DISCLAIMER: not mine, please don't sue.
Do, Rachel, aprilf00l, SSLE, Nat, Geiroidin, Hollystream, Anon, sprl1199, and KrinWashu: you guys rule. Plain and simple. Thank you so much for the support, encouragement, and general euphoria. I love you.
KrinWashu: again, thanks for that amazing string of reviews (still reeling from it), and to answer your question about Richard, I head-cast Sebastian Stan. He played such a delicious, multi-layered bastard on Kings. I just can't get his face out of my head when I write for Dick.
Last but not least, there will be no new chapter next week due to a mountain of school stuff I can no longer ignore. But I'll be back as soon as possible, I promise. :)
~ DATE ~
Natalie hangs up and turns to leave but her colleague, Kate, stops her with a wide, information-hungry grin and the inevitable follow-up question. It's been a long, long day and she will pounce on anything not work-related. "Okay, who is he?"
Natalie hesitates. The truth is, she doesn't really know who Eli Gold is - at the moment she knows enough to make her want to know more. She doesn't know what this thing is between them or how long it will be there. She isn't ashamed of her feelings, or him, but so much is still uncertain. Even talking about it with Kate would feel premature. Why put the cart before the horse? Still, the kind of giddiness that's bubbling inside her right now can't be fully hidden. She clears her throat. "Who is who?"
"Mr. Spare Key." Kate's eyes are fixed on Natalie, searching her face for some clue.
"We should go," Natalie deflects and slips past Kate to exit the office. But she hasn't quite escaped yet.
Even with a heavy bundle of paperwork clutched to her chest, Kate quickly catches up to her on the corridor. She is not one to give up that easily, especially today. "I'm guessing he's the reason you've been on cloud nine this whole afternoon," she prods but Natalie's lips remain sealed. "Oh, come on. I'm drowning here," Kate says, referring to the sea of papers in her arms and the long, dull work hours that went and will most likely go with them. "Throw me a bone. Please."
Natalie glances at her desperate friend and her initial reluctance crumbles a bit. Her silence breaks. "Do you remember when you asked me if I had any regrets over leaving Chicago?"
"Yeah. You said there might be one but…" her voice trails off as she makes the connection. Her face lights up. "And he came after you?"
"Well, technically he is here on business."
"Technically he is at your place."
"Right," Natalie says as they arrive at the conference room. She glances inside with a sigh. "He is."
Kate looks from Natalie to the packed room, a determined expression forming on her face. "We need to get you out of here ASAP."
Eli is staring at Mrs. Green's door. He mentally plays out a few possible ways this conversation could go down but frowns at the end of each. He takes a deep breath and rings the doorbell. For several moments nothing happens. He shifts from one foot to the other, waiting. He glances back at the paper bags he's left at Natalie's door, making sure they are still there and untouched. They are. Suddenly the door is yanked open and a familiar face emerges. The old lady's outfit, however, throws Eli a bit. She is wearing a white coat over her usual clothes and on it there's a large red splatter – it looks like a blood stain. His brow crinkles as his mind tries to process the image. Thankfully, his eyes quickly find the explanation – a brush in her right hand. Oh thank god. It's just paint.
"Can I help you?" she asks, drawing Eli's gaze from the red stain up to the silver of her eyes. They are focused on his lips, ready to read the careful words that are about to form on them.
"Yes. I'm sorry. My name-"
"I know who you are. What do you want?"
He's surprised but more than happy to cut this short. "Natalie said you had her spare key."
"I do."
"May I have it?" Her eyes narrow. "Please," he adds, hoping it un-narrows them. It doesn't, and he's beginning to feel increasingly uncomfortable. She makes him feel so guilty for some reason, but, at the very least, she appears to be considering his request. Somewhere amidst the anxiety, impatience, and self-consciousness he finds her a small, hopeful smile. Her eyes leave his lips to take in everything about him, and those few seconds tick by at a geriatric snail's pace.
"Wait here," she says, pointing the brush at him for further emphasis. He nods and she walks back inside but leaves the door open. He waits, motionless. For about 5 seconds. Then his curiosity compels him to lean forward and take a quick peek around. Her apartment looks completely normal. It's very neat, classy, and smells nice – if Mrs. Green were an apartment, he imagines this would be her. A corner is covered with plastic sheets. There's a clean, white canvas placed on an elegantly carved tripod easel. His gaze glides over crowded bookshelves, an old desk, and framed photos, then lands on something truly rare and magnificent – a Bechstein artcase piano. He doesn't even notice when its owner reappears.
"Do you play?" she asks, her voice startling him.
He straightens immediately, embarrassed and awkward. "I did," he replies with a wistful smile and they gaze at each other – warm brown thawing the edges of hard silver.
"I did, too," she tells him, then looks at the piano. "I don't see the point anymore."
She glances back at him and, after a long moment, offers him the key. He looks at the small piece of metal wedged between her thumb and index finger, then back up at her. "It didn't stop Beethoven, you know." Her face remains unreadable but there's a tiny spark of amusement in her eyes.
He takes the key. "Thank you." She nods and they part ways – he a little less guilty and she a little less empty.
He puts the bags down on the kitchen counter and looks around. It feels weird to be here alone but this way he can at least set things up properly. He sheds his overcoat and jacket, then loosens his tie – this is as casual as he gets tonight. He turns on his heels and gets to work.
After 30 minutes of meticulous preparation there is only one small detail missing and he's turning the entire kitchen upside down for it – in vain. He pulls out his phone and dials. He waits impatiently, then rolls his eyes. "It's me. Eli. Call me back. It's important." He hangs up and gives the kitchen a disapproving look.
With the phone still in his grasp he drifts to the couch and eyes it longingly. It looks so comfortable and inviting but if he sits down, he will probably fall asleep, so he wills himself to move on. He wanders around the apartment, looking but not touching. He winds up at the door near the bathroom. It's ajar. There's a particularly colorful striped sock caught between the door and the frame and he crouches down to rescue it. He grabs the doorknob but hesitates. It feels wrong… and exciting. He pushes the door open but doesn't step inside. A grin spreads across his face when he sees the mess. It is definitely her very own little corner but he doesn't set foot in it uninvited. He throws the sock on top of the giant heap of clothes on the bed and softly pulls the door shut.
His phone starts ringing. He picks it up. "Kalinda."
"What can I do for you, Eli?"
He stops in the middle of the kitchen. "Where do you keep the salad bowl at your place?"
A moment of sullen silence. "I don't have a salad bowl," she answers flatly with a tinge of irritation.
Eli ignores it and peeks into a cabinet. "Where would you keep it if you had one?"
"I'm hanging up now."
Frowning, he shuts the cabinet door. She's supposed to be good at finding things. "Wait. There's one more thing."
"It better not be tableware related," Kalinda warns him.
He opens the fridge. "I need you to look into someone…" He closes it. "Without them knowing you are looking."
Silence. "Is this for your campaign?"
He leans down to look in the oven – he is getting desperate. "No, it is for me."
She decides to believe him. "Okay. Who is it?"
He straightens up. "His name's Richard Thomas. You've probably heard of his father, Frank Thomas."
"I met him, too. And what exactly am I looking for?"
He looks into the cabinet above the sink. "Just check under that proverbial rug." Still no sign of the salad bowl.
"Why? Are you planning to pull it out from under him?"
He looks around. His gaze locks on the dishwasher – so obvious, yet he hasn't even checked there. "Not unless I have to." He opens it and his face lights up.
"Are you in some sort of trouble, Eli?"
He takes out the salad bowl with a triumphant grin. "I just like to be prepared."
"All right. I'll see what I can do."
He spins around when he hears a noise.
"Thanks." He abruptly hangs up and darts out of the kitchen. He gets to the front door just as the key turns in the lock. He realizes that he's still holding the salad bowl so he runs back, puts it down and rushes to the door again but the tip of his shoe gets caught in the carpet, sending him stumbling forward. He manages to regain his balance. He looks up and finds Natalie standing at the door with an amused and puzzled expression on her face. "Hi," he greets her, panting a little, trying to strike a nonchalant pose. His heart is in his throat but not just from the running and the near-fall.
"Hi. … Is everything okay?" she asks as she puts down her bag and keys.
"Yes," he says with a smile. For a moment they just look at each other, adjusting, grinning, worrying, and hoping.
She undoes the buttons on her overcoat and he walks up to her to help take it off. The heavy coat slides off her shoulders with ease and she turns around. He doesn't step away and she is completely fine with that. They are still dancing around each other but the circles are getting smaller, their steps less hesitant, the moves less awkward. "So how did the meeting go?"
"Oh I was fabulous," he answers with a confidence he only wishes he had right now. She laughs, easing his nervousness. He grins and leans slightly forward to hang the coat on the rack behind her, testing their boundaries. They appear to be eroding. She is more than aware of his mounting interest in her and he can see and feel it being reciprocated. What he can't figure out is why and that makes his courage falter. Thinking fast and several steps ahead has been his lifeline and safety net for so long but it doesn't work here. When she appears, the cold and calculating Strategist pulls up a comfy chair in a dark, distant corner of his mind – just out of reach – and sits there with a mute smile. In her presence he feels somewhat insecure and completely unprepared – yet, strangely enough, happier than anywhere else.
"Does this mean you're staying?" she asks as he withdraws from her personal space.
"For a few more days, yes." He narrows his eyes. Intensity is replaced by cautious playfulness. "Have you had dinner yet?"
She tilts her head, slightly confused by the change in his demeanor. There's a lot going on behind his eyes and sometimes she wishes she could take a peek inside. Other times the mere idea unsettles her. He is a complicated, sometimes goofy but ultimately risky puzzle in an attractive packaging. She doesn't know how the pieces fit together yet but she is very eager to find out. "I haven't even had lunch yet."
He glances toward the kitchen. "Hmmm…" His gaze shifts back at her. "… so if there's a big bunch of delicious food in your kitchen, that won't be a problem?" he asks with a serious face. The flowers-and-chocolate routine would have been way too obvious. Good food, on the other hand, is practical and carries the "I care about you" message much better than most presents do.
"Not for long once I get there," she says, grinning. She loves him so much right now. She really is starving. He breaks into a broad smile and gestures her to follow him inside. Her eyes grow wide with surprise as they walk in. "Oh my god." He wasn't lying. There's plenty of food and even the smallish kitchen table got a complete makeover. It's beautifully set, waiting for them. It never looked so elegant and inviting before. Her eyes find his. "You didn't have to."
He pulls out the chair for her. "I know." She sits and he leans down. "But I wanted to." She smiles, recognizing her own words from earlier today. He goes to get the appetizers and her eyes follow him.
"Will you be my waiter tonight?" she asks and he turns to answer.
"Of course."
She glances around. "Did you rob a restaurant on your way here?"
"Sort of," he says, carrying two plates to the table. "You don't have any allergies, do you?"
"No."
"Good." He sets a small plate of shrimp with remoulade in front of her.
He continues waiting on her for the rest of their dinner and she keeps thanking him. They eat, laugh, and talk. No more background checks, no more Google searches – just the two of them, face to face. She talks about her new job, her father, her citizenship test. He talks about his new "home" at Lockhart/Gardner, his daughter, the campaign. They steer clear of the risky subjects and questions – it's an unspoken but deliberate decision which they execute almost effortlessly.
She puts the last plate into the dishwasher and straightens up. He's leaning against the counter, toweling his hands dry. She secures the top on the salad bowl and puts it in the fridge. She has to move a slab of cheese to make some room and something occurs to her. She's hesitant but the need to know him better wins out. "I saw that report they made on you and cheese," she says, closing the fridge. His hands stop and he glances up at her. He doesn't look thrilled. "Was it all true? You know… what they said."
He averts his eyes and continues toweling his hands even though they are already dry. His movements are becoming strained and slightly angry. This will ruin the evening. Maybe everything. "The good parts were." He hesitates. "And… some of the bad," he adds, uncomfortable, honest, ashamed, his eyes still on his hands. He isn't good. He is what he has to be and that makes him the best - the best at what he does. It's a price he's willing to pay even when it's high. She should know that by now. She should know better than anyone. He knows but it doesn't really bother him anymore – except when he looks at her. Maybe if he stopped looking, her eyes would stop searching. If he could just stop looking… She was a glitch, a tiny, uncrushable pebble in a well-oiled machine. But she just keeps rattling on inside, and it's only a matter of time before the cogwheels of his mind get jammed again.
He raises his head when he feels her presence. She pulls the kitchen towel from his grasp before he rubs his skin off. Their faces are only a couple of inches apart. She gently takes his hand into hers, her thumb rubbing his palm in lazy circles. There's no judgment in her eyes. They shine with something else. He swallows.
"I'm not a nice guy, Natalie." Her thumb doesn't stop. There's a flash of hunger – the same kind that's building inside him with each stroke of her finger. "I… I just get confused sometimes."
"Do I confuse you?"
"You make no sense to me." It comes out like a whisper and gets caught between their lips. She kisses him softly and briefly, then pulls away. It's a silent confession, a dangerous experiment, a heartfelt invitation. Blood is rushing through his ears. Through the noise he hears the Strategist speak from very far away. Your move. Then he falls silent. Their fingers entwine. He lets go. No more thinking. Intuition takes over. He leans in. He kisses her slowly, and she kisses back eagerly. Her hands slip from his. Palms and fingers sweep along his bare forearms and his chest. She wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him down. His arms go around her waist, pulling her against him, caressing her back. She licks his lips, tasting Scotch – it tastes much better on him. He gently pushes his tongue into her mouth. She responds. A small moan. A cool jolt of pleasure. Her nails rake skin and graying hair at the nape of his neck. A shiver runs through him. She gets goosebumps. The kiss deepens and intensifies. They break free for air, panting, foreheads pressed together, dizzy. He licks his lips and she bites hers, then grabs his tie, pulling him in once again for another deep, long, almost aggressive kiss. In one swift move he turns her against the counter. She smiles against his lips. His mouth leaves hers, exploring, planting small, gentle kisses along her jaw line. She turns her head, exposing the curve of her neck. His breath brushes against her skin, his lips taste, his teeth graze it lightly. She runs her fingers through his hair, gripping and twisting it, and he bites down on her neck gently, making her moan. His hand slips under her blouse, fingertips touching soft, warm skin. Her hand slides down, grabbing a fistful of shirt, pulling, feeling his pounding heart. He moves his head and his lips find hers once again. He feels his body reacting to her and very soon she will too. They are drifting dangerously close to a point of no return.
That's when the reality-inducing sound of her cell phone penetrates their thick haze. He breaks from the kiss and peeks at the phone on the counter. She rests her head on his shoulder, still clinging to their closeness. She nuzzles his neck, then starts kissing it slowly. She finds a particularly sensitive spot and he presses his lips together to stifle a moan. He glances at the caller ID again.
"I think you should get that," he half-whispers into her ear, his voice raspy. They reluctantly untangle and he takes a step back, giving her some space. Her initial annoyance seems to evaporate when she sees the caller's name. She quickly answers it.
She is still raw with lingering desire but sobering up. "Dad… No. Wai-… slow down. Hol-… hold on a minute," she says and turns back to him.
He looks at her, standing in the slightly awkward, fuzzy, breathless aftermath of a first make-out session. "Is everything all right?" Eli asks, his brow darkening.
"Y-Yeah. Could you… um, could you give me a minute?"
"Sure."
She smiles at him gratefully, her attention switching back to her father. He grabs his glass with some leftover Scotch in it and wanders out of the kitchen. He can use a little time-out anyway. He ends up in the living room again and glances back at Natalie. She is laughing and it makes him smile. He drains his glass in one gulp, then lowers himself onto the couch, giving in to the cushy temptation, melting into it with a long, satisfied sigh. He tilts back his head, his heart and mind slowing down. He decides to rest his eyes for a few minutes – just until Natalie finishes her call.
And after about 20 seconds he falls asleep.