the words limping and rough around the edges, but it's the best he can manage at the moment, and he hopes it's enough. He steals a glance at her.

Slowly, she leans across the counter. She reaches out, gently pulls the phone from his grasp, types something, then slips it back into his palm. "Your investigator found my old number. That's the new one," she says with a trace of a smile.

He blinks. He wants to kiss her, he really does, but right now all his lips manage to accomplish is to form a small smile. He watches, silent and still, as she walks away and resumes her battle with the stain on his shirt. He could do a little victory jig on the counter but restrains himself. Does he deserve this? To be this happy? Probably not, but he doesn't have time to go down that familiar road of self-torture because someone is knocking at the front door.

bonus feature: Alan in that black tee: alancumming[DOT]tumblr[DOT]com/post/9880105527