DISCLAIMER: not mine, please don't sue.

a/n #1

aprilf00l: LOL I can relate. My mind is always in the gutter when it comes to these two and I think it's starting to become blatantly obvious (if it wasn't already). But that's okay, IMO. :D Anyway, thank you so much for the kind words and the support! Hope you like this chapter too.

Rachel: no worries. I honestly don't expect people to review every single chapter - or review at all if they don't want to. It's totally fine but of course I'm beyond thrilled and appreciate it when you guys do. :) So thank you!

I still haven't given up hope that one day Natalie will be back on this show. Let's form a prayer circle for this little ship. :)

Jenna Therrian: thanks so much! I'm so glad you enjoy the ride (if I can call this snail-paced character piece a "ride" :) and find it realistic. To be honest, I'm kinda terrified every time I post a new chapter, thinking "I really screwed up this time and everyone will hate it", but kind people like you always help ease my neurotic mind, and I am grateful.

Nosferatu's-Cigarette-Binge: of course I mentioned you! It's the least I can do. I always try to respond as best as I can and thank you for sticking with the story. I know these long breaks between updates are not ideal at all but real life just keeps disrupting my writing schedule. Hope it is still worth the wait, though. And thanks again! :)

Do: it's been a while indeed. :) I'm so sorry for the long wait. Yes, you put it perfectly: Eli and Natalie are "kinda" together now but it's not gonna be that easy. Naturally. ;) And thank you! So happy you are still interested!

Yes, we last saw Natalie in season 2, so if you ask me, it's time to revisit this little plotline. :)

a/n #2: just a little heads-up, guys, that soon ("soon" in my case probably equals 2-3 months) I'll bump up the rating to "M", which means that the story will disappear from the default fic list. I don't want you to panic or riot or anything, so I'm giving you due warning. It's also possible that I'll move the whole thing to a different site where more explicit stuff can be posted. I haven't decided yet but I'll let you know when I do.

a/n #3: this chapter is still very much focused on character stuff but I also have a plot here somewhere and I will try to move that along a bit too in the next installment.

a/n #4: If you have any concerns, questions or general praise, don't be shy. I wanna hear it! Okay, I'll shut up now. Once again, thank you all for reading and enjoy!

~ SCORPION ~

He's standing right outside her apartment, phone pressed against his ear. He's listening to Frank but his eyes are on Richard and his mind is racing. The younger man is still inside, talking with Natalie. His presence is still annoying but not as much as it was an hour ago. Something has changed between the 6th and the 4th floor – an "us" has replaced some of the what ifs and maybes.

"Are you there?" Frank asks, his voice transforming back into actual words, and it re-focuses Eli's attention.

"Yes."

"And did you hear what I said?"

"Yes," Eli replies without hesitation. Then there's a moment of silence. "But repeat it."

He can almost hear the chairman roll his eyes. "Tomorrow's little get together has been moved from 10 to 8 am."

Eli furrows his brow. "Are you my assistant now, Frank?"

"If that's what it takes to get your ass there on time, then yes. Fiedler's very interested in the campaign and I need you there to answer his questions. You. Not your assistant, not your staff. You."

"Yes, me. I get it, Frank."

"I sure hope so."

Eli hangs up and sees Mills limping towards him on the corridor, so he keeps fiddling with his phone, pretending not to be waiting for the lieutenant.

"Mr. Gold," he greets him, slightly out of breath and in obvious pain from having taken four flights of stairs. It seems he was warned about the elevator.

"Lieutenant." Eli nods, pocketing the phone. He looks at the older man and sees a flash of raw pain. "Don't you have a cane?" he asks with brows crinkled into a mildly concerned shape, his tone vaguely caring. It surprises both of them. "Or something?" he adds, aiming to sound thoroughly dismissive of the topic.

"I don't need it," Mills lies. He hates the damned thing as much as he needs it. So, naturally, he refuses to use it.

Both men just stand there for a while in silence.

Mills speaks at last. "Is there something you need?"

Eli's gaze remains on Natalie and Richard. "Have you talked to that guy?" he asks, indicating Richard with a small nod.

"Yes."

"And?"

"And… I don't know what you're getting at."

Eli's gaze leaves the conversing couple and meets the lieutenant's. "He has something to do with this." It's not just jealousy talking anymore.

Mills, however, is not convinced. "And you know this how?"

Eli shrugs. "Just a hunch."

"I'm afraid I'll need something more tangible than that."

"Then find it."

Mills doesn't say anything. Eli's jaws clench in frustration but before he could say anything, his phone starts ringing. He fishes it out and looks at the caller ID. This time it's Nora, his actual assistant. "Well, I'm so glad we had this talk," he tells Mills, then turns away to take the call.

"Yes? … Yes, I know. … What? No! … Did she send it? Okay. Yes. I'll need those. … That, too." He briefly glances at Natalie. "No, I can't now. No. I said not now. … Yeah. I'll text it." He hangs up, shoves the phone in his pocket with a tired sigh and runs a hand through his hair. He looks at the blackish stains on his fingers. They won't rub off. Why won't they rub off? It's such an insignificant, stupid thing, yet it makes him so very mad.

When he turns back around, he finds that Mills is still there, looking at him. "Yes?"

"Lemon juice," the older man says, then his tired, silvery form starts moving inside with a painful limp.

Eli just stands there with a confused frown on his face. "Great," he says but Mills keeps moving away with no further explanation. "Am I supposed to know what that means?"

The lieutenant looks back and gestures to Eli's hands with his empty coffee cup. "Gets the ink off… eventually." And with that, he disappears inside. Eli doesn't even have time to react because now Richard appears. The younger man walks out with a whiff of contempt and sharp silence. He throws Eli a look, then starts down the corridor toward the elevator. After a few steps, however, he stops and turns back. He just can't help himself.

"She deserves better."

Eli's already busy typing on his phone but decides to grace Richard with a brief, dismissive glance. "I agree." And with that, the tiny, rapid sounds of button pushing resume.

The lieutenant places the cup on the counter. "Thank you for the coffee."

"You're welcome," Natalie says. Mills glances around the apartment. "Can I get you anything else?"

"No, thank you." He regards her for a moment, then the only question he hasn't asked yet slips out. "Are you okay?"

"Yes." It's a reflex. She knows it. Mills knows it even better. She tugs on the sleeve of her jumper and steals a glance towards the door, as if to make sure nobody else can hear what's rather obvious to see, then:

"I'm not." A half-whispered, staggering confession followed by some more jumper sleeve tugging.

Mills nods and waits until her gaze meets his. She expects to see pity. She is wrong.

"You will be," he assures her and his eyes promise the same.

Richard hesitates. He doesn't speak but he doesn't walk away either. Then comes another outburst of irritated bitterness. "I think you're a bad influence."

Eli scoffs. "I think she can decide for herself," he says, still typing but he seems to be abusing the buttons with a bit more force.

"I care about her."

"Hm…" Eli grunts softly and somewhat absent-mindedly. "You have a funny way of showing that."

"You're barking up the wrong tree, Mr. Gold."

Eli glances up, confused. "What?"

"I had nothing to do with this."

"Then you have nothing to worry about."

Richard smiles at that. "I know you don't like me and that's okay. I'm not crazy about you, either."

"Well, I'm so relieved we cleared that up."

Richard studies him for a few silent moments. "Natalie obviously sees something in you that I can't."

"Yes," Eli agrees. "It's her thing, apparently."

"Yeah, you should know. I mean, you even tried to deport her and yet…," Richard's voice trails off into a forced chuckle. His words land with more impact than he anticipated. It hits Eli like a fist and pushes some emotion on the surface.

Did Natalie tell him?

Surprise, hurt, and anger flicker across Eli's face in rapid succession, then it all gets erased. He flashes a tense smile. "And yet here we are. You, on your way out. Me, on my way in."

Richard's smile fades but not completely. "She's a nice girl. Trusting. But too smart not to figure it out eventually.

"Figure out what?"

"That you…" Richard trails off and regards Eli for a moment. "Well, you are you."

"I am me," Eli repeats, unsure what to do with that astute observation.

"Yes. It's like in that story. You know, the one with the um… frog, I think, and the scorpion." Eli doesn't answer. Richard takes that as a yes. "You're going to screw her over. Again. It's just a matter of time. But I can wait."

Eli glances at Natalie, then back at Richard. He manages to swallow most of his rage, then takes a step closer to the younger man. "I'm willing to make an effort here, Dick," he says in a low, measured tone, "... to ignore you. But if I find out that you were involved in this in any way, I will nail you to the wall, and I won't care if it sinks us both."

She's cleaning the living room, trying to erase every physical reminder of what went down in there only a few hours ago. He offered to help. She declined with a firm voice but it was framed by a soft smile. She needs to do this alone. She needs to keep busy and get control of something. Anything. So he just sits in clumsy silence on a chair by the kitchen counter – "his chair". He tries to read some magazine but he can't even tell its name, let alone what's on the page he's been staring at for several minutes.

From time to time, her gaze finds him and, if he's not looking, it lingers on his seated form.

Because he is a stirring comfort.

From time to time, he glances at her and, if she's not looking, his eyes travel her body.

Because she is a beautiful risk.

After a while the chair gets uncomfortable and he feels thirsty. He rises to his feet to get a glass of water and accidentally kicks something on the floor. It's a book. He picks it up and turns it in his hand to read the faded title.

Economics by Paul Samuelson.

His initial fond smile quickly shrinks from his lips. He stares at the book. It's a handful of guilt. It always finds its way back to him. It clutches him, feeds on him. It burns his heart.

It would have been nice if you were a party planner. Words wound. I really liked the idea of that. These marred. They still ring in his ear – her clear voice in his vague silence. He couldn't say much and even that felt completely meaningless. Insulting, even. He was all out of lies. There was nothing left to deny, even less to spin into something safe and less… stinging. There was only that devastating look of disappointment in her eyes – sad, mute, and so sharp. He was no party planner. In that moment he couldn't be anything. He just sat there in shackles of shame, raw and helpless. Of course she left. He wouldn't have stayed, either. It hurt but it made perfect sense. He looks at her again. She's straightening the pillows on the couch. She glances up and their eyes meet. He smiles and she smiles back. This hurts too, but in a completely different way. He never thought happiness could hurt. His does now.

And it makes no sense.

Not unlike his fingers, his feelings have stains, too. They carry a kind of guilty residue. Itchy, sticky, elastic patches that seem to stretch as the feelings grow. And they grow. They are crowding his head and tightening his chest. "Do you regret it?" It's an almost inaudible question, the kind that just slips out. He barely realizes when it does.

"Regret what?" she asks but he doesn't answer. She walks up to him and sees the book in his hand. His inky thumb absently caresses the worn cover, then his eyes meet hers again. His expression is a curious mixture of self-loathing and affection. He wants to say something but nothing comes out. She takes hold of the book, her fingertips brushing the side of his hand. He watches her quietly, and the distance between them starts to fill up with hesitant need. He smiles shyly – it's an almost involuntary, famished smile. Yes, he wants this to work. He wants it so much it's splitting him into two. She thinks that's enough. There was a time he thought the same. Then there was a divorce. And an injuring betrayal. But she is young and he… isn't. He knows he shouldn't be here. He also knows that unless she asks, he won't leave. You are you.

She really should ask. But she won't.

He invited her to the Election Day victory party because he wanted her to see that the betrayal meant something. He worked hard to make it mean something. He did it not just for Peter or some obscure greater good or for more money and power. It was the right thing to do, his pollster told him. "It was a mistake," he tells her quietly. He's relapsing.

He looks awkward and helpless. She furrows her brow, wondering what brought this on again. They seem to be dancing a new kind of dance now – the one step forward, two step back kind. She feels unusually certain and confident. He suffers from an unsettling lack of those exact same things. Their beginnings were made of false words and honest moments. Now there's silence and so much gravity. An incomprehensible connection. Her quiet acceptance and his voice.

"I had to make it." I'm sorry. He doesn't say that out loud. He doesn't dare but she understands. She knows the weight of those necessary mistakes, too. They are heavy and they keep dragging their makers down.

"Let it go, Eli." Please. She can't make him do it. She might not even be able to help much but what she can most definitely do is keep trying.

Because words heal, too.

He swallows, then takes a deep, silent breath. He lets go of the book and she gently pulls it from his stained grasp. It's a start. A tiny step forward.

"You knew," he says. She waits and hopes that there's more to go on. There is. "You knew I lied but you came to the restaurant anyway."

"Yup." She smiles, then tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She gets flustered under his gaze. It's dark brown now and so hungry, pleading for something to soothe this confusion.

"Why?" Another desperate attempt to understand. To verify. To make sure.

She bites her lower lip and takes her time with the answer. "Maybe I hoped you were genuinely interested… I mean, as a guy… not just as a… you know…" The sentence deteriorates into raised eyebrows and a small, albeit unapologetic smile. "Scheming bastard."

"I was," he tells her. "… I am."

"A scheming bastard?" she teases.

"That, too," he admits with eyes cast down and a sad little smile, then runs a hand through his hair – a nervous habit she's getting increasingly fond of. "And…" Now he trails off and looks at her. His confession comes few words at a time. "A guy… who's very… genuinely interested." He's squeezed it out.

"You could have told me." He drops his gaze again and nods. "You didn't..." He shakes his head, then glances up and sighs. "I'm not a mind reader, Eli. Sometimes you have to use your words."

He nods again. "I'll see what I can do," he says with a small grin. "Ma'am."

She playfully smacks him with the book, then puts it on the shelf under the counter.

His eyes follow her movements, studying, admiring, worrying. "You could come with me," he offers, then clears his throat. "To the hotel, I mean." She sits down – on "his chair" – but doesn't speak. "Just until you get back your baseball bat," he adds with a faint quirk of his lips.

"This is my home, Eli." Her voice rings with bruised strength. She isn't going anywhere.

She sees the pursed lips and the chewing. She knows he's trying not to argue and watches the words being swallowed back. He sees the clenched jaws, the jumper wringing, the locked-in emotions, and the marks of violence on her skin. He knows she's trying to get some semblance of control over a nameless, faceless attacker but this is still foolish. He chokes back the words and breathes a defeated sigh. He is frustrated, alarmed, and fascinated. The intruder is long gone but she is still fighting. It is instinctive, impulsive, honest, and crazy. She has no plan. No strategy. There's no scheming. It's unwise, unsafe, so un-him and so her and so… Us.

"You shouldn't be alone."

His caring cracks her shield and slips through. She lowers her eyes, looks at his shoes. They weren't much help for their owner before and they are just as unhelpful now. Fortunately, she doesn't need help. She knows exactly what she wants but it takes a few moments of quiet shoe-staring to voice it.

"Then stay."

She's not begging. She's asking without asking, and when he doesn't answer, she peers up. The need to touch him and be touched by him is getting increasingly difficult to ignore. After a moment of hesitation, he reaches out for her – it's an instinctive, respectful gesture. Her palm slides over his upturned one, and he pulls her up from the chair. His arms slide around her waist and he gently pulls her against him. She wraps her arms around his neck and rests her head on his shoulder. Her eyes drift shut and after a long moment, she lets out a mute sigh. Then, eyes still closed, she just listens. He inhales slowly. She hears his lungs fill with air and she breathes with him. His heart is so loud – almost as deafening as hers. A tiny smile curves her lips. His fingertips slide up and down her back and hers fiddle with the soft gray at the nape of his neck. They stay like this for a while. Breathing, needing, wanting, comforting, mending – helping each other to let go. There's some faint music drifting from the radio in the kitchen and he begins to sway a bit. She smiles into his shirt, then shifts, trying to get even closer, and buries her face against his neck. He can feel the rhythmic warmth of her breath on his skin and her cool fingertips on his scalp. It's both numbing and electrifying. His hands become somewhat unsteady but they continue traveling up her back and down again, soothing the cold tension in her body and gradually building something else.

"Do you have lemon juice?" His question comes out of the blue. They are so close, she can feel his voice.

Her eyes open. She doesn't know how else to react so she just answers. "I do."

"Okay," he says in a casual tone, as if this were the most natural thing to discuss right at this moment. "I'll stay then." She can hear his smile and he can soon feel hers. It's kissed into his skin. As she slowly works her way up to his jaw line, his breathing gets increasingly uneven. She plants a lingering kiss behind his ear, making him shiver. His hand slides up into her hair and he gently pulls her head back. For a split second she feels disappointed. Then she feels his mouth against hers. It brings a fresh rush of relief and arousal. The first couple of kisses are quick, tentative, light, and tender, but they soon become longer, deeper, more urgent and demanding.

His tongue sweeps along her lower lip and a pleasant chill courses through her body. His light stubble grazes her skin, and he teases her lips apart, deepening their kiss. Her hands drift down, along his chest, then up again, sweeping his ribcage with fingers fanned out. There's way too much fabric and not enough skin. His fingers trail along the waistline seam of her jumper. Her hands slide up to the knot of his tie and, slowly, her fingers start to loosen it apart. He breaks the kiss but doesn't pull away. His ragged breathing feels cool against her mouth. "You seem a bit out of breath," she explains playfully and he grins as he rests his forehead against hers. His tie slides off from around his neck in a fabricky whisper, but she can only undo the top button of his shirt before his mouth finds hers again. After that, it gets rather difficult to concentrate, but soon three more buttons are undone. His hands slide under her jumper. His fingertips begin trailing upward. His thumbs lightly brush against the warm undercurves of her breasts through the tank top she's wearing underneath, but then his hands retreat and tug at her jumper. This time she breaks the kiss and pulls back a little to look at him. "You seem a little flushed," he whispers against her lips with a small grin. His breathless and unsteady voice is almost as arousing as his touch.

He pulls the jumper over her head and throws it aside. It lands on the chair next to his tie.

All tangled up in each other, they begin edging toward the living room. Their kissing is occasionally interrupted by a stumble over parts of the coffee table wreckage and each other's feet. But soon he feels the edge of the couch against his legs and pulls away to look at her, seeking reassurance. Her hands slide under his shirt and over his shoulders. She kisses him and gently starts pushing him down. He sits and she joins him, straddling his thighs. As he leans back, he feels a sudden, sharp jolt of pain in his lower back. His reward for trying to be kind to an old lady with two heavy suitcases just keeps on giving at the least convenient moments. He winces and she notices.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes," he lies. He knows she knows. "It's nothing," he lies again anyway, and she shifts, eliciting another wince. "It's my back," he confesses at last. He lets his head fall back against the couch and shuts his eyes. He would laugh if it didn't hurt so much. But then the pain passes as quick as it came. He feels her weight shifting again, this time not toward but away from him. He leans forward and reaches out. It's an almost desperate move. She stills under his touch. "You don't…" He pauses, discards the rest of his sentence, then swallows. "It's fine," he assures her. After some hesitation, she carefully settles back on his thighs, and everything goes still. For a while they just look at each other with a mixture of keen interest and some uncertainty. They are new to each other. It's an arousing, daunting, and fascinating newness. Her palms rest flat against his chest – it's rising and falling, pale and burning. She can feel his heart pounding even faster as she slowly, cautiously brings her lips down on his for another long, deep kiss. She slips her tongue under his, teasing and tasting. He strokes her calves, his thumbs drawing lazy arcs on her skin, then she feels the warmth of his hands sliding up her thighs. She shivers under his touch and moans into the kiss. After a while she pulls back a bit, trying to get her hair out of the way but some of it gets caught in one of the bandages covering the cut on her forehead. After a brief fussing she only manages to partially re-open the wound. An exasperated, Spanish-sounding whisper slips off her lips. She seems to switch to Spanish when she's angry and he finds that adorable. "It's not funny, you know," she tells him but his grin is already infecting her voice. "It freaking hurts." He chuckles and she struggles to keep a stern face. He reaches up and pulls her hand away. He carefully coaxes the stray hairs out of the sticky white strip, then gently smooths it back in place for her. As a finishing touch, he lightly kisses her forehead. "Better?"

"Much," she says and leans in but the sound of knocking pulls her lips away from his.

They look at each other, toward the front door, then back at each other. She reluctantly gets to her feet and Eli quickly follows. "Wait," he whispers, looking tense and alarmed.

"Bad guys don't knock, Eli."

"They may think you think that."

She seems to consider that briefly. "I think you're over-thinking this," she says at last, and starts toward the front door.

"Wait!"

There's more knocking. She slows to a halt and turns back, deciding to indulge his paranoia – partly because now it's spreading to her as well. He goes to the kitchen and re-emerges with a frying pan in hand. She gives him an amused look. "Just in case I'm right," he explains. She slowly nods, fighting back a grin, then walks up to the door. He follows. She grabs the knob and glances back at him. Eli raises the pan like a baseball bat, ready to strike whoever is on the other side. "I'm ready." She takes a breath and pulls the door open.

There's a completely innocent-looking woman waiting outside with two bags and a stack of files in her hands.

Eli's the first one to react. He lowers the pan. "Nora."

Then his equally bewildered assistant. "Eli."

There's a long moment of stunned silence at both sides of the doorstep. "Natalie," she introduces herself, completing this impromptu roll-call, and her voice helps Eli find his manners.

"Sorry. This…" He needs to think for a moment. "… is my assistant, Nora," he gestures to their guest with the frying pan, then points it at Natalie. "Nora, this is Natalie… Flores." Nora nods with a look of concern. Natalie self-consciously crosses her arms and smiles, then follows the assistant's gaze – now it's fixed on the frying pan. As subtly as possible, Natalie takes the pan away from Eli, which only marginally improves on the overall look of this situation.

"Is this a bad time?" Nora asks, her attention switching between her boss and the young woman whose name rings a very specific bell.

"No," Eli and Natalie lie in unison, then abrupt silence ensues again. "Would you like to come in?" Natalie asks and the assistant's gaze immediately locks with Eli's. After he firmly mouths "no", Nora looks back at Natalie and politely declines the offer. "I just came to bring you these," she says, referring to the stack of files she's still holding. Eli nods mutely. He's having a hard time easing into this conversation. Nora keeps staring, still trying to decipher and digest what is happening, so Natalie decides to make things a bit easier for everybody by removing herself from this awkward equation.

"Well, I think I'm just gonna… take this back," she says and makes a little wave with the pan. "It was nice meeting you."

"You too," Nora says and Natalie walks back inside. The assistant waits until she disappears, then looks at Eli. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-"

He cuts her off, his demeanor switching back to what most people around him would call normal. "It's fine." He reaches out his hand, gesturing impatiently to the pile of papers. "You brought everything?"

"Everything you asked," she answers after some hesitation, handing him the files. He ignores her confusion and quickly flips through the printed pages, checking. "Is…" she starts but pauses when Eli looks up. She hesitates again but her concern wins out. "Is there anything I should know?"

Eli raises his eyebrows. "About what?" he asks, a bit irritated, feigning ignorance. But Nora finds it rather difficult to ignore Natalie's bruises, the frying pan and his improperly buttoned shirt. She isn't familiar with this side of her boss at all. For now, however, she wisely decides not to comment. "Is there anything I should know?" Eli asks as he continues leafing through the files.

"Mr. Landau was asking about you." When her boss doesn't react, she adds, "He asked where he could find you."

Eli's head snaps up immediately. "What did you tell him?"

"I told him I didn't know." She can be very good at feigning ignorance too. She learned from the best.

Eli visibly relaxes. "Good."

"He will keep asking."

"I'll handle him."

She nods and offers him the smaller bag. "I brought your laptop." He takes it from her. "And I thought you might need these," she says somewhat hesitantly, then hands him the second, larger bag, too. This is uncharted territory for employee and employer alike.

He takes the other bag but his eyes remain on her. "What's in this?"

"Toothbrush. Chargers. Clean socks. Things like that."

He stares at her, then nods silently. He looks grateful and a bit baffled. She smiles. "Good night." And with that, she turns to leave.

"Nora."

She glances back. "Yes?"

He purses his lips, turning the reluctant but heartfelt words in his mouth. "Thank you."

For the extra bag.
For not asking.
For not telling.

He rarely says those words to her but she doesn't let him see her surprise. He can only see the beginnings of another smile. She can tell he's getting uncomfortable now, so she changes the subject. "Tomorrow's meeting-"

"8 o'clock, I know."

"A.M."

"A.M.," he repeats with a small smile and a slight tilt of his head.

She's most definitely not familiar with this side of him but she's already fond of it. She gives him a farewell nod, and as she walks off, Eli turns to get inside. Juggling the files and the bags, he's already drafting an explanation why he is so prepared to stay when he only said yes a few minutes ago.

TBC