Title: Havana

Summary: Eliot meets up with an old friend while the team takes a short vacation.

Disclaimer: I don't own Leverage or any of the characters associated with the show. I only claim ownership to the character that I created. Also, no profits are being made off of this story. It's only for your entertainment.

Author's Note: This chapter dives into a bit of history with its own little take on some of Eliot's training. And remember…reviews help inspire more sexy Eliot…

Chapter 4

Naturally, he woke first, the morning light streaming through the window, his body unable to shake his 90 minute routine, despite being on vacation. At first, he tensed, eyes coming to focus on unfamiliarly painted walls before remembering where he was. Havana. And Natalia. He vividly recalled the hours before; the softness of her hair, his fingers slipping on her slick skin, how wet and tight she was around him. At that he unconsciously let out a low, satisfied growl, but quickly caught himself. She was still asleep, and he would be wracked with guilt if he woke her. He pondered that for a moment. Anyone else and it wouldn't have mattered. Nate, Sophie, Parker. He would have done it nicely, of course. Gently bringing each of them out of their peaceful slumber. Hardison, well that was another story. A pillow to the face, a rough jostle of a shoulder. Hell, maybe even dropping something on him would do the job with an appropriate amount of satisfaction.

But Natalia. No. He had never been able to bring himself to wake her. She was too at peace, an emotion that rarely crossed her state of being. She was an assassin after all, and serenity was something anyone in that line of work sought tirelessly to find. That he understood. But when she slept, for that brief span of time, she had it. And he'd be damned if he was going to rob her of that.

Eliot gently rolled to his right, pushing a wavy lock of hair out of his face, and was pleased to see exactly what he had expected. Natalia was facing him, still asleep. She had her arms pulled in tight to her chest, left hand under the pillow, right curled up under her chin. He traced her features with his eyes, since he didn't dare touch. She was beautiful, no doubt, but it saddened him to see that that beauty was marred with souvenirs of a successful career. Her right forearm was grazed, relatively fresh, most likely from scraping it across concrete or brick in an effort to brace herself against some kind of impact, he mused. His gaze drifted further down, and he flinched at the bruise on her stomach. It was four days old at least and big enough for him to know that it was the product of a very lucky kick. Damn, he thought. See, that was part of what made Natalia so great; she was so rarely tagged. But he also knew that whoever had done it wouldn't have gotten to enjoy their victory for very long. Eliot made a mental note not to touch her stomach, and frowned a bit when he remembered that he had held her down in that exact spot last night. He was suddenly very disappointed with himself. But he couldn't have known that, could he? He was shaken from his thoughts, and guilt, by her long fingers trailing their way down his bicep.

"Hey stranger," she whispered, cupping his face with her hand.

"Mornin," Eliot's voice was a husky drawl. He smiled, pressing his cheek into her palm. He propped himself up on one arm and kissed her, stubble lightly scratching her skin. "I'm sorry," he whispered in her ear.

She pushed back from him just enough to be able to look in his eyes, surprised to see a genuine blue-grey shade of concern. "Sorry for what?" She half smiled at the ridiculousness of his admission.

"I'm sorry if I hurt you," his eyes flicked down to her stomach and back up to meet her gaze.

"Eliot…" she chided. Just to prove her point, she rolled over and straddled him, pressing her chest against his. "Don't you dare be sorry for touching me like that," she whispered against his mouth. It was enough to clear the hitter's conscience.

"Ya mean like this?" He traced his calloused fingers down her ribs, across her lower back and cupped her ass, squeezing hard enough to make her moan.

"Mm yes. Like that," she laughed. "We'll have to get you some clothes today," her mind immediately kicked into gear, prompting a laugh from him. She thought just like he did; always focused on a task, even when she didn't have to be. "And Hannibal needs breakfast," she rolled off of him and the bed in one graceful sweep, moving around the room to grab her robe and a small can of dog food from her backpack.

"Hannibal huh?" The little dog came running into the room at the sound of the can being opened and food being dished out onto a small saucer. "Someone's been on a bit of an A-Team kick lately," he got out of bed, slipping his boxer briefs on.

"It's just about the only thing on TV here," Natalia was now seated on the ground, petting the dog as he ate. Eliot knew that she didn't actually watch TV. For her it was white noise. Something to fill the space as she meticulously cleaned her guns, sharpened knives, and planned her next move. He had watched her do it so often, way back when. He remembered her piercing concentration as her long fingers moved deftly across pieces of cold metal, deconstructing, examining, and reassembling. And yet she still managed to retain exactly what had happened on the show that night. Eliot smiled and shook his head at the memory before excusing himself to the shower.

He turned the knobs on the tile wall, adjusting the temperature until he found a suitable combination of hot and cold. He tipped his head into the spray, running his fingers through his hair as the water pounded over the muscles of his back. It was then that he allowed himself to think about the past.

They had met years ago. Before he was a retrieval specialist. Before she was a government assassin. It was a training ground far more specialized and intensive than ordinary military instruction; one of those places where Uncle Sam shipped people whose existence he denied, but whose lives he depended upon. Eliot wasn't there long, but it was where he became who he was. Natalia was one of only four women in a group of 120 and he had the good fortune of being in the same fencing class. Well, fencing was what they called it, but it was more like Slice the Shit Out of People 301. It was less formal, less safe, and unimaginably more real. Eliot laughed when he was put up against her, unable to shake his high school quarterback mentality, but in less than two minutes she had decimated him. She easily disarmed him of his saber, but not before cutting through the fabric of his vest down to the stainless steel reinforcement, scratching the mesh covering his face, and leaving a switchblade imbedded in the padding that protected his kidneys. It was at that moment that she rid him of any trace of chauvinism he had left, and secured his admiration for the rest of his life.

Natalia graduated 3rd in their class, Eliot graduated 4th. He covered covert snatch and grabs of chief officials for the US Government, she destroyed corrupt agencies from the inside. He used his skills on side jobs for people who payed well, she escaped to foreign countries to snipe poachers. He found Aimee, she, well, he actually wasn't sure who she moved on to. When Aimee broke his heart, he liberated Croatia. By that time she had toppled a dictatorship with one bullet, and helped stop a genocide. And now they were here. He had the team and she was still with the government. But when the world offered them a reprieve, when they needed to recharge, they found each other.

And as if on command, the little she-devil herself had just walked into the bathroom.

Oh yes. It's going there...