The Inside Job: A Leverage fanfic
Title: The Inside Job
Authored by: vanillafluffy
Pairing/spoilers: Nate-Sophie And if giant spiders squick you, you might want to pass....
Rating/Work-safeness: PG-13
Approximate word count: 3200
Disclaimer: I don't own anything but the Season One DVDs. Heaven knows I'm not making a profit.
Betaed by: mojavedragonfly
Summary: Nate's crew of thieves is being even sneakier thaa usual. They're up to something, the question is what---and how does Parker's new pet figure into it?
The Inside Job
It's weeks like this one that make Nate Ford wish he still drank. He's finally gotten to the point where he can hang on to his sobriety despite jobs going wrong and Lady Luck deciding to be a total bitch...but he now remembers why he used to dislike the individuals on his crew so much. Thieves are sneaky, and lately, his thieves have been up to something. He can tell.
Nate sits in his apartment, nursing a glass of flat ginger ale and brooding. Hardison has had workmen in and out of one of the unused suites on the third floor, getting deliveries of---God only knows. He heard part of a heated argument between Hardison and Eliot about assembly and something not going right---from the metallic banging noises that had attracted Nate's attention in the first place, he's pretty sure it's not some kind of computer and he's starting to worry that Eliot's brought in weapons of mass destruction. They both clammed up when he asked them about it---suspiciously casual, the pair of them. When he investigated, the main door to the area was locked, and as far as he knows, only Hardison has the key.
Eliot's been checking his phone every few minutes all day long. Two hours ago, he suddenly muttered something cryptic about Reykjavík and the weather over Iceland and bolted for the door. Nate isn't sure if that means he's actually going to Iceland, or if it's some kind of top secret code asking him to whack the meteorologist from Channel 11. Either way, it won't be an inconvenience to the team, since they're already one short---this morning's mail brought a postcard signed Tara, from Tokyo. That gets him up and pacing.
Their second-string grifter---Nate refuses to think of her as Sophie's replacement even though she's been working with them since September, and it's April now---she dropped off the grid a couple days ago. She's had ample time to reach Tokyo, but what's scary about that is, Parker... has been smiling. This hasn't happened much in the last few months---every time Tara's called her adorable, precious or charming, the look on Parker's face has gotten a little deadlier. The postcard may be a fake, and Tara's really vacationing at the bottom of Boston Harbor. It would certainly account for Parker's sudden cheerful demeanor.
Put it all together. A missing team member, unexplained activity on the third floor, a mysterious summons and their resident sociopath in a good mood. Do the pieces fit neatly together? Not really. Parker may be happy because Tara's gone, but that doesn't mean she's gone for good. Eliot takes off about once a month and there's news in the paper of a coup somewhere, although he never talks about where he goes; that's business as usual. He's just been a little edgier this of late. Hardison owns the building, he has every right to remodel it, or whatever he's doing. Maybe all that clanking was...him and Eliot putting together metal shelving units. It's the least lethal explanation Nate can think of.
Right, shelves. So he can...store his comic book collection? Complete set of Star Trek DVDs and memorabilia? One hundred years worth of National Geographic? Certainly not business files, because they don't keep files; they have a safe holding back-ups of their most confidential data, but nothing so outdated as actual paper files.
A high-pitched noise overhead sounds ominously like a shriek. Nate stands motionless, listening. Great, they've built themselves a torture chamber up there and incarcerated an unauthorized mark. He takes a deep breath, goes into the hallway, and has his hand on the knob of the door leading to the stairs when it opens and Parker bursts in holding a shoe box.
"Hi, Nate!" she exclaims. "Have you seen my new pet?" Parker with a pet? That's new, all right. "Eliot got him for me in Guatemala." Guatemala? Okay, sure, why not? "Or maybe it was Guadalajara," she says, opening the box to reveal a spider the size of a soup bowl. "One of those places."
Nate takes a step back. Parker moves closer, standing between him and the door, still holding the lid of the shoe box up to display the hirsute arachnid. It's brown and has orange highlights on its legs---it reminds him of a plush toy, only not as cute. He's up against the wall, hoping the ugly thing doesn't leap out of the box at him. "What does it eat?" he asks nervously.
"He likes live mice," says his proud owner. "In the wild, they eat birds, so I might try him on a canary next. Or lizards---they eat them, too, but I think lizards are cool, so I probably won't feed him any lizards. Unless it was a big enough one for them to fight it out---" Her voice slides into what sounds like a Howard Cosell impersonation: "It's Tarantula versus Gila Monster, which one will reign supreme? Who will devour the wee white mouse?" Nah, Howard Cosell retired before she was born. God, he feels old.... "His name is Kojak!" she announces. Huh. Maybe not.
Just then, Eliot's voice, amplified, emerges from her earpiece. "Hey. Pizza's here."
"Yay, pizza!" Parker says enthusiastically. "In the common room," she says to Nate, "if you want to join us." To his relief, she claps the lid down on Kojak and goes slamming back through the door to the stairwell. He hears the dull thudding of her sneakers on the steel treads. "Hey, Alec---pizza!"
So "Iceland" means pizza in Eliot-speak...? Unless it's a pizza from Iceland, in which case, what's on it? Reindeer pepperoni? Herring? Nate grimaces. Good thing he's not still drinking; the mere thought of herring on pizza is even more disgusting than anchovies...the only person he knows who actually likes anchovies on pizza is Sophie...he sighs. He misses her fiercely, but until she's ready to come back, he's going to have to content himself with erotic dreams---he's been having them for months, and they're a helluva lot more...involved…than anything that ever went on between them in real life.
He's still there a moment later when footsteps come back down the stairs, and Parker's voice says, "Do you think it'll work?"
"Of course it's gonna work," Hardison indignantly as he passes the landing, not five feet from where Nate stands. "I put a lot of thought into this plan. It is definitely---"
The voices fade away into the distance. Nate counts to thirty just to make sure, then he cautiously enters the stairwell. There's a chance that maybe, in his haste to get to "Iceland", that Hardison neglected to lock up behind him, and with the rest of the crew diverted by pizza, there may never be a better time to go check out the mystery room. Though seriously, if they have someone in restraints...he has no idea what he'll do. Other than demand answers.
There's a strong smell of paint on the third-floor landing, which is now taupe instead of grey. There's a shiny new knob on the freshly painted door, and Nate experiences a surge of satisfaction as it turns in his hand. “Okay,” he mutters to himself. “Let’s go steal a secret.”
There's no booby-trap, no alarm sounds, the hinges don't even squeak. The only light comes from the strip of windows set high on the left-hand wall. The ten-foot by twelve-foot space that used to be a reception area for some failed business has been transformed into...it's not a torture chamber or a reception area. At least, not the kind of reception room with a secretary behind a desk.
It makes him think of a living room in a model home. There's a sofa that looks like no one's ever sat on it, with purely decorative pillows plumped from one end to the other. In front of it, anchored on an oriental area rug is a coffee table with a row of pristine magazines. He squints at them in the dimness: Sports Illustrated, Wired, Smithsonian and Vogue. That's eclectic...but the furnishings are tasteful and the design is well-executed. That still doesn't explain what all the banging was, though.
Warm lamplight glows from the room beyond, and Nate hesitates. Does he really want to know what they're up to? Maybe this is their version of the Leverage, Inc. Sooper-Sekrit Clubhouse. But if that's the case, why not bring their pizza up here? Why all the mystery?
Then, from the other room comes a sound that makes his blood run cold. He's been a father, he knows the little gurgles a baby is prone to utter. A wild, random memory streaks through his brain----his grandfather talking about the Lindbergh baby case and what a fuss his mama had made until great-granddaddy had pointed out that nobody in their right mind was going to kidnap a rowdy eight-year old from the wrong side of Boston. So, it's not a torture chamber and it's not the Lindbergh baby....
Before he can lose his nerve, Nate strides into the lamp-lit room.
The infant is wrapped in a yellow blanket, which is being held and patted on the back in a way that he knows from experience means 'time to burp the baby'. At his entrance, the woman holding the baby turns gracefully toward the doorway and looks directly at him.
"Sophie?" he whispers. It isn't out of consideration for the baby; it's shock. Of all the strange and astonishing things he expected to find in this room, his grifter and a baby weren't even on the list.
"It's good to see you again, Nate," she says in that voice that's always been music to him.
"You, too," he answers automatically. "Where did you get---that?"
Her eyes narrow. "She is my daughter," replies Sophie with an edge in her voice. "And I got her the usual way."
"Congratulations," Nate chokes out. He remembers the lover she'd told him about in London...that guy she said she'd broken it off with. Clearly, if she’s here, she wanted to put a lot of space between them---but to bring another man's baby here? There isn't enough booze in the world to wipe out the pain.
Now that he needs them, his glib words are nowhere to be found. No, it's more like they can't get past the knot in his throat that's strangling him. "She's as pretty as her mother," is what he should say. Or, "Tell me her last name isn't Lindbergh." Or even, "Does this mean you're coming back to work?"---but nothing comes out.
"I asked the team not to tell you I was coming," she says calmly as her offspring lets out a most unladylike belch. "I wanted to see your reaction."
"I could tell they were working a job," he says with difficulty. "I just didn't know I was the mark."
She chuckles, and God, it hurts. He's thought himself an expert on the kinds of anguish a human heart can suffer, but no, here's a new one twisting the knife in his chest. Everything blurs for a moment, then he sees her sliding the burp cloth from her shoulder. Expertly, she blots at his face---the smell of formula takes him back fifteen years and more tears roll down his cheeks. "Eliot's been calling it the Baby-Daddy Job," she teases.
The---? Nate has enough presence of mind to sit down before he falls down. "Daddy?" he breathes. It's impossible---he and Sophie never---it has to be a con---doesn't it? Unless...he'd been drinking. It would certainly account for his erotic dreams.
"You don't remember, do you?"
If he had a blackout that blacked out something like that...no wonder Sophie had walked out. He shakes his head slowly, hot with shame. "No."
"I didn't think so." Sophie sinks down beside him on the ottoman, which is just wide enough for the two---three---of them. She's so close, so beautiful---and so is her mother. "You sobered up right afterwards, oddly enough, but you never said anything, never tried to make another move...that's why I left."
"I'm so sorry. Look, I haven't had a drink since before you left---"
"I know. They've been keeping an eye on you for me." She leans in close, brushes her lips against his. "I wanted to make sure you were doing it for yourself, not for me."
It's too easy to prove paternity these days---hell, there are DNA test kits at the drug store, for crying out loud. It's not a con. It can't be. Nate gulps a couple deep breaths; he's a father again---he's probably going to be over-protective as hell, and with good reason, but--- "We'll have to toast her with ginger ale instead of champagne."
He extends a hand, venturing to coil a lock of the baby's dark, curling hair around his index finger. It’s so silky….
"And you used to have eyes only for me," Sophie says playfully. His other arm goes around her shoulder, drawing his two ladies closer.
"I still do!" He attempts a leer to lighten the moment. "You're breast-feeding, aren't you?"
Sophie swats at him, but she's got her arms full of baby. She's almost falling off the ottoman, laughing, magnificent. He's holding her securely, though, and through it all, their daughter chortles with glee.
"What's her name?" Nate asks.
"Francine...for my mother." That's the most she's ever revealed about her "real" life.
Nate tries it out. "Francine...little Francie...Franny...."
"Francine," Sophie announces firmly. "Her middle name is Samantha."
Good thing he's already sitting down. It's a struggle to keep it together; the last five minutes have been the most intense of his life. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"Remembering her...half-brother."
There's a guilty expression on Sophie's face, and Nate realizes that she hadn't thought of that, that she'd just liked the name Samantha. Somehow, it's better that way, balancing out his own sin of forgetting.
"This poor kid," Nate says, shaking his head. "Her parents are a couple of amnesiacs, they're lucky to find their way home at the end of the day. No memory, either one of them, it's terrible!"
"So you say!" Sophie pulls out of his embrace and stands up.
"Don't go!" he protests.
"I'm going to put Francine into her crib, and then, Daddy, you and I are going to go downstairs, and eat pizza with our friends."
“Not pizza from Iceland with herring on top?” Maybe Sophie can clear this little puzzle up, too.
“Iceland? No, from a joint between here and Logan Airport.” She chuckles. “My plane landed at Reykjavík for refueling. There were some weather delays.”
The crib is made with metal railings and tubes. Some of its pipes are slightly battered and the whole thing is not-quite square---now Nate knows what his crew was trying to assemble, and it’s his turn to laugh, the first good laugh he's had since Sophie's departure. "Are you sure it’s safe?"
"That was the first thing I checked when we got here. She didn't like it at all that Mummy handed her to Uncle Alex while she checked his handiwork. Oh, how she fussed! Parker had to run downstairs to make sure you didn't show up too soon."
Francine doesn't wail in dismay that it's bedtime. She sucks quietly at her fist for a moment, yawns, and she's asleep. Sophie dims the lights.
"We're just going to leave her?" Is Sophie nuts? Just walk out and leave his adorable baby girl all alone? What kind of mother is she? Nate's already so crazy about Francine he's having separation anxiety at the thought. "She's asleep, we can bring her along---"
"See that little spot of blue neon next to the light fixture over the crib? That's a camera with a dedicated feed going to a 60-inch flat panel monitor down in the common room. And besides," Sophie mutters in his ear as she drags him out of the room, "Do you really want your sleeping daughter in the same room with Kojak?"
Nate surrenders then, and doesn't even complain when he has to share Sophie's onion, olive and anchovy pizza. He's perfectly content to sit sipping ginger ale---this bottle isn't flat---and gazing at the slumbering infant on the screen. The conversation goes on around him; he's mostly oblivious to their attempts to get a rise out of him.
Hardison acts innocent. "I hope they get this healthcare reform fixed pretty soon, I heard there's been a terrible rise in cases of amnesia!"
Healthcare...good thing he's got millions. He'll never have to worry about whether his insurance will cover a treatment again.
"This is excellent pizza," Parker pronounces. "I like pizza much better than sushi. Did you know there's a kind of sushi that can poison you if it's not made just right?" She looks gleeful at the thought. "It's called fugu---isn't that a great name? Foo-goo! It's a delicacy…in Japan."
Note to self, Nate thinks distantly. No sushi for Francine, ever, just in case.
Eliot reminisces, "I got into it with a Family guy in Italy, a few years back, he tried to stick me into a pizza oven. It wasn’t turned on, though. Hey, Nate, did you know your hair is on fire?"
"Is there a smoke detector in Francine's room?" he demands, sloshing the ginger ale in his glass as he sits upright.
"Chill out," says Hardison, indignant. "This whole place is up to code and then some. We've got smoke detectors, sprinklers, extinguishers, and the fire alarm is tied in to Station 31 directly."
Parker pipes up. "Hey, Nate, can I babysit? Please?"
He almost gives himself whiplash looking over at her. He stares at the blonde thief, who beams at him. He glances meaningfully at the shoebox beside her.
"Aww! Eliot, you're gonna have to take Kojak back to Guatemala."
"I haven't been to Guatemala since 2006."
"Okay, Guadalajara."
"I've never been to Guadalajara."
Nate leans forward a little as Francine kicks at her crib blanket, then settles back into dreamland. His friends are chuckling, and it's all good, he's never been happier. Sophie is back with him, they're finally on the right track, and their incredible, precious miracle is asleep under his watchful gaze. He wonders if he can get Hardison to install cameras in the classroom when it's time for Francine to go to school.
"Where did you say you got him?"
"Galveston."
"I was close."
"Absolutely." Hardison chimes in. "Right continent and everything."
As his favorite people bicker amiably, Sophie nuzzles Nate's neck. It's a definite attention-getter. "You know, I'm rather looking forward to critiquing your performance while sober," she murmurs. "Although I have no complaints at all about your results."
"Good to hear it," he responds, taking her hand and squeezing it. An hour ago he was miserable, now, life is sweet. "Because, Sophie, you're the girl of my dreams."
As long as he doesn’t look at the monitor…where his other girl is dreaming.
THE END.
***
Thanks for your shiny comments!
Authored by: vanillafluffy
Pairing/spoilers: Nate-Sophie And if giant spiders squick you, you might want to pass....
Rating/Work-safeness: PG-13
Approximate word count: 3200
Disclaimer: I don't own anything but the Season One DVDs. Heaven knows I'm not making a profit.
Betaed by: mojavedragonfly
Summary: Nate's crew of thieves is being even sneakier thaa usual. They're up to something, the question is what---and how does Parker's new pet figure into it?
The Inside Job
It's weeks like this one that make Nate Ford wish he still drank. He's finally gotten to the point where he can hang on to his sobriety despite jobs going wrong and Lady Luck deciding to be a total bitch...but he now remembers why he used to dislike the individuals on his crew so much. Thieves are sneaky, and lately, his thieves have been up to something. He can tell.
Nate sits in his apartment, nursing a glass of flat ginger ale and brooding. Hardison has had workmen in and out of one of the unused suites on the third floor, getting deliveries of---God only knows. He heard part of a heated argument between Hardison and Eliot about assembly and something not going right---from the metallic banging noises that had attracted Nate's attention in the first place, he's pretty sure it's not some kind of computer and he's starting to worry that Eliot's brought in weapons of mass destruction. They both clammed up when he asked them about it---suspiciously casual, the pair of them. When he investigated, the main door to the area was locked, and as far as he knows, only Hardison has the key.
Eliot's been checking his phone every few minutes all day long. Two hours ago, he suddenly muttered something cryptic about Reykjavík and the weather over Iceland and bolted for the door. Nate isn't sure if that means he's actually going to Iceland, or if it's some kind of top secret code asking him to whack the meteorologist from Channel 11. Either way, it won't be an inconvenience to the team, since they're already one short---this morning's mail brought a postcard signed Tara, from Tokyo. That gets him up and pacing.
Their second-string grifter---Nate refuses to think of her as Sophie's replacement even though she's been working with them since September, and it's April now---she dropped off the grid a couple days ago. She's had ample time to reach Tokyo, but what's scary about that is, Parker... has been smiling. This hasn't happened much in the last few months---every time Tara's called her adorable, precious or charming, the look on Parker's face has gotten a little deadlier. The postcard may be a fake, and Tara's really vacationing at the bottom of Boston Harbor. It would certainly account for Parker's sudden cheerful demeanor.
Put it all together. A missing team member, unexplained activity on the third floor, a mysterious summons and their resident sociopath in a good mood. Do the pieces fit neatly together? Not really. Parker may be happy because Tara's gone, but that doesn't mean she's gone for good. Eliot takes off about once a month and there's news in the paper of a coup somewhere, although he never talks about where he goes; that's business as usual. He's just been a little edgier this of late. Hardison owns the building, he has every right to remodel it, or whatever he's doing. Maybe all that clanking was...him and Eliot putting together metal shelving units. It's the least lethal explanation Nate can think of.
Right, shelves. So he can...store his comic book collection? Complete set of Star Trek DVDs and memorabilia? One hundred years worth of National Geographic? Certainly not business files, because they don't keep files; they have a safe holding back-ups of their most confidential data, but nothing so outdated as actual paper files.
A high-pitched noise overhead sounds ominously like a shriek. Nate stands motionless, listening. Great, they've built themselves a torture chamber up there and incarcerated an unauthorized mark. He takes a deep breath, goes into the hallway, and has his hand on the knob of the door leading to the stairs when it opens and Parker bursts in holding a shoe box.
"Hi, Nate!" she exclaims. "Have you seen my new pet?" Parker with a pet? That's new, all right. "Eliot got him for me in Guatemala." Guatemala? Okay, sure, why not? "Or maybe it was Guadalajara," she says, opening the box to reveal a spider the size of a soup bowl. "One of those places."
Nate takes a step back. Parker moves closer, standing between him and the door, still holding the lid of the shoe box up to display the hirsute arachnid. It's brown and has orange highlights on its legs---it reminds him of a plush toy, only not as cute. He's up against the wall, hoping the ugly thing doesn't leap out of the box at him. "What does it eat?" he asks nervously.
"He likes live mice," says his proud owner. "In the wild, they eat birds, so I might try him on a canary next. Or lizards---they eat them, too, but I think lizards are cool, so I probably won't feed him any lizards. Unless it was a big enough one for them to fight it out---" Her voice slides into what sounds like a Howard Cosell impersonation: "It's Tarantula versus Gila Monster, which one will reign supreme? Who will devour the wee white mouse?" Nah, Howard Cosell retired before she was born. God, he feels old.... "His name is Kojak!" she announces. Huh. Maybe not.
Just then, Eliot's voice, amplified, emerges from her earpiece. "Hey. Pizza's here."
"Yay, pizza!" Parker says enthusiastically. "In the common room," she says to Nate, "if you want to join us." To his relief, she claps the lid down on Kojak and goes slamming back through the door to the stairwell. He hears the dull thudding of her sneakers on the steel treads. "Hey, Alec---pizza!"
So "Iceland" means pizza in Eliot-speak...? Unless it's a pizza from Iceland, in which case, what's on it? Reindeer pepperoni? Herring? Nate grimaces. Good thing he's not still drinking; the mere thought of herring on pizza is even more disgusting than anchovies...the only person he knows who actually likes anchovies on pizza is Sophie...he sighs. He misses her fiercely, but until she's ready to come back, he's going to have to content himself with erotic dreams---he's been having them for months, and they're a helluva lot more...involved…than anything that ever went on between them in real life.
He's still there a moment later when footsteps come back down the stairs, and Parker's voice says, "Do you think it'll work?"
"Of course it's gonna work," Hardison indignantly as he passes the landing, not five feet from where Nate stands. "I put a lot of thought into this plan. It is definitely---"
The voices fade away into the distance. Nate counts to thirty just to make sure, then he cautiously enters the stairwell. There's a chance that maybe, in his haste to get to "Iceland", that Hardison neglected to lock up behind him, and with the rest of the crew diverted by pizza, there may never be a better time to go check out the mystery room. Though seriously, if they have someone in restraints...he has no idea what he'll do. Other than demand answers.
There's a strong smell of paint on the third-floor landing, which is now taupe instead of grey. There's a shiny new knob on the freshly painted door, and Nate experiences a surge of satisfaction as it turns in his hand. “Okay,” he mutters to himself. “Let’s go steal a secret.”
There's no booby-trap, no alarm sounds, the hinges don't even squeak. The only light comes from the strip of windows set high on the left-hand wall. The ten-foot by twelve-foot space that used to be a reception area for some failed business has been transformed into...it's not a torture chamber or a reception area. At least, not the kind of reception room with a secretary behind a desk.
It makes him think of a living room in a model home. There's a sofa that looks like no one's ever sat on it, with purely decorative pillows plumped from one end to the other. In front of it, anchored on an oriental area rug is a coffee table with a row of pristine magazines. He squints at them in the dimness: Sports Illustrated, Wired, Smithsonian and Vogue. That's eclectic...but the furnishings are tasteful and the design is well-executed. That still doesn't explain what all the banging was, though.
Warm lamplight glows from the room beyond, and Nate hesitates. Does he really want to know what they're up to? Maybe this is their version of the Leverage, Inc. Sooper-Sekrit Clubhouse. But if that's the case, why not bring their pizza up here? Why all the mystery?
Then, from the other room comes a sound that makes his blood run cold. He's been a father, he knows the little gurgles a baby is prone to utter. A wild, random memory streaks through his brain----his grandfather talking about the Lindbergh baby case and what a fuss his mama had made until great-granddaddy had pointed out that nobody in their right mind was going to kidnap a rowdy eight-year old from the wrong side of Boston. So, it's not a torture chamber and it's not the Lindbergh baby....
Before he can lose his nerve, Nate strides into the lamp-lit room.
The infant is wrapped in a yellow blanket, which is being held and patted on the back in a way that he knows from experience means 'time to burp the baby'. At his entrance, the woman holding the baby turns gracefully toward the doorway and looks directly at him.
"Sophie?" he whispers. It isn't out of consideration for the baby; it's shock. Of all the strange and astonishing things he expected to find in this room, his grifter and a baby weren't even on the list.
"It's good to see you again, Nate," she says in that voice that's always been music to him.
"You, too," he answers automatically. "Where did you get---that?"
Her eyes narrow. "She is my daughter," replies Sophie with an edge in her voice. "And I got her the usual way."
"Congratulations," Nate chokes out. He remembers the lover she'd told him about in London...that guy she said she'd broken it off with. Clearly, if she’s here, she wanted to put a lot of space between them---but to bring another man's baby here? There isn't enough booze in the world to wipe out the pain.
Now that he needs them, his glib words are nowhere to be found. No, it's more like they can't get past the knot in his throat that's strangling him. "She's as pretty as her mother," is what he should say. Or, "Tell me her last name isn't Lindbergh." Or even, "Does this mean you're coming back to work?"---but nothing comes out.
"I asked the team not to tell you I was coming," she says calmly as her offspring lets out a most unladylike belch. "I wanted to see your reaction."
"I could tell they were working a job," he says with difficulty. "I just didn't know I was the mark."
She chuckles, and God, it hurts. He's thought himself an expert on the kinds of anguish a human heart can suffer, but no, here's a new one twisting the knife in his chest. Everything blurs for a moment, then he sees her sliding the burp cloth from her shoulder. Expertly, she blots at his face---the smell of formula takes him back fifteen years and more tears roll down his cheeks. "Eliot's been calling it the Baby-Daddy Job," she teases.
The---? Nate has enough presence of mind to sit down before he falls down. "Daddy?" he breathes. It's impossible---he and Sophie never---it has to be a con---doesn't it? Unless...he'd been drinking. It would certainly account for his erotic dreams.
"You don't remember, do you?"
If he had a blackout that blacked out something like that...no wonder Sophie had walked out. He shakes his head slowly, hot with shame. "No."
"I didn't think so." Sophie sinks down beside him on the ottoman, which is just wide enough for the two---three---of them. She's so close, so beautiful---and so is her mother. "You sobered up right afterwards, oddly enough, but you never said anything, never tried to make another move...that's why I left."
"I'm so sorry. Look, I haven't had a drink since before you left---"
"I know. They've been keeping an eye on you for me." She leans in close, brushes her lips against his. "I wanted to make sure you were doing it for yourself, not for me."
It's too easy to prove paternity these days---hell, there are DNA test kits at the drug store, for crying out loud. It's not a con. It can't be. Nate gulps a couple deep breaths; he's a father again---he's probably going to be over-protective as hell, and with good reason, but--- "We'll have to toast her with ginger ale instead of champagne."
He extends a hand, venturing to coil a lock of the baby's dark, curling hair around his index finger. It’s so silky….
"And you used to have eyes only for me," Sophie says playfully. His other arm goes around her shoulder, drawing his two ladies closer.
"I still do!" He attempts a leer to lighten the moment. "You're breast-feeding, aren't you?"
Sophie swats at him, but she's got her arms full of baby. She's almost falling off the ottoman, laughing, magnificent. He's holding her securely, though, and through it all, their daughter chortles with glee.
"What's her name?" Nate asks.
"Francine...for my mother." That's the most she's ever revealed about her "real" life.
Nate tries it out. "Francine...little Francie...Franny...."
"Francine," Sophie announces firmly. "Her middle name is Samantha."
Good thing he's already sitting down. It's a struggle to keep it together; the last five minutes have been the most intense of his life. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"Remembering her...half-brother."
There's a guilty expression on Sophie's face, and Nate realizes that she hadn't thought of that, that she'd just liked the name Samantha. Somehow, it's better that way, balancing out his own sin of forgetting.
"This poor kid," Nate says, shaking his head. "Her parents are a couple of amnesiacs, they're lucky to find their way home at the end of the day. No memory, either one of them, it's terrible!"
"So you say!" Sophie pulls out of his embrace and stands up.
"Don't go!" he protests.
"I'm going to put Francine into her crib, and then, Daddy, you and I are going to go downstairs, and eat pizza with our friends."
“Not pizza from Iceland with herring on top?” Maybe Sophie can clear this little puzzle up, too.
“Iceland? No, from a joint between here and Logan Airport.” She chuckles. “My plane landed at Reykjavík for refueling. There were some weather delays.”
The crib is made with metal railings and tubes. Some of its pipes are slightly battered and the whole thing is not-quite square---now Nate knows what his crew was trying to assemble, and it’s his turn to laugh, the first good laugh he's had since Sophie's departure. "Are you sure it’s safe?"
"That was the first thing I checked when we got here. She didn't like it at all that Mummy handed her to Uncle Alex while she checked his handiwork. Oh, how she fussed! Parker had to run downstairs to make sure you didn't show up too soon."
Francine doesn't wail in dismay that it's bedtime. She sucks quietly at her fist for a moment, yawns, and she's asleep. Sophie dims the lights.
"We're just going to leave her?" Is Sophie nuts? Just walk out and leave his adorable baby girl all alone? What kind of mother is she? Nate's already so crazy about Francine he's having separation anxiety at the thought. "She's asleep, we can bring her along---"
"See that little spot of blue neon next to the light fixture over the crib? That's a camera with a dedicated feed going to a 60-inch flat panel monitor down in the common room. And besides," Sophie mutters in his ear as she drags him out of the room, "Do you really want your sleeping daughter in the same room with Kojak?"
Nate surrenders then, and doesn't even complain when he has to share Sophie's onion, olive and anchovy pizza. He's perfectly content to sit sipping ginger ale---this bottle isn't flat---and gazing at the slumbering infant on the screen. The conversation goes on around him; he's mostly oblivious to their attempts to get a rise out of him.
Hardison acts innocent. "I hope they get this healthcare reform fixed pretty soon, I heard there's been a terrible rise in cases of amnesia!"
Healthcare...good thing he's got millions. He'll never have to worry about whether his insurance will cover a treatment again.
"This is excellent pizza," Parker pronounces. "I like pizza much better than sushi. Did you know there's a kind of sushi that can poison you if it's not made just right?" She looks gleeful at the thought. "It's called fugu---isn't that a great name? Foo-goo! It's a delicacy…in Japan."
Note to self, Nate thinks distantly. No sushi for Francine, ever, just in case.
Eliot reminisces, "I got into it with a Family guy in Italy, a few years back, he tried to stick me into a pizza oven. It wasn’t turned on, though. Hey, Nate, did you know your hair is on fire?"
"Is there a smoke detector in Francine's room?" he demands, sloshing the ginger ale in his glass as he sits upright.
"Chill out," says Hardison, indignant. "This whole place is up to code and then some. We've got smoke detectors, sprinklers, extinguishers, and the fire alarm is tied in to Station 31 directly."
Parker pipes up. "Hey, Nate, can I babysit? Please?"
He almost gives himself whiplash looking over at her. He stares at the blonde thief, who beams at him. He glances meaningfully at the shoebox beside her.
"Aww! Eliot, you're gonna have to take Kojak back to Guatemala."
"I haven't been to Guatemala since 2006."
"Okay, Guadalajara."
"I've never been to Guadalajara."
Nate leans forward a little as Francine kicks at her crib blanket, then settles back into dreamland. His friends are chuckling, and it's all good, he's never been happier. Sophie is back with him, they're finally on the right track, and their incredible, precious miracle is asleep under his watchful gaze. He wonders if he can get Hardison to install cameras in the classroom when it's time for Francine to go to school.
"Where did you say you got him?"
"Galveston."
"I was close."
"Absolutely." Hardison chimes in. "Right continent and everything."
As his favorite people bicker amiably, Sophie nuzzles Nate's neck. It's a definite attention-getter. "You know, I'm rather looking forward to critiquing your performance while sober," she murmurs. "Although I have no complaints at all about your results."
"Good to hear it," he responds, taking her hand and squeezing it. An hour ago he was miserable, now, life is sweet. "Because, Sophie, you're the girl of my dreams."
As long as he doesn’t look at the monitor…where his other girl is dreaming.
THE END.
***
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