The Season Six Job, Ch.21
Title: The Season Six Job
Characters: Nate Ford, Eliot Spencer, Alec Hardison, Parker, Sophie Deveraux, Patrick Bonnano, OC
Fandom: Leverage
Spoilers: None - takes place before Season 4 finale, they're still in Boston
Warnings: None for now. No network presidents were harmed during the writing of this fic.
Disclaimer: I do not own blah blah blah
Author's note: A sequel to 'The Occam's Razor Job', following cca one week after. (Parttwo in The Texas Mountain Laurel Series). After all this shit TNT put us
through, there was only one way to deal with it - see what The Team
would do when faced with TV Network. No need to read TORJ first, all you
need to know will be explained.
Special, special, special, special thanks to trappercreekd for Betaing :D
Banner for Chapter 21 - after more than a year, it's time to meet George :D
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***
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An explosion woke him up, but he didn’t jump or open his eyes, he just remained still with his eyes closed. Yet, he couldn’t stop the one sharp inhale, his racing heartbeat needed more air. He panicked for a moment, not knowing where he was and what exploded, which fucking night this was, but before he could sink into fear again, a quiet voice penetrated through the gunshots echoing in his mind.
“Good morning, Eliot.”
Parker’s voice. He relaxed instantly.
“Five in the morning, no explosions, just thunder somewhere near. Everybody’s sleeping but I can’t, my head hurts,” she continued quietly. “I’m waking Hardison up every hour, and I’ll wake up Florence soon to take over again. Go back to sleep.”
He opened his eyes and looked at the thief sitting on the table above him, swinging her legs. Talking. Alive.
“George is going to sulk for days,” he said.
“Ah,” she frowned. “You’re right. Good morning, George. Good morning Orion.”
He lifted himself to sit, cursing silently when that simple move stirred all the different pains scattered all over, and discovered the cat at the bottom of the bed. One piece of pizza between his paws and a victorious glare.
“We need to find something to occupy him,” he murmured, looking around. The first light of dawn was pale and barely visible, and only a small light in the kitchen gave the dark shadows a yellow tint.
“I’ll pass that suggestion on to Nate. He’ll know what to do.”
“What are you doing?”
“Counting.”
“What-” He stopped, but too late.
“Minutes and hours. I had to calculate yesterday’s hours into Betsy’s order of twenty three point five hours of rest per day, and added to the previous amount, you’re now at minus three weeks and two days. I’ll have to talk to her. You’re downgrading.”
“You know she said that just because - you can’t just - Parker, stop taking everything so damn literally - Jesus.” Another lightening strike showed him her grin, and he seriously thought she was just mocking him, but with Parker both was possible at the same time. “Just go to sleep, I’ll take over now.”
“No way. That would be three weeks, two days and at least two hours-”
“Okay, okay, just go away.”
“Good night,” she beamed at him and walked away, leaving him to exchange glances with the cat. Orion chewed his breakfast, leaving crumbs on the blanket.
Eliot sighed and lowered himself into the pillows again, trying to calm down enough to sleep again.
Strange, but the gunshots were gone.
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***
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“What the fuck have you done?!”
Though Hardison’s wailing was the level of a whisper, it penetrated the double pillow barrier that Florence had on her head for the last fifteen minutes of their irritating chatting, and she threw them both in the air and jumped out of the bed ready to start killing.
“Why aren’t you all drugged and quiet?” she hissed at the three of them; Eliot was sitting at the dining table with lots of huge white cups and a plant in front of him, Parker was hanging upside down from the winding stairs by one leg, holding a bag of ice on her head, and Hardison was walking to and fro in front of the table, keeping one hand over one eye, and squinting with the other.
“We were quiet, until he started destroying office equipment!” Hardison pointed an accusing finger at the table, receiving a glare from behind the cups.
Well, fuck decency; Parker was wearing Nate’s old pajamas too, so she could walk around in hers. Florence went to see what the cause of Hardison’s consternation was.
All the white cups had the Leverage Consulting & Associates logo on them, as well as the similar white vase with the plant, except that every single Associates on them was scratched out with thick black marker pen, and replaced with IDIOTS, in huge letters.
“I’m not destroying office equipment,” Eliot snarled at the hacker. “I’m upgrading it.”
Parker’s giggle sounded drunker now than in the middle of yesterday’s mess. Hardison hissed a curse and grabbed the plant.
“Okay, I have a hostage now. Put away the pen, and back away from the cups, now!”
Florence would run away in panic any other time, having seen Eliot’s slow getting up, if she hadn't learned when their arguing was serious, and when they were just bickering. She went closer.
“I could drop him,” Hardison warned, taking one step back. He held the vase with both hands - and Florence noticed how careful he actually was not to drop it - so he shut his eyes because he couldn’t keep his hand on the one eye any longer.
Eliot’s expression was a mixture of annoyance and a painful smile. “If one leaf falls off of him, Hardison, one single leaf…”
“Wait, wait, wait…” Florence took the vase from Hardison. “What time is it, anyway?”
“Morning.” Eliot took the plant from her before Hardison focused enough to reach for it again. “And he hasn’t stop talking since he woke up.”
“I noticed that.” For the first time in her life, her voice sounded like a snarl, and she seriously thought about what a bad influence those people were. “Where’re Nate and Sophie?”
“Sophie will come soon, and Nate sneaked out half an hour ago,” Parker reported. “He’s probably at McRory’s, drinking. I told him that we have to think of something funny for Orion - maybe that was the trigger. He rolled his eyes and just stormed out.” Parker straightened herself and climbed down, coming to the table with careful, slow steps, squinting at the sun coming from the window. “I noticed a bag full of almonds in the kitchen,” she continued when she sat. “If nobody wants them, maybe we can just empty it on the floor and let the cat slide through-”
“Nope. Stay away from that,” Eliot said before she could finish. “And stop watching cartoons, you’re downgrading.”
“Blergh,” Hardison went to lower the shades and Florence was grateful for that, feeling the first signs of a headache.
“I’m bored,” Parker stated, frowning. She put the bag of ice on the top of her head and just let it sit there.
In just one second, the bickering was forgotten, and the two men exchanged worried glances.
“We’ll continue watching the episodes,” Eliot said carefully. “You can join us, if you don’t mind jumping into the third season.”
“The third?” Florence asked. They were in the middle of the second around three in the morning. Did he continue to watch it while she was sleeping, from her bed?
“I was awake two times during the night, so I put the DVD in my laptop,” Eliot nodded to the table near his bed.
“I was thinking about the laptop and that Farmville thingy,” Hardison said, covering one eye again and sitting at the table. “I think Betsy is using it as surveillance. Some sort of twisted nanny camera - she can monitor your crops, time of growing, and when, exactly, you do things. I wouldn’t be surprised if she knew every step-”
“Hardison, I’m the one who is paranoid, stop with the-”
“When Betsy is in question, no one can be paranoid enough. Mark my words, one day, that will prove to be a fatal mistake, and it will be used against you. Just wait and see. You go watch it, I can’t…I’ll try to find some info on our new sand excavating friends - though I have no idea how. I should make a black patch for one eye, it’s the only way not to see double - and you all can be my Avengers, heh,” he grinned at the very thought of it.
“You would be a perfect Hulk if you weren’t permanently in rage mode… so you can be Thor. Not so bright, rude and violent, and obsessed with your hair. Parker can be-”
“Will you shut the fuck up? My hair is none of your busin-”
“Rude.”
“Will you, please, shut the fuck up?”
Hardison grinned at his menacing tone. “Go, go, have fun watching… I’ll just sit here, crawling out of my skin, unable to type, to do my research, to do anything.”
Florence seriously thought about hyperventilation.
“Did you seen it?” Hardison continued cheerfully.
“See what?” Eliot growled.
“Your brain, man. You just rolled your eyes so high you must have seen it. Is there an alien in it? A crop-growing, laptop-typing little green alien-”
“That’s it,” Eliot turned on his heel and stormed away with the plant, followed by Orion who didn’t take his eyes from it. He put the vase on the coffee table by the sofa, and darted one warning glance to the cat that peeked over the sofa in a hunter mode.
Florence suddenly became aware that they all would watch it, again, and quickly went through all the episodes in her mind, trying to find any dangerous trigger.
She missed Sophie. A lot.
Parker was nervously tapping her wounded leg, as if trying to speed its recovery, Hardison was poking at the laptop with one finger and a painful grimace, and Eliot was radiating annoyance - they clearly weren’t used to immobility. No wonder Nate ran.
“You’ll be glad to hear that the main theme of the Season Three is Patience,” she said sweetly, and went into the bathroom.
This was going to be a very long morning.
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***
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Four episodes, three bowls of popcorn, and two more arguments later, Eliot said he had enough of watching. Sophie had arrived in the meantime and joined them, and both she and Parker continued with one more episode.
Florence used the fact that Eliot wasn’t watching, so there was no need for her comments, and joined Hardison who was still doing something on the laptop, struggling with a headache and his vision.
She wanted to ask him about the slaughterhouse, but Eliot was walking all around the room, from window to window, unable to stay still. If that was rest and recovery, he was doing it wrong - Betsy strictly said he should be in the bed.
Restless, that was the right word. It seemed that nobody paid any attention to his mood, and only she was getting nervous because of it.
“So, besides hacking, you fight too?” she asked Hardison, pointing at his head, when she calculated Eliot was at the farthest part of the room, by two windows that looked on McRory’s entrance.
Hardison sighed, glancing somewhere beside her. “Nah… yes, I fought one giant mobster. Bloodthirsty. Bat shit crazy and illogical.”
The strange sound of his last word warned her even before Eliot said anything.
“Just tell her, Hardison,” he said, only a few steps behind her. He pulled up a chair and sat at the table with them. Sophie went to the kitchen but stopped by the table as well, and Florence said goodbye to a private conversation with Hardison.
“Instead of asking me nicely to pretend to be knocked out, he, well, knocked me out for real.”
Eliot darted him a lazy smile. “As soon as we see your ability to pretend to be unconscious when hit by a metal pole, or stabbed with a knife, I'll willing to admit my mistake. We can try it now if you want, and practice daily.”
“It seems it’s more dangerous to be your ally than your enemy,” she said lightly, but she erased her smile when she met his eyes, all traces of warmth fading from them.
“Yes, it is.” He said it flat and cold.
“Eliot, stop sc-”
“I’m not scaring her,” he cut off Sophie’s words. “I’m warning her.”
She fell silent for a moment, then fixed him with a hard stare. “Warning me about what? You, them, danger, the weather, what?! You will have to articulate your warnings and be more precise if you want to be taken seriously. Solemn and random proclamations are just getting on my nerves. If you have to say something to me, say it. Now.”
“You’re caught in the middle of something you don’t understand.” If her words had woken any anger, it wasn’t heard in his voice, it remained flat. “I told you already… when a job starts, it has nothing to do with an initiator. And the initiator can face herself with things she didn’t want to happen, to see, or even think about. Because we do our job our way. Our ways.”
Knowing what she knew about him and his ways of deal with threats, she flinched inwardly. He was scaring her, and he did it on purpose. No, he has been doing it from the beginning, preparing her for all the things they might have to do.
Before she could answer, Sophie raised her hand to stop the discussion. “Florence isn’t a fragile little flower, Eliot, and she won’t wither if she sees danger. She handled a car chase pretty well. I was driving.”
“Thank you, Sophie, but that’s not necessary,” she said.
“A car chase,” Eliot repeated, rubbing his temples. He looked as if he was about to add something to it, but he just shook his head and got up.
Uh-oh, that looked just like how he got up before smashing the window. Florence kept her mouth shut, just in case, not quite certain why she was making him so irritated. And she wasn’t the only one who sensed it, because Sophie’s eyes were steady on him, studying his posture.
He just stood there, glancing over the room, thinking who knows what - no visible trace of anger, again, but the aura of turmoil was so clear around him that she couldn’t believe Hardison and Parker didn’t notice. Or maybe they did, but they knew what the best thing to do was - let it pass.
“I need fresh air,” he said, taking his phone. “And before you start lecturing, I’ll only go to the street and back, okay?”
Parker’s huff sounded ominous, but nobody said a word to stop him.
Florence sighed, thinking about how to do something to improve the mood.
Now she missed Nate. A lot.
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***
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Actually, he was doing surprisingly good, though he had to keep one hand on the wall while climbing down the stairs. He thought he would only be able to vegetate in the bed after all that slaughterhouse shit, but except for the bruises and pain with every move, he wasn’t feeling weak. Okay, not weaker than usual. That was encouraging - a very small step toward recovery, but still a step in the right direction.
But it didn’t improve his mood, nor lessen the urge to crawl out of his skin.
He didn’t need fresh air, he needed silence, desperately, their voices has started to mix into one giant ball of noise, growing louder, driving him nuts.
He opened the back door behind McRory’s just to peek outside, but when he saw his car parked at the end of the street, he slowly went to look at it. Hardison probably got it in the first few days after they brought him here. It was clean, and even the two bullet holes in the trunk had disappeared.
He tried not to think about getting into the car and driving away. He knew he wouldn’t stop before he reached the Pacific.
Before that thought took root, he returned inside, to the back room where they had briefings with clients, now empty. Only a round table, chairs and boards were in it, and it looked, and sounded, like the perfect place to sit in peace and just listen to the silence.
He left the doors open to hear if someone approached, sat at the table, and closed his eyes. Just breathing.
His oxygen mask was lost somewhere in that slaughterhouse labyrinth, so that part was over. No more crutches to help him stand on his own, it was time to get this shit straight.
He rested his elbows on the table and ran both hands through his hair, trying to keep the annoyance and rage at the lowest levels he could; he had been caged in that apartment too long, and he wondered how he'd managed not to snap already. It wasn’t their fault - it wasn’t Florence’s fault either - yet the walls around him, and inside him, were still not breaking. Maybe it was time to start crushing them down, instead of negotiating with them.
She was too relaxed with them, and that was a problem, that was bugging him. He thought she would freak out when he broke a window, but she behaved as if it didn’t happen at all. She treated him like normal, she had no idea what… Damn, he couldn’t, simply couldn’t stand that, that… misconception.
Every time she smiled at him, he had that urge to tell her who he really was, and that she should spare those smiles; of course that was utter bullshit, he couldn’t say that, but that need to tell her was what worried him.
Undeserved…what? Friendship? It wasn’t friendship, it was just a forced relationship, built from need; whatever it was, it was false because she didn’t know anything about him and the things he had done, and she was smiling at an image she created in her head. She thought he was the same as the others and that made his skin crawl.
Shit, he was tired of keeping everything under control, he was beaten and unstrung, exhausted to the bone - he fought his own brain to be able to function every fucking time he woke up - and he definitely didn’t need a clueless writer to disturb him further. He especially didn’t need her to occupy his thoughts when he already had trouble focusing on his own problems.
As if that focusing provided any result, added a dark voice in his head; as if it helped when only darkness and a few gunshots deranged him to the point of losing it completely.
He lowered his hands on the table, watching them starting to shake at the mere memory, and another wave of rage flashed over him. It would be so easy to thrust them both into the wall, again and again, until the crushed remains stopped shaking-
When a quick shadow fell over his shoulder, he just reacted, driven with the need to move. He spun around, striking with an open palm - a blow that should hit every opponent in the middle of the chest and send him staggering a few steps back.
It was pure luck that Florence was so short, because it hit her high in the shoulder. She flew backwards, all four meters to the wall, and crashed hard with her back and head. He just stared at her, frozen in the middle of a breath, while she slowly slid down the wall like a doll with cut strings.
For one moment, longer than an eternity, she looked at him with wide open eyes. She blinked a few times, bewildered, then drew in one shaky breath, while he was still unable to move or breathe… and then she burst into laughter.
Just then he breathed, listening to that clear, crystal sound of pure joy, not quite comprehending why she was laughing… but that sound gave him the strength to go a step closer.
“So, I am an ally now, right?” she managed to say after one moment.
“What?” he whispered. He kneeled before her, not daring to touch her - she hit her head hard, she slammed into the wall with full force, she could have broken bones or - Jesus, he could've killed her, if he didn’t strike with the palm, but the fist, he could break her neck with one hit, not even noticing -
She giggled again, and that smile beamed like the sun. “I passed the initiation - but don’t shoot me, that would make a mess.”
“Florence, I’m sor-” his try was stopped with one small hand raised in front of his face - she frowned at him.
“No, don’t say that,” she said. “This is the first time in my life that someone hit me - don’t ruin that experience with an apology, let me savor it while it lasts. I wrote numerous hits, I wrote literally dozens of people flying into walls, and now I know how it feels. Thank you.”
Okay, this was a concussion. There wasn’t any other explanation. He stopped the panicky urge to pull out his phone and call Betsy immediately, and raised his hand. “How many fingers do you see?”
“Forty two,” she beamed. “The answer is always forty two. And stop looking so shocked, there’s no need for that.” She looked at him and tilted her head, adding more seriously, “I mean it. I should’ve known better than to sneak up on you. I’m sorry.”
“Are you out of your fucking mind?!” He tried to snarl at her, really tried, but all he managed was a choked whisper. “You are sorry?! You? What-”
“What a drama queen you are,” she smiled again. “Good thing I’m not. Good thing I can see this as something funny, and no big deal… because it really isn’t. I surprised you, you acted instinctively, and as you should - so what? In fact, it’s comforting to know you’re so quick.”
He sat on his heels, just staring at her - yes, he needed to shake his head to erase the image of some other man sitting on his heels in a dark back street - and her smile faded.
“Okay, I know I don’t act like a normal person, sometimes,” she said with a suddenly uncertain voice. “Normal women would cry and sulk, or yell, or whatever - but I can’t pretend and act. I have to admit I despise them, many of them make drama out of anything, and this really isn’t something to…This was… a surprising experience. And it was funny. No, it was fucking awesome.”
What the hell she was talking about? Her not being normal? He wanted to laugh, but he still couldn’t breathe normally, the fear was still too strong.
“I’m weird. Even by TV business standards,” she went on without a pause. “I guess all writers are a little weird, we act more and more like our characters - and trust me, when you have seven violent guys, being thrown into the wall is something welcomed, because it gives you experience and knowledge.” She bit her lip, looking more and more unhappy. “I’m babbling again, right? Sometimes I just can’t stop, words are just coming out-”
“Yep. Stop it. Be quiet for a second and tell me where you hurt. You hit your head and back. What else?”
She shifted a little, and winced. “Head is okay, just ringing in my ears, but no more than when I once slammed it into a cupboard… and my back is okay.”
“Shoulder?”
“A little, but… fuck, this is embarrassing,” she put both her hands on the floor and rested her weight on them, grimacing. “You know, guys may hit walls with their shoulders, or head, or… but we don’t.”
“We? Who? What-”
“I’ll have problems sitting, okay?!” she hissed. Pink colored her cheeks and she frowned when she felt she was blushing. “Just disgraceful,” she continued with an unhappy murmur. “First hit in my life, and no, I can’t have something remarkable and dignified, a bruise, or black eye, something like that. I had to hit my…Bleh.”
She tapped her fingers on the floor. He stared at her.
Dammit, she was adorable. In so many damn ways. Surprising, fresh, adorable, all in one weird package. He knew he should say something, but he had no words to tell her how normal she really was, and how easy it was to- He just sat there like an idiot, and stared, unable to form two fucking words into a fucking sentence-
“Am I interrupting something?” Nate’s voice from the door behind him stirred them both, and he bit out a curse. He left his back unprotected, with an open door behind him.
“Oh, Nate!” Florence raised her head to the door and a smile lit her face again. “He hit me and slammed me into the wall! You should’ve seen it, I was flying!”
“Oh? Sounds really exciting. May I ask why?” There wasn’t any change in Nate’s slightly ironic tone, but he didn’t turn around to face him and look at his eyes.
“I tried to tap him on the shoulder,” she sighed. “I wasn’t thinking- where are you going?”
“Be right back,” Nate’s voice answered already in the hall. “Stay there.”
She looked at him again. “Where is he going?”
“If he is smart, to get a shotgun,” he managed to smile.
“We have a shotgun? That’s cool.”
“No, we don’t, I was just-”
“So he’ll get one? We do need it, you have to agree, liking guns or not.”
“No, he won’t get a shotgun, we don’t do guns.”
“Then why did you say that?”
“Never mind,” he sighed. “Follow my hand with your eyes, and don’t blink.”
She huffed in annoyance but did what he told her - no problem focusing, her pupils were normal, and she didn’t look like she was dizzy.
“I told you I’m okay. Now help me get up.”
He was the one that needed help, his knees were rubbery when he hoisted himself to his feet and pulled her up. Just in case, he slowly sank into the chair, watching her posture and moves while she patted her pants and shirt from the dust. It ended with her turning around the axis, trying to clean her back, with a few little squeaks when she hit or touched certain spots - and he caught himself hiding a smile.
Nate returned with a bottle and two glasses.
“You okay, pixie?” he asked.
“Of course. Where’s the shotgun?”
“What?”
“So we really don’t have any? Damn, shotguns are so useful. One shotgun and we can cover the entire corridor in case of another attack, even I can do it, there’s no need to be a sharpshooter, just point and pull the trigger in the general direction-”
“Do me a favor, and go on up, will ‘ya? Tell them we’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“No problem.” She darted them one more smile, frowned a little at him, as a reminder not to make drama again, and left. They both watched her leave in silence.
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***
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He was still looking after her, trying to see if she was limping slightly, when Nate pushed a glass into his hands.
“You’re okay?” Nate asked sitting in the opposite chair, facing him.
The question demanded an honest answer, and he struggled to frame it. “No, not really. But I will be.” He took the whiskey in one sip, knowing what that showed Nate, but he didn’t care. “Things are not going as fast as they should,” he continued quietly.
“According to Betsy, the things are going precisely as they should.”
“I told you I was unreliable, Nate. I blacked out in the slaughterhouse; I had no idea where I was. I stood frozen, watching one of them pulling the trigger, and if Hardison didn’t come back for me, he would've killed me. I slammed a girl into a wall. I didn’t hear you coming up behind me. I can’t do my job, and if I try, you might all get killed.”
Nate poured him another one, and the silence spread while he was thinking.
“Well… are we talking about the slaughterhouse with ten armed men, which you all left alive, against all odds? After we believed you couldn’t climb the stairs? That’s sound pretty reliable to me. Also, Florence might be hit, but she is alive. You didn’t kill her - you could,” Nate let out a small smile. “I understand that in your eyes, your performance is shitty… but you’re still better than anyone I know, and anyone they have. I only see results, Eliot, not what ifs in the process, and you should try that too.”
He should’ve known better than to let him start with logic, that was a lost battle against Nate, always. Yet some things couldn’t be solved with logic. He thought for a moment about continuing, forcing him to understand, but no - Nate understood completely, he was just trying to show him the other point of view. Useless, but appreciated.
“Yes, maybe I should try it,” he agreed. “But don’t tell me later that I didn’t warn you.”
Nate nodded. “She’ll be okay?” He changed the subject, there was nothing more to say.
“Yep, she is… very normal. Pixie? Seriously? You gave a nickname to a client. You like her.”
“Shit happens,” Nate smiled, but his eyes were steady on him, calm and serious. “Do you like her, or are you still thinking she would be better left killed?”
Well, he should've expected that.
“Thinking objectively, that option was relevant only in the beginning,” he eyed him, searching for signs in his face, finding none. “Why don’t you look upset by that?”
“Because you can think whatever you want, later. But when the first attack happened, your instinctive reaction was to help her, and only that matters. You should stick to that, and not ponder all the scary shit your brain produces. Trust me, scary shit is something completely normal, I went through tons of that on my walk.” Nate poured them another drink and went on. “Our thoughts don’t define us. Our actions do.”
He cleared his throat.
“Okay, not always, and not all of them,” Nate squinted a little. “Actions can’t be seen without motives behind them.”
“Stop while you’re ahead.”
“Good idea.”
“You know we have only a few minutes more to talk, before a rescue party charges down the stairs?”
“I know. But it won’t be Hardison and Parker this time, Sophie wouldn’t let her come because of the leg. The only way to keep her upstairs is to offer to go with Hardison instead of her, and if I calculated correctly the time Florence needed to tell them what happened, the decision, and Sophie’s arguments, they should be here right-”
“Oh, there you are,” Sophie sang from the door. “We were just coming to see if you were in McRory’s. What are you doing?”
“Well, your brain is a scary place,” Eliot smiled.
“Thank you.”
“Florence said something about a shotgun,” Hardison added, sweeping the room with his eyes - nope, with one eye, he kept the other closed. “You went out to buy a shotgun? That actually sounds like a good idea.”
Eliot shrugged when Nate looked at him. “I have no idea how a shotgun came into the conversation,” he said calmly.
“You’re coming up, or still want to talk?” Sophie asked.
“Yep, we are coming up,” Nate slowly said. “I was thinking while walking, and it’s time to start. We have work to do.”
They all fell silent.
“A briefing?” Hardison sighed. “I don’t have enough info, Nate, I’m too slow-”
“We have time.” Nate glanced at him before he added, “and we have enough scary shit to work on while we complete your data.”
“That sounds… like you had a very productive walk,” Sophie added cautiously. “Can we go up now?” she said, leaving no doubt what the correct answer should be, so they both stood up. She smiled, turned and went upstairs, Hardison following her.
“I didn’t answer your question,” he stopped Nate at the door. “I do like her. A lot.”
Nate nodded.
He wasn’t sure if he was ready for the rest of the alphabet that was going to be unleashed on their heads, now when Plan A had failed - but he knew for certain, by the spark in Nate’s eyes, that it was going to be one hell of a ride.
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Characters: Nate Ford, Eliot Spencer, Alec Hardison, Parker, Sophie Deveraux, Patrick Bonnano, OC
Fandom: Leverage
Spoilers: None - takes place before Season 4 finale, they're still in Boston
Warnings: None for now. No network presidents were harmed during the writing of this fic.
Disclaimer: I do not own blah blah blah
Author's note: A sequel to 'The Occam's Razor Job', following cca one week after. (Parttwo in The Texas Mountain Laurel Series). After all this shit TNT put us
through, there was only one way to deal with it - see what The Team
would do when faced with TV Network. No need to read TORJ first, all you
need to know will be explained.
Special, special, special, special thanks to trappercreekd for Betaing :D
Banner for Chapter 21 - after more than a year, it's time to meet George :D
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***
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An explosion woke him up, but he didn’t jump or open his eyes, he just remained still with his eyes closed. Yet, he couldn’t stop the one sharp inhale, his racing heartbeat needed more air. He panicked for a moment, not knowing where he was and what exploded, which fucking night this was, but before he could sink into fear again, a quiet voice penetrated through the gunshots echoing in his mind.
“Good morning, Eliot.”
Parker’s voice. He relaxed instantly.
“Five in the morning, no explosions, just thunder somewhere near. Everybody’s sleeping but I can’t, my head hurts,” she continued quietly. “I’m waking Hardison up every hour, and I’ll wake up Florence soon to take over again. Go back to sleep.”
He opened his eyes and looked at the thief sitting on the table above him, swinging her legs. Talking. Alive.
“George is going to sulk for days,” he said.
“Ah,” she frowned. “You’re right. Good morning, George. Good morning Orion.”
He lifted himself to sit, cursing silently when that simple move stirred all the different pains scattered all over, and discovered the cat at the bottom of the bed. One piece of pizza between his paws and a victorious glare.
“We need to find something to occupy him,” he murmured, looking around. The first light of dawn was pale and barely visible, and only a small light in the kitchen gave the dark shadows a yellow tint.
“I’ll pass that suggestion on to Nate. He’ll know what to do.”
“What are you doing?”
“Counting.”
“What-” He stopped, but too late.
“Minutes and hours. I had to calculate yesterday’s hours into Betsy’s order of twenty three point five hours of rest per day, and added to the previous amount, you’re now at minus three weeks and two days. I’ll have to talk to her. You’re downgrading.”
“You know she said that just because - you can’t just - Parker, stop taking everything so damn literally - Jesus.” Another lightening strike showed him her grin, and he seriously thought she was just mocking him, but with Parker both was possible at the same time. “Just go to sleep, I’ll take over now.”
“No way. That would be three weeks, two days and at least two hours-”
“Okay, okay, just go away.”
“Good night,” she beamed at him and walked away, leaving him to exchange glances with the cat. Orion chewed his breakfast, leaving crumbs on the blanket.
Eliot sighed and lowered himself into the pillows again, trying to calm down enough to sleep again.
Strange, but the gunshots were gone.
.
.
.
***
.
“What the fuck have you done?!”
Though Hardison’s wailing was the level of a whisper, it penetrated the double pillow barrier that Florence had on her head for the last fifteen minutes of their irritating chatting, and she threw them both in the air and jumped out of the bed ready to start killing.
“Why aren’t you all drugged and quiet?” she hissed at the three of them; Eliot was sitting at the dining table with lots of huge white cups and a plant in front of him, Parker was hanging upside down from the winding stairs by one leg, holding a bag of ice on her head, and Hardison was walking to and fro in front of the table, keeping one hand over one eye, and squinting with the other.
“We were quiet, until he started destroying office equipment!” Hardison pointed an accusing finger at the table, receiving a glare from behind the cups.
Well, fuck decency; Parker was wearing Nate’s old pajamas too, so she could walk around in hers. Florence went to see what the cause of Hardison’s consternation was.
All the white cups had the Leverage Consulting & Associates logo on them, as well as the similar white vase with the plant, except that every single Associates on them was scratched out with thick black marker pen, and replaced with IDIOTS, in huge letters.
“I’m not destroying office equipment,” Eliot snarled at the hacker. “I’m upgrading it.”
Parker’s giggle sounded drunker now than in the middle of yesterday’s mess. Hardison hissed a curse and grabbed the plant.
“Okay, I have a hostage now. Put away the pen, and back away from the cups, now!”
Florence would run away in panic any other time, having seen Eliot’s slow getting up, if she hadn't learned when their arguing was serious, and when they were just bickering. She went closer.
“I could drop him,” Hardison warned, taking one step back. He held the vase with both hands - and Florence noticed how careful he actually was not to drop it - so he shut his eyes because he couldn’t keep his hand on the one eye any longer.
Eliot’s expression was a mixture of annoyance and a painful smile. “If one leaf falls off of him, Hardison, one single leaf…”
“Wait, wait, wait…” Florence took the vase from Hardison. “What time is it, anyway?”
“Morning.” Eliot took the plant from her before Hardison focused enough to reach for it again. “And he hasn’t stop talking since he woke up.”
“I noticed that.” For the first time in her life, her voice sounded like a snarl, and she seriously thought about what a bad influence those people were. “Where’re Nate and Sophie?”
“Sophie will come soon, and Nate sneaked out half an hour ago,” Parker reported. “He’s probably at McRory’s, drinking. I told him that we have to think of something funny for Orion - maybe that was the trigger. He rolled his eyes and just stormed out.” Parker straightened herself and climbed down, coming to the table with careful, slow steps, squinting at the sun coming from the window. “I noticed a bag full of almonds in the kitchen,” she continued when she sat. “If nobody wants them, maybe we can just empty it on the floor and let the cat slide through-”
“Nope. Stay away from that,” Eliot said before she could finish. “And stop watching cartoons, you’re downgrading.”
“Blergh,” Hardison went to lower the shades and Florence was grateful for that, feeling the first signs of a headache.
“I’m bored,” Parker stated, frowning. She put the bag of ice on the top of her head and just let it sit there.
In just one second, the bickering was forgotten, and the two men exchanged worried glances.
“We’ll continue watching the episodes,” Eliot said carefully. “You can join us, if you don’t mind jumping into the third season.”
“The third?” Florence asked. They were in the middle of the second around three in the morning. Did he continue to watch it while she was sleeping, from her bed?
“I was awake two times during the night, so I put the DVD in my laptop,” Eliot nodded to the table near his bed.
“I was thinking about the laptop and that Farmville thingy,” Hardison said, covering one eye again and sitting at the table. “I think Betsy is using it as surveillance. Some sort of twisted nanny camera - she can monitor your crops, time of growing, and when, exactly, you do things. I wouldn’t be surprised if she knew every step-”
“Hardison, I’m the one who is paranoid, stop with the-”
“When Betsy is in question, no one can be paranoid enough. Mark my words, one day, that will prove to be a fatal mistake, and it will be used against you. Just wait and see. You go watch it, I can’t…I’ll try to find some info on our new sand excavating friends - though I have no idea how. I should make a black patch for one eye, it’s the only way not to see double - and you all can be my Avengers, heh,” he grinned at the very thought of it.
“You would be a perfect Hulk if you weren’t permanently in rage mode… so you can be Thor. Not so bright, rude and violent, and obsessed with your hair. Parker can be-”
“Will you shut the fuck up? My hair is none of your busin-”
“Rude.”
“Will you, please, shut the fuck up?”
Hardison grinned at his menacing tone. “Go, go, have fun watching… I’ll just sit here, crawling out of my skin, unable to type, to do my research, to do anything.”
Florence seriously thought about hyperventilation.
“Did you seen it?” Hardison continued cheerfully.
“See what?” Eliot growled.
“Your brain, man. You just rolled your eyes so high you must have seen it. Is there an alien in it? A crop-growing, laptop-typing little green alien-”
“That’s it,” Eliot turned on his heel and stormed away with the plant, followed by Orion who didn’t take his eyes from it. He put the vase on the coffee table by the sofa, and darted one warning glance to the cat that peeked over the sofa in a hunter mode.
Florence suddenly became aware that they all would watch it, again, and quickly went through all the episodes in her mind, trying to find any dangerous trigger.
She missed Sophie. A lot.
Parker was nervously tapping her wounded leg, as if trying to speed its recovery, Hardison was poking at the laptop with one finger and a painful grimace, and Eliot was radiating annoyance - they clearly weren’t used to immobility. No wonder Nate ran.
“You’ll be glad to hear that the main theme of the Season Three is Patience,” she said sweetly, and went into the bathroom.
This was going to be a very long morning.
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***
.
Four episodes, three bowls of popcorn, and two more arguments later, Eliot said he had enough of watching. Sophie had arrived in the meantime and joined them, and both she and Parker continued with one more episode.
Florence used the fact that Eliot wasn’t watching, so there was no need for her comments, and joined Hardison who was still doing something on the laptop, struggling with a headache and his vision.
She wanted to ask him about the slaughterhouse, but Eliot was walking all around the room, from window to window, unable to stay still. If that was rest and recovery, he was doing it wrong - Betsy strictly said he should be in the bed.
Restless, that was the right word. It seemed that nobody paid any attention to his mood, and only she was getting nervous because of it.
“So, besides hacking, you fight too?” she asked Hardison, pointing at his head, when she calculated Eliot was at the farthest part of the room, by two windows that looked on McRory’s entrance.
Hardison sighed, glancing somewhere beside her. “Nah… yes, I fought one giant mobster. Bloodthirsty. Bat shit crazy and illogical.”
The strange sound of his last word warned her even before Eliot said anything.
“Just tell her, Hardison,” he said, only a few steps behind her. He pulled up a chair and sat at the table with them. Sophie went to the kitchen but stopped by the table as well, and Florence said goodbye to a private conversation with Hardison.
“Instead of asking me nicely to pretend to be knocked out, he, well, knocked me out for real.”
Eliot darted him a lazy smile. “As soon as we see your ability to pretend to be unconscious when hit by a metal pole, or stabbed with a knife, I'll willing to admit my mistake. We can try it now if you want, and practice daily.”
“It seems it’s more dangerous to be your ally than your enemy,” she said lightly, but she erased her smile when she met his eyes, all traces of warmth fading from them.
“Yes, it is.” He said it flat and cold.
“Eliot, stop sc-”
“I’m not scaring her,” he cut off Sophie’s words. “I’m warning her.”
She fell silent for a moment, then fixed him with a hard stare. “Warning me about what? You, them, danger, the weather, what?! You will have to articulate your warnings and be more precise if you want to be taken seriously. Solemn and random proclamations are just getting on my nerves. If you have to say something to me, say it. Now.”
“You’re caught in the middle of something you don’t understand.” If her words had woken any anger, it wasn’t heard in his voice, it remained flat. “I told you already… when a job starts, it has nothing to do with an initiator. And the initiator can face herself with things she didn’t want to happen, to see, or even think about. Because we do our job our way. Our ways.”
Knowing what she knew about him and his ways of deal with threats, she flinched inwardly. He was scaring her, and he did it on purpose. No, he has been doing it from the beginning, preparing her for all the things they might have to do.
Before she could answer, Sophie raised her hand to stop the discussion. “Florence isn’t a fragile little flower, Eliot, and she won’t wither if she sees danger. She handled a car chase pretty well. I was driving.”
“Thank you, Sophie, but that’s not necessary,” she said.
“A car chase,” Eliot repeated, rubbing his temples. He looked as if he was about to add something to it, but he just shook his head and got up.
Uh-oh, that looked just like how he got up before smashing the window. Florence kept her mouth shut, just in case, not quite certain why she was making him so irritated. And she wasn’t the only one who sensed it, because Sophie’s eyes were steady on him, studying his posture.
He just stood there, glancing over the room, thinking who knows what - no visible trace of anger, again, but the aura of turmoil was so clear around him that she couldn’t believe Hardison and Parker didn’t notice. Or maybe they did, but they knew what the best thing to do was - let it pass.
“I need fresh air,” he said, taking his phone. “And before you start lecturing, I’ll only go to the street and back, okay?”
Parker’s huff sounded ominous, but nobody said a word to stop him.
Florence sighed, thinking about how to do something to improve the mood.
Now she missed Nate. A lot.
.
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***
.
Actually, he was doing surprisingly good, though he had to keep one hand on the wall while climbing down the stairs. He thought he would only be able to vegetate in the bed after all that slaughterhouse shit, but except for the bruises and pain with every move, he wasn’t feeling weak. Okay, not weaker than usual. That was encouraging - a very small step toward recovery, but still a step in the right direction.
But it didn’t improve his mood, nor lessen the urge to crawl out of his skin.
He didn’t need fresh air, he needed silence, desperately, their voices has started to mix into one giant ball of noise, growing louder, driving him nuts.
He opened the back door behind McRory’s just to peek outside, but when he saw his car parked at the end of the street, he slowly went to look at it. Hardison probably got it in the first few days after they brought him here. It was clean, and even the two bullet holes in the trunk had disappeared.
He tried not to think about getting into the car and driving away. He knew he wouldn’t stop before he reached the Pacific.
Before that thought took root, he returned inside, to the back room where they had briefings with clients, now empty. Only a round table, chairs and boards were in it, and it looked, and sounded, like the perfect place to sit in peace and just listen to the silence.
He left the doors open to hear if someone approached, sat at the table, and closed his eyes. Just breathing.
His oxygen mask was lost somewhere in that slaughterhouse labyrinth, so that part was over. No more crutches to help him stand on his own, it was time to get this shit straight.
He rested his elbows on the table and ran both hands through his hair, trying to keep the annoyance and rage at the lowest levels he could; he had been caged in that apartment too long, and he wondered how he'd managed not to snap already. It wasn’t their fault - it wasn’t Florence’s fault either - yet the walls around him, and inside him, were still not breaking. Maybe it was time to start crushing them down, instead of negotiating with them.
She was too relaxed with them, and that was a problem, that was bugging him. He thought she would freak out when he broke a window, but she behaved as if it didn’t happen at all. She treated him like normal, she had no idea what… Damn, he couldn’t, simply couldn’t stand that, that… misconception.
Every time she smiled at him, he had that urge to tell her who he really was, and that she should spare those smiles; of course that was utter bullshit, he couldn’t say that, but that need to tell her was what worried him.
Undeserved…what? Friendship? It wasn’t friendship, it was just a forced relationship, built from need; whatever it was, it was false because she didn’t know anything about him and the things he had done, and she was smiling at an image she created in her head. She thought he was the same as the others and that made his skin crawl.
Shit, he was tired of keeping everything under control, he was beaten and unstrung, exhausted to the bone - he fought his own brain to be able to function every fucking time he woke up - and he definitely didn’t need a clueless writer to disturb him further. He especially didn’t need her to occupy his thoughts when he already had trouble focusing on his own problems.
As if that focusing provided any result, added a dark voice in his head; as if it helped when only darkness and a few gunshots deranged him to the point of losing it completely.
He lowered his hands on the table, watching them starting to shake at the mere memory, and another wave of rage flashed over him. It would be so easy to thrust them both into the wall, again and again, until the crushed remains stopped shaking-
When a quick shadow fell over his shoulder, he just reacted, driven with the need to move. He spun around, striking with an open palm - a blow that should hit every opponent in the middle of the chest and send him staggering a few steps back.
It was pure luck that Florence was so short, because it hit her high in the shoulder. She flew backwards, all four meters to the wall, and crashed hard with her back and head. He just stared at her, frozen in the middle of a breath, while she slowly slid down the wall like a doll with cut strings.
For one moment, longer than an eternity, she looked at him with wide open eyes. She blinked a few times, bewildered, then drew in one shaky breath, while he was still unable to move or breathe… and then she burst into laughter.
Just then he breathed, listening to that clear, crystal sound of pure joy, not quite comprehending why she was laughing… but that sound gave him the strength to go a step closer.
“So, I am an ally now, right?” she managed to say after one moment.
“What?” he whispered. He kneeled before her, not daring to touch her - she hit her head hard, she slammed into the wall with full force, she could have broken bones or - Jesus, he could've killed her, if he didn’t strike with the palm, but the fist, he could break her neck with one hit, not even noticing -
She giggled again, and that smile beamed like the sun. “I passed the initiation - but don’t shoot me, that would make a mess.”
“Florence, I’m sor-” his try was stopped with one small hand raised in front of his face - she frowned at him.
“No, don’t say that,” she said. “This is the first time in my life that someone hit me - don’t ruin that experience with an apology, let me savor it while it lasts. I wrote numerous hits, I wrote literally dozens of people flying into walls, and now I know how it feels. Thank you.”
Okay, this was a concussion. There wasn’t any other explanation. He stopped the panicky urge to pull out his phone and call Betsy immediately, and raised his hand. “How many fingers do you see?”
“Forty two,” she beamed. “The answer is always forty two. And stop looking so shocked, there’s no need for that.” She looked at him and tilted her head, adding more seriously, “I mean it. I should’ve known better than to sneak up on you. I’m sorry.”
“Are you out of your fucking mind?!” He tried to snarl at her, really tried, but all he managed was a choked whisper. “You are sorry?! You? What-”
“What a drama queen you are,” she smiled again. “Good thing I’m not. Good thing I can see this as something funny, and no big deal… because it really isn’t. I surprised you, you acted instinctively, and as you should - so what? In fact, it’s comforting to know you’re so quick.”
He sat on his heels, just staring at her - yes, he needed to shake his head to erase the image of some other man sitting on his heels in a dark back street - and her smile faded.
“Okay, I know I don’t act like a normal person, sometimes,” she said with a suddenly uncertain voice. “Normal women would cry and sulk, or yell, or whatever - but I can’t pretend and act. I have to admit I despise them, many of them make drama out of anything, and this really isn’t something to…This was… a surprising experience. And it was funny. No, it was fucking awesome.”
What the hell she was talking about? Her not being normal? He wanted to laugh, but he still couldn’t breathe normally, the fear was still too strong.
“I’m weird. Even by TV business standards,” she went on without a pause. “I guess all writers are a little weird, we act more and more like our characters - and trust me, when you have seven violent guys, being thrown into the wall is something welcomed, because it gives you experience and knowledge.” She bit her lip, looking more and more unhappy. “I’m babbling again, right? Sometimes I just can’t stop, words are just coming out-”
“Yep. Stop it. Be quiet for a second and tell me where you hurt. You hit your head and back. What else?”
She shifted a little, and winced. “Head is okay, just ringing in my ears, but no more than when I once slammed it into a cupboard… and my back is okay.”
“Shoulder?”
“A little, but… fuck, this is embarrassing,” she put both her hands on the floor and rested her weight on them, grimacing. “You know, guys may hit walls with their shoulders, or head, or… but we don’t.”
“We? Who? What-”
“I’ll have problems sitting, okay?!” she hissed. Pink colored her cheeks and she frowned when she felt she was blushing. “Just disgraceful,” she continued with an unhappy murmur. “First hit in my life, and no, I can’t have something remarkable and dignified, a bruise, or black eye, something like that. I had to hit my…Bleh.”
She tapped her fingers on the floor. He stared at her.
Dammit, she was adorable. In so many damn ways. Surprising, fresh, adorable, all in one weird package. He knew he should say something, but he had no words to tell her how normal she really was, and how easy it was to- He just sat there like an idiot, and stared, unable to form two fucking words into a fucking sentence-
“Am I interrupting something?” Nate’s voice from the door behind him stirred them both, and he bit out a curse. He left his back unprotected, with an open door behind him.
“Oh, Nate!” Florence raised her head to the door and a smile lit her face again. “He hit me and slammed me into the wall! You should’ve seen it, I was flying!”
“Oh? Sounds really exciting. May I ask why?” There wasn’t any change in Nate’s slightly ironic tone, but he didn’t turn around to face him and look at his eyes.
“I tried to tap him on the shoulder,” she sighed. “I wasn’t thinking- where are you going?”
“Be right back,” Nate’s voice answered already in the hall. “Stay there.”
She looked at him again. “Where is he going?”
“If he is smart, to get a shotgun,” he managed to smile.
“We have a shotgun? That’s cool.”
“No, we don’t, I was just-”
“So he’ll get one? We do need it, you have to agree, liking guns or not.”
“No, he won’t get a shotgun, we don’t do guns.”
“Then why did you say that?”
“Never mind,” he sighed. “Follow my hand with your eyes, and don’t blink.”
She huffed in annoyance but did what he told her - no problem focusing, her pupils were normal, and she didn’t look like she was dizzy.
“I told you I’m okay. Now help me get up.”
He was the one that needed help, his knees were rubbery when he hoisted himself to his feet and pulled her up. Just in case, he slowly sank into the chair, watching her posture and moves while she patted her pants and shirt from the dust. It ended with her turning around the axis, trying to clean her back, with a few little squeaks when she hit or touched certain spots - and he caught himself hiding a smile.
Nate returned with a bottle and two glasses.
“You okay, pixie?” he asked.
“Of course. Where’s the shotgun?”
“What?”
“So we really don’t have any? Damn, shotguns are so useful. One shotgun and we can cover the entire corridor in case of another attack, even I can do it, there’s no need to be a sharpshooter, just point and pull the trigger in the general direction-”
“Do me a favor, and go on up, will ‘ya? Tell them we’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“No problem.” She darted them one more smile, frowned a little at him, as a reminder not to make drama again, and left. They both watched her leave in silence.
.
.
.
***
.
He was still looking after her, trying to see if she was limping slightly, when Nate pushed a glass into his hands.
“You’re okay?” Nate asked sitting in the opposite chair, facing him.
The question demanded an honest answer, and he struggled to frame it. “No, not really. But I will be.” He took the whiskey in one sip, knowing what that showed Nate, but he didn’t care. “Things are not going as fast as they should,” he continued quietly.
“According to Betsy, the things are going precisely as they should.”
“I told you I was unreliable, Nate. I blacked out in the slaughterhouse; I had no idea where I was. I stood frozen, watching one of them pulling the trigger, and if Hardison didn’t come back for me, he would've killed me. I slammed a girl into a wall. I didn’t hear you coming up behind me. I can’t do my job, and if I try, you might all get killed.”
Nate poured him another one, and the silence spread while he was thinking.
“Well… are we talking about the slaughterhouse with ten armed men, which you all left alive, against all odds? After we believed you couldn’t climb the stairs? That’s sound pretty reliable to me. Also, Florence might be hit, but she is alive. You didn’t kill her - you could,” Nate let out a small smile. “I understand that in your eyes, your performance is shitty… but you’re still better than anyone I know, and anyone they have. I only see results, Eliot, not what ifs in the process, and you should try that too.”
He should’ve known better than to let him start with logic, that was a lost battle against Nate, always. Yet some things couldn’t be solved with logic. He thought for a moment about continuing, forcing him to understand, but no - Nate understood completely, he was just trying to show him the other point of view. Useless, but appreciated.
“Yes, maybe I should try it,” he agreed. “But don’t tell me later that I didn’t warn you.”
Nate nodded. “She’ll be okay?” He changed the subject, there was nothing more to say.
“Yep, she is… very normal. Pixie? Seriously? You gave a nickname to a client. You like her.”
“Shit happens,” Nate smiled, but his eyes were steady on him, calm and serious. “Do you like her, or are you still thinking she would be better left killed?”
Well, he should've expected that.
“Thinking objectively, that option was relevant only in the beginning,” he eyed him, searching for signs in his face, finding none. “Why don’t you look upset by that?”
“Because you can think whatever you want, later. But when the first attack happened, your instinctive reaction was to help her, and only that matters. You should stick to that, and not ponder all the scary shit your brain produces. Trust me, scary shit is something completely normal, I went through tons of that on my walk.” Nate poured them another drink and went on. “Our thoughts don’t define us. Our actions do.”
He cleared his throat.
“Okay, not always, and not all of them,” Nate squinted a little. “Actions can’t be seen without motives behind them.”
“Stop while you’re ahead.”
“Good idea.”
“You know we have only a few minutes more to talk, before a rescue party charges down the stairs?”
“I know. But it won’t be Hardison and Parker this time, Sophie wouldn’t let her come because of the leg. The only way to keep her upstairs is to offer to go with Hardison instead of her, and if I calculated correctly the time Florence needed to tell them what happened, the decision, and Sophie’s arguments, they should be here right-”
“Oh, there you are,” Sophie sang from the door. “We were just coming to see if you were in McRory’s. What are you doing?”
“Well, your brain is a scary place,” Eliot smiled.
“Thank you.”
“Florence said something about a shotgun,” Hardison added, sweeping the room with his eyes - nope, with one eye, he kept the other closed. “You went out to buy a shotgun? That actually sounds like a good idea.”
Eliot shrugged when Nate looked at him. “I have no idea how a shotgun came into the conversation,” he said calmly.
“You’re coming up, or still want to talk?” Sophie asked.
“Yep, we are coming up,” Nate slowly said. “I was thinking while walking, and it’s time to start. We have work to do.”
They all fell silent.
“A briefing?” Hardison sighed. “I don’t have enough info, Nate, I’m too slow-”
“We have time.” Nate glanced at him before he added, “and we have enough scary shit to work on while we complete your data.”
“That sounds… like you had a very productive walk,” Sophie added cautiously. “Can we go up now?” she said, leaving no doubt what the correct answer should be, so they both stood up. She smiled, turned and went upstairs, Hardison following her.
“I didn’t answer your question,” he stopped Nate at the door. “I do like her. A lot.”
Nate nodded.
He wasn’t sure if he was ready for the rest of the alphabet that was going to be unleashed on their heads, now when Plan A had failed - but he knew for certain, by the spark in Nate’s eyes, that it was going to be one hell of a ride.
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