I forgot to say a few words, so I'm editing this.

I want to point out that this story wouldn't be here if there wasn't my Beta, trappercreekd, who can almost be a co-author – she put so much time into this, and I shall always be grateful for her support.

And I want to thank you, again :D YOUR support was something that's rarely seen, indeed. I'm thankful for all reviews and messages, and all your thoughts and requests, even ideas are noted.

I'm planning to continue with this – not sure when, I have to rest from this – but I don't think I can let them just hanging like this. Though, no more monster fics, I simply CAN'T do this again. I'll write shorter fics, but it'll be plenty of them :D

I'll continue to write them in Boston for awhile, and then see how to move them to Portland, to catch up with the Season five ( and Coddington, of course :D)

I've spent my five years reserve of drama and angst, so next stories will be much lighter – deal with it. :D

The Occam's razor Job will be the first in the "Texas Mountain Laurel Series" – fics that don't belong in the timeline won't have that name in description.

See you soon, and thank you :D

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"When they are planning to stop?" Betsy asked after the second hour passed, and Hardison showed no sign of slowing down. He was in the middle of a monologue about the hours and hours of his research on the Chileans, and he repeated every step of it.

Sophie smiled. "Irresistible forces don't get tired." She noticed that Hardison haven't left the hospital yet, and when he was near Eliot's leaving, he would turn around and find something that was left unexplained in previous days. She noticed it twice, then started to pay attention, and soon figured out that Hardison was pretty correctly reading Eliot's reactions. The hitter was getting silent every time they were near that border, and his replies were shorter. She knew that night, and his doings, wouldn't be mentioned in this conversation.

After one hour, Parker got tired so Hardison let her have his place, pulling a chair near the bed, next to pillows. She curled herself into a ball, and she was pressing the keys on the laptop while he continued his explaining.

Sophie went to take them tea fifteen minutes ago, to check how Eliot was doing under the siege, but he barely had strength to raise his head to look at her. He was completely dumb already, and he stopped to yank Hardison's chains with neutrally formulated remarks about the details of their doings that they so carefully hid from him. After the first one, about the hazmat suits, a little smile appeared on Nate's face, and it hadn't left since then.

"That kid is cleverer than I thought," Betsy continued. "He is sorting things out, and at the same time killing him, slowly. I give Eliot ten more minutes before he passes out. I must say this isn't the way I would choose to put someone to sleep."

"Let him be, Betsy," Nate said quietly. "If he wasn't doing it, we would just find an empty bed in few days."

"You're sure it would be a bad thing for Eliot?" Betsy's question was light, but Sophie had learned that Betsy never spoke lightly.

Nate turned to her. "For three days, you have been analyzing if we are good enough to take care of him," he said. "What's the verdict?"

"When tonight passes, I'll decide, according to that, if I should go home tomorrow or stay longer." Betsy avoided the answer with a smile. "He won't need 24/7 care anymore, and one visit a day would be enough."

"I can answer your question," Sophie said. "We all have found something important in this… team. For all of us, this is an anchor that keeps us on track. We all need it. He needs it now more than anything; that can help him get through this. If he leaves, he will be dead in two weeks. Our seas are different. Some of them are stormier than others. Without the anchor they can't be survived."

"I see," Betsy sighed. "But I also see you have unreal expectations – he isn't going anywhere for a long time."

"Define long," Nate said.

"Weeks. He is spent, Nate, and he will soon figure it out. He simply won't be able to do anything. No, let me rephrase that… he will collect all his strength and do everything he wants – once. He'll try to stand, and succeed, just to find out that he has to recover from that for two days. He'll sit in the chair for fifteen minutes and after that sleep ten hours to recover from it. His condition has nothing to do with his will, and you'll have huge problems when it hits him."

Nate rubbed his forehead. "I see Star Trek marathons in near future."

"I suggest a good rehabilitation center. It will speed up his recovery."

Nate darted a dark look at her. "Out of question," he said. "He is staying with us."

She smiled, and Sophie knew that Nate gave her the answer to her doubts without noticing it. That woman was a better grifter than any professional.

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Eliot remembered, vaguely, that Hardison continued with the briefing long after Parker fell asleep. He wasn't trying to stop him. His babbling gave a useful and sometimes very disturbing insight in their doings, though he had to put a mask on his face several times. His blood ran cold when the hacker casually explained their dance through the dozens of Chileans attacking the hospital. When Hardison mentioned his going into the street with a gun, while Sophie was retreating through the Chileans, he was grateful he wasn't connected to any beeping shit anymore.

Yep, he definitely wanted to kill them all, one by one, but not kill them, just… sort of grab their heads and slam them into the wall, while yelling and cursing. He didn't send them away for nothing, for god's sake!

Betsy came shortly after Hardison tried to explain what exactly his gnomes did with his Arabic and Hebrew letters and numbers, and how important it was to have a loyal and loving community all over the world, and she suggested a ten minute break.

Finally. He needed it desperately – Hardison was in fact entertaining him, but he had to concentrate on much darker things to pull it through, and that was exhausting him. Ten minutes of silence would help him to get it together and continue.

It was the last thing he remembered.

Waking up was a slow process, and that surprised him – he was usually completely awake in a second. The light was coming from the wrong side, and female voices were speaking Spanish. The 'S' sounds were regular and there wasn't any soft pronunciation; it wasn't Chilean Spanish.

He kept his eyes closed and just listened. Hardison typed slowly. He wasn't doing anything important. Two different sounds of paper located Nate and Sophie at the table, with the newspaper and a heavier magazine, and soft but quick clicking of metal told him that Parker practiced lock picking somewhere near him.

Nope, something was wrong with that sound. Either she was doing it blindfolded and with one hand in three gloves, or… he opened his eyes and looked at the chair two meters from the bed. Betsy was sitting with a few locks in her lap, watching a Spanish soap opera on the screens and opening the locks without looking at them. Damn. And he didn't even feel delirious again.

He closed his eyes again, trying to remember what happened. This was obviously morning, and he had lost the entire night, and a good part of yesterday. Where the hell was Parker? She slept just a few inches from him, and if those fools let her stay- light steps above his head gave him the answer and he slowly exhaled.

He remembered a few blurred images from the evening; the dimmed light from the kitchen and Hardison's quiet humming. The bed had been lit by the blue light from the laptop – and Parker had been cuddled under his arm. Fuck. That must have been the effect of Hardison's speech about the attack on the hospital – he remembered his own distorted thoughts about keeping them close.

Whatever. That was a mistake. He allowed himself to trust himself again, and that was reckless. The memory of his thinking about killing Nate just for fun was still too clear in his head, and he could recall that feeling in full strength without any effort.

"Good morning, Eliot. Good morning, George," Betsy said.

So, would they all continue to wave George before his face? He refused to look at the plant. Betsy snapped her fingers and Hardison trotted in with a tray.

"Breakfast. You may watch Isabella, the Rose of Guadalajara while you eat."

"I won't…" eat, he almost said, but her eyes were calm, and he sensed a creepy smile emerging. "…watch Isabella," he finished quietly.

"I can't understand why anybody watches that stuff," Hardison glanced at the screen where two women screamed at each other, almost hitting him in the head with the tray. "Oops, sorry." He lowered it and put it on the table, with a quick smile.

Eliot glanced at him, and then it hit him. He didn't flinch or freeze at the threat. He suppressed his annoyance and looked at Betsy again.

"Me neither," Betsy said. "I don't watch these kinds of shows; it's a revelation to me." She clicked the last lock and threw it on the floor with the others. "I watch Sons of Anarchy."

Hardison raised his both hands in the air, and ran back to his computer.

"I'm going home," she said when he closed his eyes again, thinking about how to avoid eating, and that stirred him. He looked at her and suddenly realized he was going to miss her. Jesus Christ, that must have been some sort of twisted Stockholm syndrome. He barely suppressed the laugh.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing… just, thinking about how repaying everything you have done will be a full time job."

"In fact, I know what you can do for me." Her smile was innocent, he noticed with growing worry. "Besides not allowing yourself to come before me in a horizontal position ever again."

"Listening."

"I want you to make a Facebook account."

He looked at her for a few seconds, then blinked. She smiled. Calmly.

"Did you just say…?"

"Yep. I hate phones."

"But that's-"

"Take it or leave it."

"May I suggest-"

"No."

Jesus. He sighed, contemplating banging his head on the table, and shifted under her steady gaze. "Okay," he finally whispered.

"There, there." She smiled. "You're gonna love it. Now, stop looking so lost; you still need surveillance, and I'll come by once a day for awhile. This is not a goodbye." She reached into her jacket and pulled a piece of paper from it. "And I have a present for you."

He took the paper, only then noticing that she was fully dressed. She waited for him to wake up. "What's this?"

"Do you know why I called you an idiot all the time in the hospital, while watching your three day long struggle to run away?"

"I can think of few reasons, yes," he said carefully.

"The next time you want to escape from a hospital, you don't have to collect stolen things under your pillow, you just have to sign this paper; your statement of accepting the full responsibility for your actions and health. LAMA - leaving against medical advice."

Fuck. Double fuck. He could've spared himself of all the trouble by-

"And that reminded me of something," she said. "Sit, please."

He obeyed without thinking, still looking at the paper and silently cursing.

Betsy removed the pillows and took both scalpels he had hid underneath them. Triple fuck.

"Just in case," he murmured. "A habit. I was practicing. You never know when you'll have to cut the tubes, wires, IVs, or open a beer…"

"Idiot."

He squinted and just smiled, knowing very well how much impressed she was.

"They have all my numbers for all the possible emergencies," she continued after a sigh. "It's better for you if they don't have to call me. Try not to do anything stupid this time, okay?"

That sounds familiar. "Yes, of course," he said. How getting shot ended with a Facebook account? Karma was a bitch. An insane bitch. On heavy drugs. Jesus, what a mess.

He didn't want her to leave. She was a constant in this confusing shit that his life had become; something unchangeable, solid. He knew her reactions and thinking, there were no surprises, and without her… fuck, he was feeling secure with her.

"I don't like that sinking look. Stop looking so helpless, will you?" she said. "It doesn't suit you, and it's making me nervous. Besides, it won't save you from the breakfast. Second, things are getting better."

She said things, and not you. "You saved my life twice," he said trying to keep his voice steady. "You're a fool if you think that one account can deal with it."

"That's what I do," she said. "And you, of all people, don't have a right to question that. Because, if you dare do it, you would have to question everything you have done. Are you ready for that?"

He shook his head – his throat was strangely clenched and no words came.

She smiled and got up. "Take care of them while I'm gone. They are very…very…" she trailed off and smiled. "Adorable."

"Shit, Betsy, I'm not-" she stopped his desperate words with yet another smile.

"The strength of the pack is the wolf." She leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek. She stayed close, and whispered, "But the strength of the wolf is the pack, Eliot Spencer. Remember that… because, at the moment you forget that the next time, you are all dead."

He froze, unable to say anything. When he was able to breathe in again, she was gone.

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Nate knew that Eliot's refusing to eat wasn't a decision, it was a state. He had monitored that for the last two days, waiting for improvement that didn't come.

Sophie knew everything that had to be done with the IVs – Betsy showed her every step before she left. Eliot was getting everything he needed through it, but Betsy said he had to start eating.

He refused breakfast.

When they ordered his favorite Chinese for lunch, he said it would make him sick.

When Parker came with crackers, he took two when she threatened to play airplane until he got tired of avoiding the flying cracker, and they all knew she meant business.

Nate just kept silent watch, not interfering, letting them do whatever they thought would help. Eliot was better, much better – he wasn't tensed like a spring when they were near and he talked more, and his eyes lost that tormented edge – but Nate could clearly see the effort he put in all of it. And he couldn't eat.

They couldn't attack him without any break, he had to rest, and Nate let Sophie to decide when, and how long they'd try to occupy him, and when to leave him alone. Betsy suggested that conversations shouldn't be longer than ten minutes at once. Eliot needed breaks to get it together. Sophie took care that Hardison didn't overdo it again. Nate noticed she knew exactly when to speak with Eliot, and he knew how she knew, what she watched.

Eliot's hands were shaking.

No matter how controlled his face was, or normal his voice, he couldn't hide the trembling that showed Nate when his thoughts were occupied with that night, when he was going through those hours again. Sophie would usually wait to see if it would calm down. It never did.

The only thing that could stop it was one of them, sitting and talking about anything, diverting his attention and giving him something to think about. Once it took an entire hour of talking to stop the trembling, and Eliot was barely able to pretend that he was participating in the conversation. They expected him to sleep after that because he was exhausted by an hour of Sophie's chatting, but he avoided it with the phone.

Eliot was still afraid of the things he might do when out, and Hardison's and Parker's closing in just dulled that fear. It didn't remove it.

Nate knew exactly when his phone was just a distraction for them, and when he really worked on something.

When the afternoon started to crawl into evening, Nate noticed that Eliot used it only to keep them all away.

Hardison and Parker argued in the kitchen, preparing the sandwich-that-couldn't-be-refused, and they used almost all the ingredients they could, in different combinations. Sophie was reading something, looking pretty much spent, and the screens tilted with a few different channels, in case Eliot would watch something.

Eliot, of course, refused the sandwich-that-couldn't-be-refused, and Nate studied the impact their indignation had on Eliot. The hitter was tired after their attacks all day and talking, in pain that grew worse as night closed in, and he hid his hands under the blanket when they brought him the dinner. His patience seemed to be on its last reserves. Hardison's bitching about the sandwich forced him to put the mask on once, for the first time during the day. When Parker tried to push the sandwich into his face to smell it, he hissed a warning at her.

Perfect.

He needed him open, nervous and vulnerable, exhausted and without the usual defenses.

"Enough!" Nate didn't have to yell, he just raised his voice slightly, and the quarrel by the bed stopped immediately. He slowly folded the newspaper and threw it on the table. He went to the kitchen and took a bottle and glasses. "Go to the bar and drink something. Stay there until I come down."

"Why?" Parker said. "I won't. You'll yell at him."

"I wouldn't either." Hardison shot an uncertain glance to him. "What are you going to-"

"Get. Out. All of you," he slowly repeated. Sophie's eyebrows raised in warning when she passed by him, squeezing his forearm for a second. Hardison and Parker still hesitated, stood in front of the bed like a barrier.

He waited.

They waited.

He looked at them.

They sighed and slowly moved.

Hardison turned to Eliot. "Call me if he… anything. You know." He went after Parker who stormed out; the thief shooting a murderous glares.

Eliot was still looking at the door where they disappeared, when Nate moved the chair closer to the bed and sat.

Eliot's eyebrows were very high. "Did he just say I should call him, if you yell at me?"

"Yep, I'm afraid he did." Nate sighed and put his legs on the bed.

"Jesus." Eliot shook his head.

"Puppy hitter." He smirked and gave Eliot a glass with a few drops of Jack in it. The shaking of his hands was a little less visible; his mind was diverted from the dead for a moment. Yet, Nate could see shadows in his eyes were still present, though he tried to cover them.

"Are you sure Betsy would approve alcohol?"

"Eliot."

"She'll find out," he continued, and Nate wondered what sounds he was covering with the sound of his own voice. "She always finds out."

"Eliot. Shut up." He motioned to the empty room. "This is silence. Enjoy it while you can."

Nate stretched his legs and followed his own advice.

Eliot took one careful sip, and Nate hoped he didn't kill him with this. Though, fighting with demons usually demanded the whole bottle connected to the IV.

This silence was relaxing; the channels were turned down almost completely, and the quiet voices were only emphasizing the absence of voices in the room.

Eliot closed his eyes.

"That night when they attacked the hospital and Hardison went into the street with the gun…" Eliot said after a minute, "… you still have that gun, here?"

"I guess. And few more, in the bag from the van. Why?"

Eliot's eyes were still closed. "Would you bring it to me, now?"

Nate stayed silent for a second. Eliot was listening. Nate silently lowered his legs to the floor and stood up, listening as well. The TV voices weren't the only quiet noise in the room, there was something else… barely audible mechanical sounds that were coming from behind the sofa.

When he stood up, a little shadow disappeared. In the next moment, Parker2000 rolled over the lower part of the room at full speed, escaping to the main door like a huge green bug on six wheels. The door opened just enough for a hand to reach in and yank Parker2000 out of the room, and then shut again.

Nate glanced at Eliot. "You wouldn't shoot it, right?"

"Probably not. Hardison wouldn't stop whining for days." Eliot still didn't open his eyes. "Shots would alarm Bonnano's watch in the bar, ruin your floor, and the smell… gunpowder would stay for awhile."

Adding a very distinctive note of reality to his thoughts, Nate finished his sentence. "Yet, it's good to know they can still surprise me even after five years." He sighed, returning to the chair.

Five years. It took much less than five years to bond with one's buddies in war; danger and death made sure that those bonds were solid as steel. The team was not in a war, but their work brought dangers on a daily basis, and they lived by relying on each other. Only one slip, and someone could get hurt, or get killed.

And the other members of the team, slowly, not visibly, became more important than himself. Nate knew that, and he understood that, but nevertheless, he couldn't let that feeling become the guiding line for all of their actions.

He also knew that Eliot would be the first who would fall under that.

This time, when he glanced at the hitter, he met his eyes. Eliot watched him thinking. "What do you want, Nate?"

It was the wrong question. What he wanted to do had nothing to do with his being here. What he had to do was cut him open, knock him down to the ground and mercilessly twist every blade that had been stabbed into him.

Nate watched his face; the tension in the muscles around his eyes showed him much more than his paleness and the dark circles around them. They were near the end of a hard day. Eliot needed a rest, desperately.

"We have a problem that needs solving," he said lightly.

Eliot looked at him. "No shit," he said. "Just one?"

"One problem at a time. You said nothing about changing your decision, so we don't have a hitter. You quit. And I have to ask you the same question – what do you want, Eliot?"

An ironic, tired smile flew over his face, and Nate figured it out – it was the wrong question for him, too. Eliot knew what he wanted… and it had nothing to do with the things he had to do.

Careful, careful. He couldn't ask him why. It would be too fast. Exposing of all this shit at once would crush on him hard. The night that was hovering over all of them was too near and fresh. All of his reasons for quitting were real in his head, and breaking them, one by one, would demand a lot of evading.

"No matter what I think about it, your decisions are yours," Nate continued. "I presume you thought about it during those two days since you woke up. Have you found someone who can replace you?"

"I tried. No one is…" Eliot struggled with the right word, and failed. "Every one I thought of has… No. Just… There's no one available. For now."

"No one can love us like you do?" He offered with a glint.

Eliot scowled. "No one has enough patience to live with you the first two years. After that all the senses goes numb, and the rest is easy," he almost growled.

"Yes, you can say it that way, too." Nate stirred his drink, hiding a smile. It was a relief to hear that almost growl again, after all those polite and soft words. "But I can recall our troubles with you at the beginning – you weren't, exactly, the easiest person to work with – hell, to be in the same room with. We all came a long way. It was a nice five years."

Eliot shook his head in exasperation. "Jesus, Nate, if you start to remember the precious little moments that could make me feel all warm and soft, and make me change my mind, I'll really throw you out. Somehow."

"Precious little moments? Seriously?" He had to smirk, watching his jaw tighten. "Relax, I'm just probing. You know what I'm doing, I know that you know what I'm doing, you know that I know that you know… so just enjoy the ride. There will be enough time to ponder the prec-" He cleared his throat, pretending to flinch, and continued softly. "– memories. I meant to say memories. Later. When you visit us and we hang out."

"This is disgraceful." Eliot grimaced. "You sound like Soph- no, worse, you sound like Parker trying to sound like Sophie. What's wrong wi-" He stopped. "And why should I visit you and hang out with you after this… this?"

Because no one here is ditching you for what you have done and we want you here in the team; yep, sure, he could say that. Nate knew that this particular problem was already broached and shaken by their behavior – Eliot knew them well and he knew they were not pretending to be normal. "They'll miss you badly," he said simply. "Most of all, they won't understand your reasons. I can't say that I understand them, too." He didn't look at Eliot while he spoke, he watched his glass. "Do you understand them, Eliot?"

"The initial ones are not relevant anymore, I managed to sort a few things out in my head," he said quietly. "That night is over and most of them stayed in it, so you don't have to tiptoe around the hitter being needed and loved, okay? Jesus, Nate, do you really think that I'm doing this because of the feelings? Mine, yours, theirs? I have to go because I'm a mess, and I can't do my job - and because I'm dangerous. Is that clear enough?"

"No."

Eliot took one deeper breath and slowly exhaled. "Look-" He started. "I started this shit and it got out of control. I can't say with certainty that everything that I've done won't lead them all here after me, one by one, or all together. You all can still be killed because of me, do you understand that?"

"No." Nate took the remote from the table, pointed it at screens and pressed. "No, there's no one who can come here after you," he said softly.

The first screen showed CNN report about a state of emergency in Boston, with background recordings of the 75th Ranger Regiment on the streets.

"Patrick had told me that a gang war is the worst thing that can happen to a town, and I told him he's wrong. Gang wars are not easy to stop, too many things are involved. Corrupted politicians, policemen, city politics… gangs are spread in every niche, from lowest bottom to the top. Only don Lazzara holds one third of the town councilors in his hand, the rest of them are equally divided between the Chileans, the Irish, the Mexicans… and all of them would continue to fight with all their means. Boston itself would never be able to pull out every tentacle and clean everything, because Boston IS one giant cartel, Eliot."

He looked at Eliot – he was staring at the screens showing many men in suits being arrested in front of rifles. Nate went on, "When you're faced with the Gordian knot, cutting it is the only solution. Boston couldn't provide a sufficient force for that, so we engaged a higher authority. City politics are irrelevant when it comes to a terrorism threat. Hardison's phone could give you only a few pieces of information, not the whole picture."

Nate turned on the second screen, showing him the Army helicopters over Boston, and people in hazmat suits on the streets below them. And the barricades on the streets. "This is the whole picture."

Eliot took the Jack in one gulp, and Nate flinched. He didn't eat for days and he was on infusion, and… damn. He poured a few more drops in his glass.

"What have you – you now, this is insane."

"No, this is useful. When an anonymous call said that all the casinos in town are filled with viruses, the Department of Homeland Security suddenly discovered that the most of casino owners already had suspicious activities reported and noted before – Hardison planted documents with light accusations and unclear data – enough to divert their attention to possible organized crime with biological trafficking under the cover of gambling. All the casinos in town are closed for business and full of people in hazmat suits. And guess what, no one is killing anyone anymore, the huge gang war is completely forgotten. It will take a month at least to clear all the mess, to ensure that there are no viruses that can threaten anybody, that the accusations are not substantiated. The majority of those arrested will walk free, except those who were caught with something during the investigation. The heads of the gangs will be cleared of everything, I guess, because we couldn't find anything solid in this short a time, but they all already received the message. 'The next time, it won't be just one month out of business.' Only the heads of the gangs know about the message, and they'll keep it for themselves, trust me."

"Nate." Eliot turned to him, his eyes glazed. "Please, tell me you didn't sign that message as Nate Ford."

He thought for a second, remembering how fragile Eliot was now, and that there was no beeping that could warn him about his state.

Eliot didn't wait for his answer. He covered his eyes with a hand and sank into the pillows. "You're insane."

"You are not the one to tell me that. Everything worth fighting for-"

"-is worth fighting dirty for," Eliot finished, rubbing his forehead. "Yeah, I know. But you're still insane."

"Thank you. Coming from you, it's really a compliment." Nate smiled. "So, can we say that this particular reason for leaving the team is not relevant anymore?" Damn. It sounded almost as if he put Boston into a state of emergency just to ease the worries of his hitter… Well. He cleared his throat and continued. "We are now completely safe, okay? No gang ever will stand in our way, is that clear? No one would mess with the team who sent the Department of Defense after them, just as a warning."

Eliot's hand was still on his forehead. "It's time to check the windows. Look for bugs on the outer side of the glass."

"She left without any rope or harness, I don't think-"

Eliot shot him an irate look. "All her equipment is on your roof – she waited to see if Hardison would succeed with Parker2000, and after that Sophie was holding her for awhile with explanations about why she shouldn't go there – by now she should be climbing down near the kitchen. I usually check those things once a week. The chances of sabotage are enormous, and we can only hope that the Chileans didn't find them while they were here."

Nate went to check the kitchen window, but Parker was much quicker than they thought. She was hanging upside down and planting a bug on the window closest to them.

He opened the window and yanked her inside.

"Oh. Good evening, Nate. Good evening Eliot. Good evening George," she chirped. "I was just-"

"-passing by?" Nate finished and nudged her towards the door. She sent a smile to Eliot who returned it with a relaxed smile that sent the message he was fine, so the thief let Nate to push her out. He locked the door and returned to Eliot.

The oxygen mask was closer than it was before. Eliot probably used it while he was dealing with Parker, but his hands were steady for now.

"You know, Parker was the one who had a perfect grasp on the situation the entire time," Nate said when he sat again. "Everything she said to me was true. I should have listened to her more. Maybe this shit wouldn't be so nasty."

"You should've listened to me in the first place."

"If I had, you would be dead," he pointed out. "But, if you listened to me, we would be dead… so we could say that it's a pretty good outcome, considering everything." He looked at him, not sure how to read the darkening of his eyes. "This all started with two wrong decisions in that warehouse, and continued in the same tone for a long time… but we know, now, what was wrong. Do you have problems with that?"

"No. I told you I'm cool with your doings in the hospital or later, until you brought them all into Estrella – your attitude is the problem, Nate. You put four lives in danger, repeatedly, to save one."

"And problem with that is…?" he softly asked. He could sense rage starting to boil inside Eliot, when he slowly inhaled.

"You were against the gang, without a hitter," Eliot patiently explained. "I was doing my job. I knew what I was doing, and what I wanted, and I knew how. I did it before. Yes, I would probably end up dead, but that's the usual risk, nothing unexpected. You, on the other hand, were in the middle of something that you shouldn't even touch, or get close to-"

"We are alive," he said. "And you would be much better if that night was something that we did together."

"Of course," Eliot's smile was thin and cold. "I could bring Hardison to Marco's Tavern with me, to enjoy seeing Rojas's brain on the floor. I should've certainly taken Sophie into that slam when I was chased for an hour by forty Chileans. She would fit in perfectly. And having Parker near while killing Barclay would be just great – it was too simple, her presence would add a little drama and increase my chances, right?" He ran his left hand through his hair. The right was holding the glass, and tremors run through his fingers. "If any of you were with me, it would be a slaughter. I knew what I was doing, Nate, and I knew I had to do it alone. That kind of danger was not for you."

"That is one thing you don't understand," he leaned forward, erasing his smile. "They would rather go through all of that, with you, than to be forced to chase you all around, not knowing if you're alive or dead. 'Cause that is what the team is all about, Eliot. The team. Five members, five people. You tried to save the team by destroying the essence of it, the true meaning of it. You took away their right to choose. That is something they'll hardly forgive you for."

"Forgiveness is something I've left behind a long time ago. That word has no power anymore." His smile was pained, and for a moment weariness etched deeper in his face. "I did what I had to do, and I had to do it alone. I'm the hitter, and that was a job for the hitter, not for the hacker, or the thief, or… I knew the risk and I took it – hitters are expendable."

"So, Parker is not Parker, she's just the thief, if you're only the hitter. We are not people, we are our jobs, our roles in the team, we are what we do? Is that what you're trying to say? Or that it applies only to you, Eliot?" Nate didn't pause, but his voice hardened. "You check Parker's harnesses once a week because we need a thief in the team, and getting the new one if she gets killed would be a nuisance? Of course not. She is precious. She is Parker, who happens to also be a thief. For you, we all are… yours. How dare you ask us to see you only as a hitter? You're not something with a sign 'Use in a case of emergency', you idiot. This shit was a team problem. We were in it together, and you had the right to decide what to do with the hitter… but you had no right to decide what to do with Eliot." He gave him a few seconds of silence, and finished his drink with one gulp. "Eliot is ours," he went on. "And he is occasionally the hitter. We can go on without the hitter part – but not without everything else."

Eliot didn't move, and his face kept the same expression he had before Nate said anything, as if the last minute had been filled with only comfortable silence. Nate vented an exasperated sigh, searching his face, trying to find something, anything in it.

"So." Eliot's voice was light. Someone else could easily be fooled by it. "You were sayin' something about risking four lives for one, right? Or four roles for one life? Or members for a role? You've lost me a little there." He looked at him, slowly turning his head, the move only showing the amount of anger he had to control. "The four of you were deep into the hitter business that night, going after, and running into guys with guns… but somehow I missed who made the hitter's decisions, and with what experience. If I recall correctly, when Parker the member loaned Parker the thief to Archie to crack the Steranko, the four of us didn't transform into four thieves to get her out. We did our jobs, with the thief doing hers, right?" He paused, catching his breath. "Yes, we have a problem, you were right. Without trusting the judgment of a professional, everything will fall apart, and you're aware of that. What'll it be the next time, when Hardison decides he has to hack something without us? What the hell are we supposed-"

"Eliot," Nate stopped him softly. "There'll be no next time. You resigned."

Silence stretched between them, short but heavy. Nate had no intentions of letting it stretch too long, to allow any relaxation. "Did you want to die that night, Eliot?" he asked when Eliot's eyes dropped to the blanket. "It's important."

"Why is it important?" Eliot sounded uncertain for a moment.

"Because I'll have to ask you about one thing that I'll never be able to forgive you for. After you answer this."

Eliot paused, gaze still fixed downwards. "I tried not to die. A few times I wished I was dead already – usually before the tiresome getting up and continuing. A few times I thought that being dead would spare me from all the shit that waited for me after…" he stopped, checked the last sip of whiskey in his glass, and left it there. "After Barclay, at dawn, I was sure I wouldn't make it – he did a pretty good job before I killed him. But no, I didn't want to die. I was not trying to commit suicide, if that's what you're asking."

"Yes, Barclay…" Nate said lightly. "After that you used a chest tube to decrease the pressure a little, right?"

"Not much – I had to balance the blood loss and the pressure. The law of communicating vessels; with my lungs full of blood, bleeding would be slower and-" Eliot finally noticed his tone. He raised his head, looking at him. "Why?"

Nate took a long breath and leaned forward. "If you didn't want to die, why didn't you do the same thing in that corridor at the end, when you couldn't breathe?"

Eliot stared at him, completely frozen.

"I didn't know about the chest tube," Nate continued. "If I was alone, if Hardison hadn't come and found out, you would be dead in less than a minute."

Eliot managed to blink, finally. "I… I didn't remember that…option," he whispered. Nate was searching for a lie in his eyes, but it wasn't there. He really had forgot about that.

"Okay," Nate nodded. "I understand that."

Eliot blinked once more, getting it together. "And that was the unforgivable thing?" he asked. He looked tired, more and more so with each turn in the conversation. Nate really hoped that Betsy wouldn't find out about this.

"No, not that. The warehouse."

Eliot sighed. "What about the warehouse? That I didn't tell you I was shot? I didn't do it without reason, Nate, I calcul-"

"Now that you mention it, yes, I was pissed because of that. Mad, in fact. Just try to imagine one of us in that position, and how would you feel if we didn't tell you we were shot, and we made you leave us."

Eliot's smile grew thin and empty. "You bastard." His restrained whisper was barely heard. "How dare you lecture me about the same shit you put us through on the Maltese Falcon? When, if I recall correctly, you were shot, and you made us leave you without telling us?"

Now it was Nate's turn to freeze – he did forget about that. He forced himself to meet his eyes without wincing. "What happened to your earbud, Eliot?" he whispered.

"Smashed," he said, indignation creeping in his voice. "That was the one of the first things I told you when I called you."

"Yes, I know it was smashed. But you keep forgetting about the cameras. I was the only one who saw that it was smashed by your foot, and not a Chilean." Nate noted the subtle change in his posture; the tension increased without any visible sign. "And that is the only unforgivable thing that you did." He put his glass on the table and took a sip directly from the bottle, resting his back in the chair. "It wasn't smashed in the fight with them. You pulled it out and destroyed it only a second after the bullet hit you." He continued in an even, explanatory tone, trying to suppress the rage that thinking about this woke up. "You had no idea who those guys were. You found out about the Chileans and the set up for us when you talked to them shortly after that. They could have been anybody – robbers, bounty hunters, sent only after you, being no threat to us. And you destroyed, without thinking, the direct communication with the team, because that earbud could lead them to us if they killed you."

"I had a phone. And I called for help, remember?"

"When you started to think. I don't question your thinking, Eliot – your instinctive reactions are what trouble me. And as if destroying of the earbud wasn't enough, you sent your tracking device away with Cuchillo… one more thing that could help us find you in time." He looked him directly in the eyes. "What if you discovered that your phone was smashed in the fight?"

"I wasn't thinkin-" he stopped and bit his lip.

"Exactly. You wasn't thinking, you acted. The hitter who doesn't protect himself before he goes on protecting someone else, is of no use. He is a liability, and can not be trusted." Nate forced his voice into a slightly softer tone. "When I mentioned the five years that we spent together, at the beginning, I wanted to tell you about the problem that I'm aware of. All this bonding and family shit did something to us – the others became more important than ourselves. That keeps us together and alive. And at the same time, that will get us all killed." He let a little wry smile to show on his face, and continued. "Somewhere in between that two, are our future actions. With being aware of the problem, that problem can be controlled. Not solved, just… kept under control."

Eliot rubbed his forehead wearily with the back of his hand, not looking at him. Nate gave him that time. His hands were shaking visibly; there was no way he could hide it. His anxiety grew with almost every second now, reminding Nate of his deranged reaction when he realized on the Estrella's terrace that Nate wasn't alone. Only this time there was no vent for it; he was forced to stay immobile.

And Nate had no intention to ease that tension – he was trying to find a way to increase it. He shifted his attention from Eliot's hands to his eyes, noted the return of that damn tormented edge, and ignored his own sorrow with a smile.

He put his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, swinging the bottle in his fingers. "We need you in the team," he said carefully. "Not the hitter. You. Doing whatever you want to do. Is that clear?"

He knew what he was going to see, but he thought Eliot was too exhausted to gather enough strength. He was wrong. The hitter slowly put both of his hands around the glass, relaxing his muscles with an effort that must have cost him a lot more than anyone would ever know, and tilted his head to look at him. With tired, tired eyes that once more managed to keep everything hidden. "Thank you, Nate," he said politely. "Unfortunately, it won't be possible."

The things that they wanted, and the things that they had to do… Damn, Nate knew he wouldn't allow Eliot to evade the biggest problem now. He had to destroy this sudden calmness – it was just a mask, there was nothing calm in Eliot right now – and he had no time to waste.

"We all trust you with our lives. Why are you the only one who doesn't?"

That question was so obviously giving an answer in itself that Eliot raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"Why don't you trust us, if you don't trust yourself? I know what you are," Nate' voice was hard and hoarse. "And they know, now, what you are, Eliot. And they still trust you."

Jesus, he felt his mask ripping.

The sudden anger that flashed through Eliot's eyes couldn't be hidden.

"You know nothing," he forced the words to come out. "Don't you dare say you know what I am – you fools are in denial. You –" He choked on the anger and straightened himself up. "I wanted to kill you on that terrace – I could kill you, and I can do it now – 'cause I don't feel it would be wrong. Do you understand that?! I can kill you now and feel nothing about it! I started to feel… something, only when I stopped killing, and for a long time I managed to keep that, that… sense of wrongness. It's gone now. That's what I do, what I really do."

"So, you're a killer then," he said with an almost cheerful note of revelation that forced a low, mad growl from the hitter.

Nate got up and grabbed the bed, turning it sideways. Eliot's legs were towards the table now, and his back to the kitchen. And the door. Instant alarm went through his body and eyes, and the glass in his hands gave a cracking sound.

"What are you doing?" he whispered, trying to turn around, almost knocking himself out when the pain from the violent jerk bent him forward. "Turn it back!"

"No way." Nate left the bottle on the table and threw away the chair, smashing it into the wall with a loud sound that went through Eliot like a bolt of electricity. "I should have done this in that office, to show you what you really are, but there would always be a doubt about it – you were in shock and dying. Now you're not and your mind, what is left of that pitiful piece of shit, is clear now." He came one step closer. "Your back is unprotected, you don't control the door and the windows anymore. How does it feel?"

"For god's sake, Nate, you really think this will show me something? I've been through shit like this before, and trust me, in front of men who knew what they were doing. You don't. S-stop jumping and turn the damn bed!"

"You're afraid of losing the control and killing us, right? As far as I can see, you're doing just fine. So, what is the problem, then? Except you're still deeply upset by everything that happen-"

"Deeply upset?!" Eliot choked on the words. The shaking crept up to his shoulders. "I've killed four men with my hands. Two with a gun – felt nothing. I killed Barclay with a scalpel. Nothing. Thought about how it was good he didn't smash the phones when he fell. I thought of killing you – nothing." He drew a deep breath, winced again with pain, but went on. "That is a thing that maybe can be changed, if I tried again – if somehow all of this… I-I've done it before. Getting up from this. There's a chance for it. Maybe. With time," he shook his head, desperately. "But when I black out, I kill, it's instinct, it can't be stopped, it can't be controlled, it can't-" his voice gave out and he blindly searched for the mask on the blanket, putting it on his face.

"If you can't feel that killing me is wrong, why don't you do it, just like that? Why am I still alive?!" Nate pushed the bed to slam into the shelf and followed it, with raged, quick moves. He leaned against the bed with both hands, entering his personal space – yes, he did ask himself for a second if he had lost his mind – but he knew he could trust him. His words weren't empty. "If you kill, if it's instinct, why are you not killing me? Every damn instinct in your body should be screaming right now – but you are controlling it. What do I have to do to put you into a mindless rage, to force you to snap completely, to show you that you can't kill me, or them, not anybody else, unless you want it!?" With those last words he swung his hand as fast as he could, aiming a blow at his face, but Eliot raised his left hand in an almost casual manner and blocked his hit, still staring at him in utter distress. "If this was an instinct – and it was," Nate whispered, still holding his hand in the air. "Why am I alive?"

He lowered his hand when no answer came, and slowly took the glass from Eliot's right hand, cracked into three large pieces.

Eliot took off the mask; plastic was distorted too. "I can't remember killing Cuchillo, Nate. Everything was black." This time, the words were defeated, without that urge that left him breathless, barely audible. "If I can't trust myself, to not to do that again… no amount of your trust can make this work. I won't allow it. I won't take that risk. You shouldn't allow it. How… how you can send Sophie with me somewhere? Waiting, not just you, everybody… waiting to see what I would do if I black out again? If something knocked me out, and she tried to wake me up?" He closed his eyes and bowed his head; his strength was spent, his voice barely a whisper.

Nate sat on the bed and put both hands on his shoulders, forcing him to look at him. The deep weariness in the hitter's eyes showed him they didn't have much time – he tried not to think about Betsy's warnings about ten minute conversations and not disturbing him.

"I understand why you are afraid," he said quietly. "You don't know how thin the glaze that you put over the monster is – when it cracks, as it happened with Cuchillo, you kill. And you know you're a killer in the core because of that, right?"

"Yeah, somethin' like that," he replied tiredly.

"Do you want to know what you did to him? I was there, remember?" He waited then continued. "Well, it was the most gruesome thing I've seen in ages. You slapped him so hard that he flew two meters."

Yep, Betsy would bitch him out for years for this – it took almost five seconds until Eliot blinked and looked at him more focused. "You didn't kill him," he explained. "I saw your assessment in three quick glances while you were approaching. Just a slap across his already broken face was enough to send him to the floor unconscious. So, Eliot, if you didn't kill the man with the knife, the guy who shot you and who was attacking me, while in shock and driven only by fucking instincts, why should we expect you to kill anybody else? Or us? We are not that annoying."

He felt something inside Eliot going perfectly still. But he wasn't finished. He tightened the grip on his shoulders, not letting him avert his eyes from him.

"Every time you think of that night, your hands start to shake," Nate continued. "Maybe you felt nothing while killing those men - because you were in shock, and dying, perhaps? You keep forgetting what state you were in, and you still are. But why do your hands shake now? You can't fool us, you never could. You're trying to survive what you have done, for god's sake!" He looked at him more closely. "Are you succeeding?" he asked seriously.

"It will… take time. To tell," Eliot whispered. "About surviving this."

"You did it before," he said gently, trying to pour the confidence back into his eyes. "You went down with Moreau's men, and you got up. And continued. You'll do it again. In the end, it's only that… striving, that's important, not the results. Not the falls, just the getting up. This is not different…" he trailed off, watching the sudden flicker of agony in Eliot's eyes, hidden in a second. His voice flattened. "This is different. What?"

"The difference –" Eliot's voice was now wavering dangerously. "Moreau's men – a clean fight against the odds, against the men that were sent to kill us. They knew what they were going to do, and they knew the risk, they accepted it. It was… hard. Killing again, after everything I've done to stop it, to change…. But yes, I got up. And continued. Started from the beginning, all that tiresome non – killing shit." He struggled for better control of his face, of his words, but it was too much for him; the agony showed clearer with every word. "What I've done now, it is different. This time I didn't have armed men ready to attack, this time I did-" his voice cracked and he gritted his teeth, just looking at him. He couldn't say it.

He didn't have to. Realization hit Nate like a blow in the gut and for some seconds he remained still, shocked into frozen immobility. Oh fuck. All the people that died that night weren't a threat. They were used; he used them and sent them to their deaths. No one could call them innocent, but they weren't involved into this Chilean thing until Eliot pushed them all into it; to their deaths. Eliotwould call them innocent.

Can you imagine what I would do if I could do all that I can? He remembered the message on the butterfly that Eliot had left in their office; yes, that was a warning.

And Nate knew this talk was over. He could tear him apart, cut his heart in half and glue it together – Eliot would let him do it. He trusted him. They could talk freely about the men he killed with his own hands. But the men whose death he caused – they were forbidden. They were locked behind those eyes that were looking at him begging him to understand, and to leave it alone. Much worse, he was begging to leave him alone with them – and he had to do it.

Sophie was right; if they let him leave, he would be dead in two weeks. Some burdens couldn't be carried alone, getting heavier and heavier until the spine just broke and everything became unbearable.

Nate carefully released his grip, letting him slowly fall back on the pillows. He hoisted himself up, and returned the bed to its previous position.

Eliot's eyes were drained, and he barely managed to lift them to him when he returned and sat again. Nate met his eyes as calmly as he could. "Betsy… she doesn't need to know what I did," he said quietly.

Eliot uttered a breathless huff of laughter at that memory. "I don't know what you are talking about," he whispered the correct reply.

Oh yes, Nate knew he would remember those words.

"The difference between a killer, and a man who knows how to kill if necessary, is here," he touched the hitter's chest with his finger. "And difference between the past, and the future, is here," he pointed at his forehead. "In the future, you might kill again if needed. You know that. And you're aware that it would be for us – again. I don't know how many times you can rebuild yourself from pieces without breaking completely… but dammit, you will have someone who will go after you and pick up the pieces that you've forgot, and shove them back into place. Just like you done for us this whole time." He pinned him with his eyes and held him there. "Your resignation is declined, Eliot Spencer."

.

.

.

Nate sat by his bed for two hours, holding one hand on his arm, keeping him still although his sleep wasn't restless. Keeping him there. No, worse… keeping the pieces together that he scattered all over the place, and just hoping that Eliot would be able to glue them all together in the right order, in their places. With time. There was always a chance that the creature that would emerge from those scrapes be abominated, wrong. Destroyed.

Butterflies also carried the souls of dead warriors, he remembered Parker's explanation. They had one warrior who had sold his soul for them, but that particular one bargained his deal, saddled up the devil and rode him, and he was not yet letting him turn around and strike back.

Yet, his strength was fading fast. When the devil turned around, he would have to find four more to deal with.

Nate knew the three of them must be half crazy already, sitting in the bar and waiting, but he couldn't care about it now.

He also knew that after this talk, no light conversation could stop the shaking of Eliot's hands. The wounds were raw and open now. It would be much worse before it started to get better. He had been through it. He knew how it went, every damn step of it. Eliot Spencer wasn't a man who would eat a bullet, but breaking points were hard to determine. Even the strongest ones had a point of no return. He was still thinking about surviving this, and that was the involuntary slip of the tongue that Nate noticed and remembered.

Conscience was a strange thing; it could tear apart hearts and minds, but its presence gave hope as much as it tormented – yet, Nate knew that the worst burden laid on Eliot's back was not the pain and guilt. No, it was knowing that he would do it again, without a second thought. And that was making him a monster in his own eyes, not the number of dead.

It would be easier if Eliot was healthy, if they were occupied with some job that could give him a chance to vent and divert himself for awhile. Having been immobile, pinned to the bed, and left completely to his thoughts, with all of them as a constant reminder of everything - that made the situation much worse. Nate knew very well the exact moment when the thoughts became unbearable, when the pain and guilt rose to the point of screaming madness that couldn't be stopped. He had alcohol to kill the thoughts and stop them, to erase them completely into oblivion. Eliot had nothing. And the devil was trying to turn around and bite.

He forced himself to leave him alone, and went to the bar. Three frightened and sulking people waited at the table - and pissed off, too, even Sophie. And they knew him so well, that reading his exhaustion gave them all the answers they needed.

He sat at the table and rubbed the back of his neck, chasing the headache away, and failing utterly. "If we want to keep him…" alive, he almost said, but changed his mind. "with us," he said at last. "We have to do something to fill all these days in front of us. It's not enough to keep him occupied – we have to make him busy. We have to make him do something."

"I don't know what to do," Sophie said. "The last time we talked he had half of his brain occupied with… something else. It was impossible, even for me, to involve him completely."

"Watching TV and movies is of no use," Hardison said. "No matter what we're watching, he will shut down after awhile and his mind will just go away."

Morose silence spread over the table; Parker was absently playing with pretzels.

"You really thought the 'Stealing an Eliot Job' was finished when we got him into Lucille?" Nate asked quietly. "That was just obtaining of all the necessary ingredients."

Three pairs of eyes were looking at him, waiting.

He sighed. "Do you know what all four of you have in common?"

"Except brilliance?" Hardison grinned, but it was a weak try.

"Do you know what made you the best in the world?" he continued. "And what the bait was that I used to hunt you down?"

"Do we want to know?" Sophie frowned.

"You can't resist a challenge." He smiled tiredly. "Only something impossible is worth doing. A man who can't be tricked, a safe that cannot be broken into, a system that cannot be hacked, and item that cannot be retrieved… all four of you have that strive for… being better. If something wakes your curiosity, you're done. And you can't resist a good battle."

Sophie shook her head desperately. "Nate, he is in a bed. What challenge-"

"He needs a distraction from… everything," he said. "And he needs it fast. As in now. We have to occupy his brain, not his body."

"With what?"

"By attacking something that he will have to defend."

"What?" Hardison squinted. "Not again against him! You saw where it led us? Besides, what the hell he can defend from us, and why? You make no sense."

"Not to mention he'll know we are up to something," Sophie finished.

"That's the point. That is the challenge. He'll know we are doing something, and if we are lucky, he won't be able to resist the play. Curiosity, people. A wish to see what will happen."

"And what we are attacking?" Parker's eyes narrowed.

He pushed the bowl of pretzels to the middle of the table.

"Food," he said.

.

.

.

It was much worse now.

Eliot slept fourteen hours and Betsy had to wake him up to change his bandages when she came the next morning, and Nate felt her suspicion when he just fell back to sleep when she was done. She said nothing, though, but gave him further restrictions about talking and disturbing.

When Eliot woke up, later, they were all acting like they did the previous day. He talked with them, smiled, and even watched The Sound of Music with Sophie, much to Hardison's dismay – but, every time they left him alone, he did nothing. The phone lay forgotten on the table. Nate couldn't say Eliot was staring at nothing, because he wasn't. Eliot just stared in front of himself, with the blanket covering him almost to the neck, hiding his hands.

It wasn't a withdrawal like the past days. He was there, and present, but it was painful to watch him now, knowing what he was thinking about, and what he fought behind those steady and normal features. He was very careful not to show anything to Parker and Hardison, or to reveal something before Sophie.

His normality was too normal. It was the same when he was silent, and when he talked to them and even joked, and Nate knew that now, after all that was said, there was no border between his thinking about that night, and silencing those thoughts. They were constant now, throbbing in his head without pause, coloring everything. Eliot rested, and slept, but the deep weariness in his eyes still had that tormented glaze, no matter if he smiled at Parker, or if he drifted to sleep.

The worst sign was the change in his waking up. No more slow, confused focusing. His eyes would open in a second, alert and awake. The gunshots were his alarm clock. Or the screams.

They waited with their plan until Eliot agreed to eat some Chinese, to knock out his possible future arguments about eating in general, and when he managed to eat few bites of Kung Pao, everything was set up and ready to roll.

When he fell asleep shortly after that, they all silently sneaked out and went to the bar to start things up. Sophie and Parker went through the last details of the plan. For the two of them, as it showed, this particular job brought much more stress than any grifting or danger – they weren't in their field and the preparations looked as complicated as landing on Iwo Jima.

Nate really tried not to show his impatience.

"Fuck!" Hardison's hiss stopped a quarrel about temperatures and boiling. He stared at his phone. "Fuck fuck fuck fuck." The hacker jumped on his feet and left the bar without any explanation. They could only follow him upstairs as fast as they could.

The bed was empty.

Parker2000, innocently placed on the shelf, clearly was connected to the hacker's phone. "I've put motion sensors on the door and windows, he couldn't pass by-" Hardison broke off when they saw Eliot standing at the bathroom door. He was dressed in Nate's pajamas trousers, and his hair was wrapped in a towel.

All four of them reached for their phones at the same time, even Parker, but he raised his right hand and stopped them. "Don't even think about calling her."

Hardison eyed the distance between him and bed. "Ten bucks he won't make it without help."

Sophie grinned. "Twenty."

"You're giving money for that bet?" Parker sounded aghast. "I'm in. Thirty. Sparky, win me some money."

"Who said I'm going to the bed?" Eliot's voice was a whisper; he didn't move from the door, clutching the frame to keep himself upright. Nate realized that the sofa was much nearer. If they let him change beds, they would never be able to force him back into the hospital one. Give him a finger, and he won't take the whole hand, he'll break your arm and dislocate your shoulder as a bonus.

"A hundred that he'll need only two seconds to get to the bed," Nate said coming closer.

"No way, man, he might stand, but he ain't able to fly, the last time I checked."

Eliot hissed. "He is here. Able to talk." Though, the clenching of his teeth was unmistakable now. Nate gave him no more than ten seconds before his hand gave way, the only thing that kept him upright. For a second he thought about letting him eat the carpet, but he doubted it would knock any sense into him, he'd just try again – and Betsy's wrath would be biblical.

Nate grabbed the bed and pushed it those few meters until it almost touched Eliot's hand. He carefully swung it, blocking his way to the sofa. There was no way the hitter could go around the bed without falling, and he took a few seconds, cherishing the sight of Eliot Spencer cornered, pissed off, and forced to obey.

"Adorable." He smirked, and nudged him with the bed. "Now, get in, or I will call Betsy."

It was almost the last moment, he calculated correctly; Eliot had one second between letting go of the door frame, and reaching with his hand to the railings of the bed - one second that spent all of his strength. His falling almost looked like sitting. When he leaned into the pillows, moving away the blanket with disdain, he closed his eyes and sighed.

"See? Two seconds. I won. If I was you," he said in a lower whisper. "I would pray that Parker doesn't realize this thing can be driven all over the room."

"You, my man, are a damn idiot." Hardison shook his head while helping him roll the bed to the table again, but Eliot just smiled and closed his eyes again, so they let him be without the bitching.

Sophie went to the bed a few minutes later, and just silently put a finger across her mouth, and smiled. He fell asleep maybe even before they secured the bed in its place.

"According to Betsy, we are cool the next two days, while he recovers from this," Hardison whispered.

"Cooking time." Parker grinned.

.

.

The first phase of their attack was dividing into two good and two bad cops, roles that needed to be changed after every meal. The second was waking Eliot up – they gave him two hours and then Parker burned the onions. The odor stirred him faster than the gunshots would. Okay, maybe not, Nate added to himself.

Sophie went as a distraction with a hair dryer. "Good morning, Eliot. Good morning, George."

"You don't have to tell us good morning every time I wake up." Eliot let out one low growl. "And don't come near me with that thing, it damages-"

"No sleeping with wet hair, ever again." She turned it on and got down to business, efficiently silencing his pissed off objections with the roaring noise. It happened that those objections were his explanations about the effects that the drying had on his hair, and why it should be left to dry naturally, because it took only two minutes before it was dry. And fluffy. And almost completely curled.

"Oops." That was only thing Sophie could say without bursting into laughter, and Nate and Hardison had the very demanding task of staying serious. Eliot's lips were a tight line. Sophie tapped him on his head, lightly, but there was no chance to lessen the curls. She quickly gave him an elastic to put the hair into a ponytail, before Parker, still busy in the kitchen, came and saw him. He shot her a murderous glare, for good measure.

"And now…" Sophie snapped her fingers, the cue for Parker to come with a giant bowl. "We made you lunch. We. Together, two of us. No more ordering the food – Betsy agreed, in case you wondered. From now on, you eat only home-cooked meals."

Nate watcher her – her eyes were laced with pure innocence – there was no chance that Eliot wouldn't flinch seeing that. He indeed eyed her very cautiously, with narrowed eyes, but Parker's grin occupied his attention at once.

The thief came closer and put the bowl in his lap, grinning as insanely as she ever did.

Eliot then looked at the two of them at the table, and they both shrugged helplessly. Hardison shook his head in sorrowful support.

Eliot sighed and concentrated on the bowl.

"Sophie, what are those… things… floating in this bowl of-" he took a closer look and added after a few seconds of examination. "… soup?"

Sophie peeked into the bowl. "Chicken soup, Eliot. You should recognize it at first glance. Mushroom, paprika and… Parker, what is this brown thing?"

"Have no idea, you put the brown things in it."

"Did not. Brown is not the real color."

"Let's call it extremely an brown mushroom, okay?"

"In chicken soup?" Eliot said still looking down into the bowl.

Parker raised her hand. "I made noodles," she said proudly. "I tried to shape them like little heads, but they kinda overcooked with the rest of things. I tried to preserve it with pumpkin oil, but it didn't work." Parker perched herself on the bed, took the spoon and stirred the soup. Even from the table, Nate could see something greasy looking falling down slowly. "Look, here's sliced red cabbage. Sophie said the colors are important, and that was the closest thing we could find to blue and purple. Google said it's nutritious."

"Google," Eliot repeated and slowly raised his head. Nate followed his glances – a quick one towards the door, a longer one to the windows. Checking the escape routes, not so routine this time. However, he couldn't blame him at all; those two were crowding around him, waiting for him to eat, and even from this distance he could see his eyes starting to glaze completely while he discovered more suspicious ingredients.

"Actually, we ran out of chicken more than seven days ago," Nate said, turning the newspaper.

"What?" Sophie turned to him. "We found some in your freezer."

"I have no idea what you found, but it definitely wasn't the chicken. And we'll need the chicken, and more vegetables, and not to forget the healthy spices. You two should go and see that we have everything needed. I- I'm not sure what to buy."

"Men." Sophie sighed, and turned to Eliot again. "You. Eat it. It's not perfect, but we'll get better with practice, we'll cook every day. And don't get unnerved by those… what do you call those things that you used… Indian… walnuts? That you used with the eggs and beans?"

His eyes widened in horror. "I've never combined-"

"Never mind. Just eat it, it's full of B vitamins, we checked," she smiled at him gently before leaving him, grabbing her purse and jacket. "Come on, Parker, you'll help me choose the yellow things, I'm not fond of yellow food. Tomorrow we shall try something that's based on A and C vitamins, but salty – that will be a real challenge, to balance the C vitamin and salt with…"

Her voice trailed off as they left, closing the door behind them.

"Hardison?" Nate said to the other good cop.

"I ordered a pizza and delivery is on the way already, but we'll have to eat very quickly."

Nate looked at Eliot who carefully touched something in the bowl, and almost dropped the spoon when the thing turned on the surface revealing something that made him hold out his hand as far as he could.

"Flush it?" Hardison quickly came to the rescue and took a bowl from him, avoiding to peek into it.

"No, bury it in the backyard and pour cement on it," Eliot whispered. "I swear something moved in the depths of that bowl."

Hardison shook his head. "I'll have to ask Betsy if she mixed some morphine in that IV, man."

"Yeah? Okay, you eat it then. It moved, Hardison."

"Right, the return of the Chicken Kraken King, part two, The revenge of the cut-off tentacle. Seriously, man, what's wrong with you?"

"I saw a tiny leg," Eliot murmured.

"Chicken have legs, it walks on them, and we eat them. Nate, did you allow him to drink Jack again?"

"It had toes, Hardison."

"Nate!"

"Wriggling toes."

"Jesus."

Hardison went back to the table, and at the moment he turned away, Eliot's face lost its smile. He bit his lip, looking somewhere in front of him, and Nate just watched and waited.

Nate didn't tell them that there was a strong possibility Eliot would reject this play: he didn't want to drown their spirits. The hitter might not have been in the right state of mind for accepting any challenges.

He didn't tell them, either, that no little game could kill the demons, nor help in that battle.

This was useful only because of one thing: it would tell him if Eliot wanted to pull himself from that swamp that held him, and if he was able to fight against it. More importantly, would he accept their help with it. After all, food as the target of their attack wasn't important at all, they could do anything else; it was important that Eliot saw they were doing something, that they were striving… and Nate knew him. If he accepted their play, probably not wanting it at all, he'd answer their challenge because of their effort. He would do that for them – like he always did.

So he sat, watched him, and waited, trying not to expect anything.

It took ten minutes before Eliot raised his eyes from the blanket he was studiously watching, and looked at him. And a tired smile flew over his face for a second. Nate was careful not to show any relief that he felt.

"Nate," he said quietly. "I'll need a few things."

He nodded to the table. "The first drawer."

Eliot shot him a cautious look and opened the drawer, pulling out a mirror, some paper and a pen. He stayed still for a few seconds, staring at the things, then looked at him again.

No, Eliot didn't have to say anything – the time for words for the two of them passed. They didn't need them anymore. Nate just leaned back in the chair, watching Eliot who leaned back in the pillows.

Then he saw it; a barely visible, amused glint in his eyes, when he politely nodded in acknowledgment.

Eliot slowly sat up and reached under the mattress, pulling out a scalpel. Nate just raised his eyebrows, thinking how Betsy naively fell for the decoys under the pillow, when Eliot opened the lowest drawer and took a bottle of beer from it, opening it with the scalpel. What the hell… He never had any beer in his table.

Yep, that glint in his eyes was definitely a challenge, and Nate smiled, raising his glass.

This would be a very interesting few weeks, he said to himself, watching the first evil grin on Eliot's face since this shit started, when he raised his bottle in salute.

His hands were still shaking, but somehow, Nate knew that in that moment it became just another enemy that had to be beaten, just one more fight that would be won, it would end.

After all, only the enemy that Eliot really fought, was Eliot Spencer. The four of them could distract the devil while Eliot was busy with the real fight, the real opponent.

And their Eliot was a winner.

.

.

.

Eliot took the papers and the pen but stopped before writing, surprised by something familiar. Yep, that was definitely an annoyance, familiar, old, known, feeling that was a sign and reminder of better times. Idiots. He was obviously condemned to deal with those wackos for the rest of his life – cosmic justice of some weird, sadistic kind. Yet, he brought it upon himself. It was exclusively his fault. He ignored all the warnings at the beginning, when there was a chance to just leave, before they crawled under his skin, before he started to care - and then it was too late.

The heart was supposed to be a muscle that pumped blood, nothing more and nothing less, and it worked that way until they stole it, stabbed at it, put it in the microwave and returned it as something that was tuned to them. And with the life of its own.

He really hoped he would survive their saving him. Not that he could be saved; nope, he would just prolong those years that they gave to him, and he would try to make them worthy of… something.

Worthy of them. Ruthless criminal scum.

Some gifts could be repaid only by taking them.

And some required a Facebook account, Jesus. How, how he was supposed to do that without Hardison finding out? He had no idea what that thing was, for crying out loud, which meant he would have to use his phone to Google it, and Hardison would find his search and get curious and… Jesus.

He put away the paper and rubbed his face trying to ebb away the headache. Tomorrow, when he tried to stand up again, he would definitely shave, no matter that his hands couldn't hold the damn razor steady; tilting blades were a disturbing sight in the mirror. Well, disturbing things were nothing new in his life, right? It took only that, just the memory of looking at his own eyes in the mirror, to cut off his breathing again, and leave him lost inside the darkness that engulfed everything. Everything except the cold touch of the scalpel that was ready to be thrown, and smell of a damp back street. And fear.

"To keep walking," he heard himself say, and blinked, returning to present.

Sophie stood in front of him, and he could swear she was nowhere near during past two seconds. Yeah, right, two seconds…"What?" he asked, trying to look normal, just slightly absent.

"Oh, nothing." The grifter smiled. "I just asked you what your suggestion was for someone who walked into Hell." Her smile widened to that brilliant, warm flash that couldn't be left without the same answer. "Totally unrelated to anything, of course, it just came to my mind. Though, I like your answer." Damn you, Soph, he had to smile back. "Are you ready for supper? Hardison prepared something that he called 'The Orkish delight with a touch of Mazarbul scent'. It looks… dark."

She shot him one more brilliant smile, turned on her heel and went back to the kitchen, leaving after her the scent of her perfume, much, much stronger than she used it usually. He doubted that even the real gunpowder could cover it, and smiled again.

They were taking no prisoners, and playing their game was the only way to survive it - for Christ's sake, a vitamin based menu - but he couldn't erase the grin he felt on his face, just like he couldn't get rid of the warmth melting sharp, icy blades stabbed in his heart.

He sighed, took the paper again, and wrote the heading.

APARTMENT 2a – A SURVIVAL GUIDE (or how to, again, kill your own team (idiots) in ten easy steps, this time studiously, brutally and willing to do it.)

He had fifteen paragraphs ready without thinking and ten recipes that would make their life a living hell, he realized, pretty much amused with everything that came to his mind. He raised his eyes to the plant on the table.

"George, we're so screwed," he said quietly.

George grinned silently, looking forward to the fight.

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THE END

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IMPORTANT!

The Occam's Razor Job is the first story in Texas Mountain Laurel Series. ( 10 stories for now). Go to my profile; they are in order there. The direct sequel for TORJ is The Season Six Job. It starts only seven days after this one, while Eliot is still in the apartment and they deal with the aftermath of That Night, with new troubles and 4 new cases at the same time.