The Kryptonite Job – Chapter 15

Well, this is it :/ The end.

The stories which follow this one are The SNAFU Job, and The Redhead Twins Job. I'm thinking about putting the note about following story at the end of every one, because it's getting confusing. Not only reading, but writing too. I had to stop myself from mentioning de Bruin in Eliot's thoughts – de Bruin who appears only in the last story.

.

Future plans: three possible stories. One is Eliot's return to the team cca ten days after The Season Six Job, with a slightly awkward atmosphere plus some sort of a job. That one would be number 3 in series. I have one funny, short story that would go at the end, being number 9 – it would be shame not to show how Eliot organized their seeing each other, and what two words Nate had for him. The last one is, of course, de Bruin and his revenge.

.

I'll take some time and see which one will start to grow and push me into writing. Maybe none will. The hard truth is - Leverage fandom is dying, and though I did everything I could in those past three years, I'm tired and discouraged. The Texas Mountain Laurel Series passed 900 000 words a few chapters ago. And I feel extremely stupid when I write 10 hours a day, seven days a week, and pour 10000 word chapters every Friday. For what? My motivation is below zero. Professional writers have sales to push them forward and motivate them, to show them that somebody reads their work. We don't have anything except your feedback. According to reviews on last few chapters, I have five readers. :D Marvelous, isn't it? :D Do you want to know how close I was to simply stop writing and leave this one unfinished, and how many times? No, better not.

You who don't review – be very, very grateful to those few who always find some time to write something. Only because of them you read those stories, they keep me writing. And if I continue, that will be for them, again.

.

In meantime, I'll try to refill my batteries. And I should really try to make that video trailer for The Season Six job, maybe even for The Kryptonite Job, though the only possible choice for Florence is Meg Ryan, and that might mess with your impression of her. I'll think about how to show her without showing her. :/

.

PS: Don't stop reading when you reach THE END – scroll down, there's an epilogue after that, only divided a little :D

.

Until our next meeting… stay well, and read other writers. :D

.

.

.

.

Florence could hear lots of words behind Sterling's stubborn silence. The agent lay sideways on the back seat of the police car Eliot had snatched, and that must've been uncomfortable as hell. She had given him Eliot's jacket to put under his head; he refused. She nudged him, tempting him with water, whiskey, a sandwich; he only flipped her one of his pissed off glares.

She was kneeling on the passenger's seat, looking back at him, and for the last twenty miles she had felt another pair of pissed off eyes glaring at her, from the opposite direction. Eliot frowned the moment she had taken off her seat belt, and hadn't stopped since.

She was better off out in the woods last night than now, in relative safety. During that time, they at least articulated their annoyance with each other. This sulking silence was heavy, and in turn so was her heart.

She tried not to meet Eliot's eyes too much, upset with this unknown, cold edge in them.

Although she had managed to calm Amanda's suspicion and nobody knew they had taken Sterling with them, and not only to Brattleboro, this was abduction. Legally, she had committed a crime, real crime – with a victim, and a witness to it this time, one who wasn't likely to be full of forgiveness.

Her unease grew with every mile. They'd crossed State lines, and that meant the FBI would be after them as well. The most frightening thing was her hesitation in asking Eliot anything about his future plans with Sterling. She dreaded the answer.

Not only had they kidnapped an Interpol agent, they were endangering him as well. Sterling continued to drift in and out of consciousness.

She desperately tried to keep Sterling awake, babbling nonsense until she almost lost her voice, until she was certain he couldn't hear her anymore. Only when she stopped talking did Eliot spare a glance at his prisoner. She hoped he would stop and call an ambulance – but his foot only pressed the gas pedal harder.

Boston's lights rose in front of them.

.

.

.

.

This meant serious trouble. Sterling knew that more from listening to the tremor in Florence's voice, rather than Spencer's heavy silence. The only time when he felt a real smile in her voice was when Amanda spoke directly to Spencer, after about an hour's drive. The agent asked about their whereabouts, with not so well acted calm in her voice. Of course his people knew he'd been taken – they weren't stupid.

Spencer smashed the police radio after that call, and Florence's voice lost its cheer. "You see?" she rambled nevertheless. "They really like you. They are worried. You built yourself a nice team, and one rotten apple means nothing."

He didn't open his eyes.

"C'mon, don't be such a- we're being nice to you."

He didn't move. Yes, she was being nice, and that said a lot. This time the little writer might've learned exactly what it meant to fall in love with a ruthless killer. He had warned her and she hadn't listened.

"I think he's unconscious." There was definitely caution in her voice when she said that to Spencer. "Eliot, we really should-"

"He's acting," Spencer said; the hitter reached and pulled up a plastic barrier between the front and back seats. Clever bastard. Now he could only hear them if he pressed his ear on the plastic. Instead of that, he remained motionless, laid back almost horizontally.

He was under Spencer's radar, staying low behind him – but he had a perfect view of Florence and her upset eyes while she watched Spencer.

"You know, you should call Nate and see what really happened back there. Maybe that wasn't them after all." She spoke fast, but he read her lips with ease.

Spencer's reply lasted almost a minute, and her face changed into a visible frown while she listened to it. "Okay, but aren't you curious?" she said. "I also think you should contact them as soon as you can. Hardison bought us a few more days – what if he has managed to postpone your job even more? What if you don't have to travel Sunday morning? It'd be useful to know that while making our plans. And you can ask him about that oca menu – it troubled you yesterday. I don't want you troubled while you're here."

Whatever Spencer replied now, it softened her face into a smile. It distorted the beginning of her sentence; he could read only the last half of it. "…he could have a few ideas about Sterling."

Well, it seemed that she was starting to realize the depth of shit she was in. She wanted to call Nate, not because she was interested in their action at the heliport, but to pour some sense into the hitter. However, Sterling didn't share her worries. He knew Spencer wasn't going to kill him – at least not while she was around. Maybe not at all. The surprising lack of lethal violence on his part still confused him.

Spencer spoke again. Sterling didn't know what he said, but he could see the effect. Just as his last reply put the smile on her face, this one erased it as she listened.

"Stop scaring me! Just tell me, for crying out loud!" her voice almost broke through the plastic. "What are you going to do with him?"

And when Spencer answered her question, Sterling wasn't so sure anymore he was safe in his hands – because her eyes grew wide, glazed with dread and pity.

.

.

.

.

In the end, she was ashamed that she doubted Eliot. When they left Sterling where Eliot wanted – and had clearly planned from the beginning of their drive - he even called Amanda to tell her Sterling's location.

That left only two of them in the car. She had no idea what to do or feel now.

The trouble was over, though she could barely perceive that. With the impending night fall, it seemed that all those days of struggling fell heavily upon her, emptying her brain and heart equally. She curled up on the seat, leaving Eliot to drive across Boston.

Everything around them was like it had been when he first collected her from the convention – Boston evening, rivers of lights.

"It can't have been only three days," she said. "I feel like we spent three months in those hills."

He said nothing, just smiled. She studied the street-lights as they danced across his face, just like she had back then.

"What now?" She had to ask that, but she didn't really want an answer. She didn't care. Her empty mind staggered like a drunk. To be honest, she wanted to go home. She must've been exhausted to the point of collapsing when a night spent cuddling with Orion, in her bed, alone, was more tempting then cuddling with Eliot Spencer.

"You're hungry, dirty and dead tired," he said. "We'll take care of that first. We both need sleep."

"Sounds good to me," she said with a smile, but she twitched inside at the mere thought of another set of his precautions. Nameless inns, plastic rooms and constant covering of their tracks; that was all too much for her right now. "We can't simply go to my place? Interpol is occupied for now – I don't think Sterling would-"

"No. Sterling isn't the only one. I thought the Koreans showed you that."

She bit off the snarky reply that almost escaped her and with a growing surprise realized her eyes filled with tears. Whatever they did now, it would be too much for her. This drive was also too much, everything around her. Even him. But she was, unfortunately, experienced enough to recognize what was happening.

"I think I'm… slightly upset," she stated quietly. Heading for a break down or worse, into shell shock, was a much better description.

He glanced at her. "Yeah, I was wondering when it would hit you." He reached to her and his thumb caressed her cheek. It was enough for a dam to break; tears ran freely.

"I w-want to go home," she stuttered through the tears, hating herself.

"I know. But that's not possible right now, and you'll have to trust me a little more. Can you close your eyes and try to rest for one more hour? After that we'll stop."

"Okay," she whispered. Not because she agreed, but because there was nothing else to say to that. She didn't have any choice.

She curled up as comfortably as was possible and closed her eyes, and immediately knew why he had made her do that. She felt like an ant caught in the sink. Water swirled her round and took her down the drain. No wonder; a whole night of dreadful trekking, only fifteen minutes of dozing in their cave this morning, and after that the day continued with shock after shock. She was beyond all exhaustion by now.

And he continued to drive. She didn't really sleep, she simply couldn't open her eyes, and she was aware of his circling around the town. He didn't leave Boston. He stopped a few times and left the car for few minutes; the third time he carried her outside and put her into a new one, bigger and more comfortable.

A soft seat swallowed her completely this time, and she sank into a deep slumber.

When she opened her eyes again, he was shaking her.

"I need you to walk and look normal for a minute. Can you do that?"

"Walk yes. Normal no." She fought the confusion. "Why?"

His laugh didn't answer her question – but it was the most beautiful sound she had heard for ages. She scrambled out.

.

.

.

.

"The Ritz-Carlton?" she whispered squinting at the too bright lights that reflected from huge mirrors in the spacious lobby. "What happened with your 'stay low' plan?"

Eliot pulled her after him. She glanced down her sweatpants and his jacket she still wore; her shoes left a muddy trail on the carpet. The eyes of every person in the lobby were on her back, she was sure. This is reckless. "How much charm did you have to use to get us a room here? Who would let us inside, anyway? I look like a homeless person." She rubbed her eyes to clear them and stay awake. When she finished, they were in the elevator. A soft swoosh almost knocked her down again, but he held her tight. Maybe she could sleep while standing; he wouldn't let her fall down.

Her knees were shaking so bad that she was ready to curl up in the elevator for the night.

Two more doors opened before them so she had to drag her feet inside. This wasn't a room; she realized when glass walls opened before her. Boston's night-time lights spread across the sight to reveal the Presidential Suite.

And the first – and only – thing she saw beside the window was a huge modern painting on the wall; a beautiful sepia portrait of an oriental woman. Once more, Min-Jung's smile flashed before her, and she lost it.

She had no clear memory of the rest of it. She couldn't stop crying not even when Eliot put her under the shower, and wrapped her into a robe and towels like a child. She took a few spoons of something warm and salty, but just because it seemed to be important to him.

He carried her to bed then. His warmth, and his quiet words unleashed one more round of crying; she clutched at him and wept until everything around them dissolved into nothing.

.

.

.

.

Sleeping would have been more than clever, but Eliot had more things to do before that.

He emptied a bag full of phones he had bought on the way here and called Hardison.

"I'm honored you spared some time to talk to us mere mortals, while you're on your vacation," Hardison sang immediately. "We've been waiting for your next flag signal, yet nothing came. Tiresome wait, I must say. Is this it? Are you sending a signal now?"

Yeah, they've been waiting for the signal, my ass. But if that was how they wanted to play this, he could play with them. "No need for that, the waters are clear. How's the weather in Portland?"

"Simply marvelous." He could see Hardison's insanely broad grin behind those words. "I mean, it's raining, of course, but marvelously."

He lowered his head and pinched the bridge of his nose; he could hear an airplane engine in the background. "Right. I hope you're having a great time."

"We're having a mar-"

"Say marvelous one more time, Hardison! One more time!"

"Marvelous."

Dear God, he was too damn tired for this. "Look, I'm calling you because I had to get rid of my phone."

"And you want all your contacts, applications and all those other useful programs I put there for you, never to use it ever, onto this new one you're calling me from, and perhaps immediately while we speak, expecting that new phone would just make a plop sound and all of it will materialize inside? That ain't how it works, but thank you for having that immense trust in my abilities."

He hadn't growled once at any of the Koreans, and only twice at Sterling, but now he let out one low growl before he even noticed it.

"Awww, now I know everything is back to normal. And that reminds me… what would you do if things back in the brewery weren't normal in your absence? Would you return all mushy, soft and full of forgiveness, maybe?"

"Right now, nothing – because I know you wouldn't risk upsetting me with some brewery catastrophe, and you would find a way to make everything work, so as not to spoil my mushy, soft and forgiving mood." He lost his patience half way through the sentence. "Spit it out. What have you done with my menu?"

"Your menu is intact. But I worked on the interior decoration of our offices. It's too dark and cold in there, so I thought that bringing more life inside would be good for everybody. More green and more light, for starters. Accent on green."

That actually wasn't that bad. George would be happy with more light, especially if Hardison managed to bring real sun inside, and not just more artificial lights. George's green tone was slightly pale lately, in spite of the dehumidifier.

"You'll see when you get back," Hardison continued. "But Washington first. I expect you there Sunday morning… okay, Sunday afternoon, but that's my final offer. I'm working on Castelman Security Vault as we speak, trying to see about those damn lasers, and I blame you if I don't manage to deal with it in time. First that Afghanistan mess that de-concentrated me, now this Korean adventure of yours, and I'm upset."

Why did all these upset people pour rivers of words out because of their state of mind? He didn't talk when he was upset. Or was it only his people? And how had he managed to surround himself with this babbling crowd?

Questions to ponder upon the whole night, indeed. This time, Hardison didn't fill his silence, and typing sounds now mixed with the plane engine noise.

He took the phone and stood by the glass wall that over-looked the green sea of Boston Common Park. Boston spread out behind it; a forest of ever-alive lights. Tall towers twinkled with their lit windows against the black sky. Gold dome on The State House was right before his nose. The Presidential Suite had a small telescope in front of the glass wall, but he didn't have to use it to know which lights behind Beacon Hill belonged to Massachusetts General.

He missed Boston.

"You okay, man?" Hardison said. Soft and slow, just how he always pronounced that rarely used question.

He also rarely responded to that. "What else have you done while sitting stationed in Portland, Hardison?"

"Oh, though we were practically not moving from the office, we were busy. We stumbled upon a case of under-age prostitution, and pulled several girls off the streets. Their pimp went down – and another collateral victim. A Korean tourist in Niagara Falls; this guy ordered the two girls for his room while he waited for some package to be delivered from our side of the border. Bad luck, don't ya think?"

Bad luck indeed. He smirked at Hardison's gloating sound of voice. "Thanks, man."

"Don't mention it – we are all happy when we can save our girls. Speaking of girls, how's Fl…"

"Nope. We ain't speaking of any girls."

"But-"

"Nope."

"I'd really like to be present when you try that nope shit of yours with Soph-"

"Nope."

Hardison let out an exasperated sigh. "As you wish. Is there anything else we need to know, except that we're not allowed to speak about Florence, and that 'waters are clear'?"

He quickly calculated the time they needed to get back to Portland. "I'll call Nate tomorrow, but that's mainly it. Ten Koreans, all accounted for."

"Okay, call if you need anything."

Hardison cut the call.

He reached for the telescope and turned it towards Mass Gen, yet he didn't look through it.

His phone produced a quiet plop, and he smiled and checked it. He had all his numbers back.

Hardison was probably annoyed with giving him only that, but he in fact needed only one number for now. He chose the latest addition to his contacts, and dialed the number.

"Good evening, Clark Woodward," he said when he heard a click on the line after three rings. It was evening time in L.A. "I have a few questions about your counselor role on the Magnificent Seven show. Do you have a minute for me?"

"Who is this?" an unfamiliar gruff voice from the other side said. "Are you a reporter? I don't-"

"Eliot Spencer."

Silence on the other end was full of quick thinking. He moved from the window and sat in front the fireplace and small table with scattered remains of their dinner.

"I know one Eliot Spencer. Are you some other one?"

"Nope."

"Okay. What do you want?"

"I just recently found out that you retired as the show's counselor in Hollywood. I do have objections on you choosing CIA as your cover, but hell, if that works for you, go right ahead. I guess that job isn't too demanding, leaving you enough spare time."

"Are you offering me a job?" The voice now sounded relieved a little, with quiet caution. "I don't take side jobs. And if I heard correctly, you are retired too."

"Yeah, I don't do that anymore. That's why I'm calling you, because we can both do a job, without doing a job. And get paid."

"Listening."

"I was approached by a ridiculously rich Indian businessman, who happens to be a huge fan of that show of yours."

"The Magnificent Seven?" Woodward huffed.

"Yeah, my reaction too. But he has one entire palace filled with cardboard cutouts of the seven guys, and he is worried he wouldn't get his weekly fix if something happened to the authors. He wants a silent watch over the safety of the writers on the show, but I can't take it. Too much time, no real danger, and annoying Hollywood people involved – no thanks. That's the part where you jump in – I'm willing to outsource that job to you. You're already there. You know the drill, and you can guarantee their safety, being close to them. He particularly wants that main woman, writer, author, whatever, to be monitored and kept safe."

"Florence McCoy?"

"Yeah, I think that's the name."

"Good, she is the sexy one. The other writers are fat, old geeks, half of them male. And weird."

He stopped the growl at the last second, and cleared his throat. "I will take the job, officially, so you're working for me. I want daily reports with all suspicious things you notice, though we both know there won't be any."

"Any contract?"

"Don't be stupid. We'll meet soon and arrange all the details, including the price. As far as I know they aren't shooting right now."

"No, they are expected back in L.A. soon. The writing part of Season seven will start some time during the next month."

"Perfect – enough time to settle everything. I'll call you."

He ended the call, put the phone on the sofa, and sank deeper into the backrest. Much to his surprise, he had problems keeping his eyes open.

Waters were clear, he didn't lie to Hardison, though his body didn't know it yet for sure. It wouldn't be easy to switch from survival auto-pilot mode to the more relaxed mode.

He had something that could help; the mere thought of holding her in her sleep brought peace to his mind.

Time to call it a night.

.

.

.

.

Whispers melded with his dreams; whispers of a voice mixed with a whisper of wind through the trees in some endless forest. This was a peaceful dream, for a change. He just walked and walked and searched for her. He opened his eyes into her amber gaze.

She elbowed a pillow, resting her chin on her entwined fingers, and stared at him.

Morning light came through the half closed curtains, and blurred all the edges.

"Something is different," she said. "You've slept the entire night. It took almost fifteen minutes of staring at you for you to wake up. Usually it only takes fifteen seconds."

"Good morning," he smiled. She was wrapped up in a robe, and her hair was still wet; the most beautiful sight to wake up to. He reached out to her, and only then did he realize what a mistake he made, when even that slow movement pulled at every bruise, and every hurt joint. He changed the move with gritted teeth, and turned onto his back.

He forgot how nasty the mornings after every fight were, and this time he'd had a continuous fight for days. For five years, he had managed to hide the after effects from the team, all that stiffness and pain, and the movements of an old arthritic man, closing himself away from them until he was able to show up as if nothing happened. He should've thought of that; she shouldn't have to see this.

"I was barely able to walk to the bathroom. Everything hurts, and I only walked, not fought, last night." she said with a grin. "Tell me, is there any part of you that doesn't hurt?"

She made it sound completely normal, and for the longest moment he wasn't sure why he wanted to hide it at all. Of course she would've known he would've felt broken. That was expected.

"Not really. And you?" He observed her bright eyes. They shone too bright, with too much red, and little swollen, but her smile was natural. Shadows of the night stayed in last night, and hadn't followed her into the morning.

She scrunched up her nose and darted him an uncertain look. He rearranged his list and put that nose squiggle as the three hundred and seventy-ninth beautiful thing on her. "I'm afraid I made quite a show of myself last night," she said. "The worst thing is that I usually don't remember half of it."

"Usually?"

"Uhm, it happened before, after the PVA, while in Mass Gen. You were taken into the operation theatre and I broke down. You know… hysterical crying, incoherent babbling, probably staggering around… usual stuff. Betsy endured it for more than an hour. Oh, she used that to get the entire report, step by step, of our PVA action, including editorial notes, but nevertheless, it wasn't… nice. I should've been stronger. I will, I promise."

He stared at her. "Don't ever say something that stupid again."

"That isn't stupid." She lowered her eyes, avoiding his stare. "I'm aware of my- oh! Look! A squirrel!"

He almost turned to the window.

"No, not a metaphorical, sentence interrupting squirrel! A literal squirrel, though a little abstract. And purple-ish." She pointed at his chest and stomach. "Your bruises are starting to connect. This one on the left, look – two rubber bullet bruises for the eyes, the scrape above it is like a pointy ear, and this looong wave of purple is a tail." She grinned at his squinting. "And that splotch on the other side looks like a hat."

He tilted his head to see the bruises; that hat-like bruise looked precisely like the imprint of a heavy boot. "I'm delighted that you find so much amusement in my troubles," he said. But that was true; he was. She could've been aghast and upset instead.

She rolled on the bed to the other side, and rolled back with a small tray. "I asked for band aids for my feet, and some cream and gel, and then I remembered you would need something for bruises and cuts," she said. "It came with breakfast, so decide: treatment or food first?"

"I don't need-"

"Nah-uh." She raised her finger.

"Look, I usually do it myself-"

"Eliot Spencer. The time of 'I usually do things myself' has passed."

She held his stare. He stared back.

Okay… the fact he usually did things his one way, didn't mean he couldn't, occasionally, change his mind. But this was a huge step. This was how he did those things, nasty things, the not-so-nice-things.

"Look at it this way: before, you didn't have anybody to take care of you. Now you have. What's the big deal? Yes, you're indestructible and tough, yadda-yadda – we all know that. We also know that you'll squeal if I poke that squirrel in the eye. Stop making a fuss and let me pamper you a little. Please?"

He tried to change his stare into a scowl, but he couldn't even get it to a mild glare. She was too normal for her own good – no, for his good – and whatever he said now would be crap. Unfortunately, she was also right. There wasn't any logical reason why he shouldn't accept that.

"Okay," he said. Carefully, and not entirely happily.

Her gleam was reward itself, and he had to admit this situation wasn't too bad for helping her feel useful. No nasty damage, wounds or broken bones, just a colorful potpourri of red, green and purple patterns.

She cleaned his cuts and scrapes, chitchatting all the while about things completely unrelated to any fighting, dense forestry or dead women, and thusly he relaxed entirely, closed his eyes and listened to her soothing voice.

Yeah, this was the type of morning he could get used to. Her fingers danced all over his bruises; her warm fingers caressing the cold gel into his skin helped to erase the stiffness from his knotted muscles, and eventually the pain subsided.

"And now, breakfast," she whispered when she closed the tube and snuggled closer into his side.

Her fingers continually traced random patterns across his skin, was his last thought before he sank back to sleep.

.

.

.

.

"You're only allowed to follow my moves. When I move my hand, then you can, not before, not after. I want perfect synchronicity." The intensity in Eliot's eyes reminded Florence of the second time they'd woke up, but this gaze of his was even more concentrated. He hadn't blinked for almost three minutes. She counted. "We move together," he continued. He held her stare and she simply couldn't tear her gaze from him. "The same rhythm, darling, that's the most important part. One move, one mind, one body."

She sighed. "You know, if someone else was listening to this, they could be mistaken for thinking that you're talking about sex." She lowered her eyes – with effort – to the slice of salami she held between two of her fingers. Eliot had the same, identical to a microscopic level. She knew, she had watched him preparing both the salami and cheese slices, and with the baguettes cut and measured laid out on a table. She was positive that the Presidential Suite never witnessed this sort of food before.

"This is equally as important as sex."

"If you say so," she sighed again.

"Now shut up and concentrate. On my mark. Three, two…one."

She followed his hand, and they put salami on each baguette at the same time. The cheese followed. She had tried to cheat, but he slowed his hand when she did, glaring sideways at her. She held back a giggle and tried to look fully concentrated.

"Okay, now put the upper half of the baguette on top."

"Do I have to perform some sort of ritual dance while-" She choked her giggle when his eyes widened, put a somber and respectful expression on her face, and covered her sandwich with bread at the same moment he did.

"Now, don't touch it." He lifted his sandwich and took a cautious bite. "Okay, edible. Nothing special, just a normal sandwich. Now give me yours - no wait, don't, I'll take it."

She raised her eyebrows when he left his baguette on the other side of the table, and took hers with the caution of someone handling a test tube containing Ebola.

He took a bite, about the same size and chewed. After a second he coughed, choked, and spat it out onto the floor, jumping to his feet.

"What?"

His face aghast was completely priceless and she couldn't stop her laughter anymore.

"I can't even- this isn't possible. Identical, everything was fucking identical-"

She curled up into a ball on the sofa and laughed until tears poured out.

"Don't cackle! You did something to it, didn't you?"

"Nope." She straightened up again, and laughed into his glare. "I did exactly what you did, with the same food that you gave me. You know, I think this is a psychological issue on your part. On some sub-conscious level, you're fighting against me. I'm a threat."

"You are damn right you're a threat!" He took both sandwiches and stared at them in turn.

"I suggest putting them under x rays," she offered helpfully.

"Unbelievable," he murmured.

"You're sexy when you're confused," she said. "I think I'll confuse you more often. Perhaps, all the time.

"Hrmpf," he said. He flashed one more glare at her, turned on his heels and marched away, taking both sandwiches with him.

She wiped her tears and grabbed a slice of cheese for herself.

They went for a walk after lunch, buying clothes and ingredients for his experiment, and though her new shoes were comfortable sneakers, her feet hurt. And she was hungry again.

She looked at the cheese in her hand, and sighed. This relationship was demanding. He thought she didn't notice how seriously he had said that food was equally as important as sex. That weirdo meant it.

Complicated, maddening and demanding. And that was a severe understatement.

First thing she'd do when she moved to L.A. to work on the next season would be to find some fabulous cooking course. She could let him show her the basics, and cooking together would be awesome, but their time in the future would be scarce. It would be better if she did it herself and then surprised him one day, with a complete meal.

She got up and grinned, plotting all details. "Can I eat my sandwich?" she called out. "I'm hungry."

"Nope, I threw it away. Too bad the Ritz doesn't have bio-hazard disposal containers," Eliot answered from the other room. "We'll go out to dinner."

She quickly calculated the time. "Jacuzzi before our walk?"

Silence.

"Eliot? Are you sulking now?"

"I don't trust a thing that once attacked me and tried to kill me. Take a shower instead."

"Oh, for god's sake, even paranoia has to have real-"

"Nope, that's my final."

She sighed again.

.

.

.

.

After an hour in the Jacuzzi, with oodles of inevitable lavender and eucalyptus bubbles, and two hours of getting dressed together, Eliot was roughly back at the point where he had been when they started, so Florence considered that as a huge success. The Jacuzzi loosened the last few knots in his joints. Getting dressed together strained them again.

He was far from complaining though.

"I was wondering why you chose The Ritz-Carlton," Florence said while they walked down the street towards the park in search for ice-cream. "Then I remembered that's Avery Street, and the Boston Opera House, where People's Voice Awards took place, is around the corner. Not even two minute walk from here." She looked at him sideways and smiled. "And the Ritz doesn't have card limited access to their lifts. That also helps."

"With what?"

She stopped and tapped her foot on the sidewalk. "We walked under this very street. Underground passages which we used for our retreat from the PVA go under entire block – and under The Ritz, too. You are ready for some eventual trouble?"

"I'm always ready for eventual trouble. But I'm glad you noticed that. Anything else?"

"There's more?"

"There's always more."

She huffed at his smug smile.

They crossed the street and entered the Boston Common Park. They could act like tourists without going so close to nature, ever again, but she wanted ice-cream badly, and this was the closest solution. Besides, all the grass here was trimmed, and not a single tree was entangled.

Eliot selected chocolate. She chose caramel-strawberry-vanilla-chocolate, and watched him fighting the need to say something about amount of it.

"I won't get fat," she said when they continued walking. "I can eat basically as much as I want."

"Yeah, I noticed that." His eyes slid down her figure, and he grinned. "Do you know how much sugar is in that tower you hold? Sooner or later it will show."

"Is that a warning? You won't want me anymore if I got fat?" She was kidding, of course, just teasing, but he twitched as if she had slapped him.

"Don't be ridiculous. There isn't any chance that I wouldn't want you. Ever. I don't care how you look, it's… more than that."

She stopped short. Being in love was such a problem; she couldn't articulate this feeling, couldn't find an appropriate sound to express this surge of happiness. He returned one step and wrapped his free arm around her waist. Damn ice-creams got in the way; she wanted to hug him with both arms.

She kissed him briefly – there were far too much children and other tourists around them – before chuckling. "You know, you're wrong. There is something I can do to prevent you from kissing me now. No, nothing gross. Just two very polite words."

"No way." He pulled her closer and his eyes sparkled with challenge. Only two thin layers of fabric divided them, but they weren't enough to stop the heat she felt; his face was mere two inches from hers and she had to put immense effort into her concentration. He leaned in and his lips brushed the corner of her mouth. "You really think you'll say something that would stop me from kissing you now?" That whisper.

She took a shaky breath and searched her memory. She wasn't good at doing voices, but…

"Hello, Spencer," she said in that husky, dry British accent.

"Ack!" He took a step back, disgust pouring from his face. He looked at her almost as perplexed as when he tasted her sandwich.

"See?" she gleamed at him.

"No, just no. Don't do that ever again."

Of course she immediately thought about the most inappropriate moment to say it again, and his eyes widened in horror. She really should work on her poker face. He was far too good at reading her.

"Now come back and kiss me, or-shit." She completely forgot about her cone. It melted at warp speed and her fingers were sticky. "I blame you for this. There should be a law against you and the heat you emanate."

"Yeah, I can put it in line. There are many laws against me, in case you didn't notice." He took her ice-cream and transferred the upper part of the tower onto his cone, then licked her fingers. She didn't need that, not now when they were in public.

She cleared her throat. "I got my ice-cream, we walked, we saw a park – can we go back to hotel now and check how your bruises are healing?"

"Nope. We need to talk."

She almost dropped the cone.

"Nothing serious, just a little troublesome. About your security," he quickly added. He took her by the hand and pulled her after him into a children's playground.

"A duck lesson, the extended edition?"

He gave her his cone and put her on the swing, and held the chains just watching her.

"Depending on your moving to L.A., I might have one more chance to see you here in Boston," he finally said. "I'll know when exactly after the Washington job, not before. It's quite possible that Nate already has clients waiting. I can't guarantee anything."

She licked both ice-creams and stayed silent. This was the first time he openly talked about their future, and she held her breath and her fingers crossed.

"You've had a taste of my life," he said. "Now you know that danger comes from all sides, without any warning. Do you understand now how important my paranoia is?"

"I'm okay with your paranoia as long as it doesn't stand in the way of seeing you again. I'm even willing to wait. Skip the next Boston meeting, and organize only L.A ones."

"There's nine hundred and sixty-four miles between Portland and L.A. That's a sixteen hour drive. Almost two and a half hour flight. Sooner or later, flying patterns will be traced, so I'll have to combine those two – drive half way, then take a flight, or some other combination."

"Or we can meet in the middle. Or we can go in turns. I can come to Portland, too."

"No. I don't want you near us. If someone only suspects we are together, and find out you traveled to Portland, that would be confirmation. You have to live exactly the same way you did before. But that's simple logistics; I'll deal with all the travelling arrangements. We have more important things to arrange."

He took a bite from his ice-cream in her hand and pushed her swing. She noticed he used the left arm to push her, and she doubted he did that by mistake. He had to push that shoulder into functioning mode, ready for the next job, by Sunday. She refused to start worrying about it now, and studied his face instead. He was serious.

"The essence of a duck lesson is: when you see something suspicious or worrying, never hesitate. Act like it is confirmed danger, at once. Before I leave, we'll go through all the security protocols. Things like what you have to do if I send you a warning; what to do if you see surveillance on you, if I'm killed, if you can't contact me, if somebody follows you. All steps to be used in hiding, retreat, means of communication, time-lines for each step, code words for various levels of trouble, sending and receiving-"

"Stop," she whispered.

He held the chain and anchored her back in to the starting position. She only raised her eyes to him; no words came.

"No other way, Florence." His voice was colored with regret. "You said you're willing to learn. The thing is… if you learn all this, that's it. If our luck holds, you won't have to use that knowledge, ever."

"But…"

"One more thing… stay close to your CIA counselor. Those guys know the drill, and you can grift more information from him, while pretending you're doing research for the show. Also, if something nasty happens while I'm too far away, go to him for protection."

"So basically, if I want to call you to tell you good night, I'll have to redirect four satellites, drive five circles around L.A using three different cars, have a sex-change operation, and then send you a pigeon carrier with a message in some ancient Mayan language? All while carrying a machine gun over my shoulder?" By the end her voice squeaked. He knelt by the swing and rested his elbows on her knees. There was definitely a smile in his eyes, and that lowered her alarm a little.

"I bought a bag full of burner phones," he said. "Enough to last until I see you again. Use one a day, and Hardison will make sure my side of conversation is covered. You can call me and text me any time you want."

Okay, that sounded better. She dreaded a long time without him, and the thought she wouldn't be able to hear him either, was too much.

She definitely didn't like this conversation; sitting there on the swing with two melting ice-creams, listening to this, this… pile of gibberish. It would take years before she would be able to learn all that. But even while she pondered all the difficulties, she felt an interest. All those complicated things were his life – knowing them better would mean knowing him better.

"When I think more about it," she said after a short thinking. "Learning all that will be interesting. I already know quite a lot. How much of it can I use in my episodes?"

She said the right thing; instantly the regret disappeared from his eyes, replaced with a fire that took her breath away. "What?"

He stared at her, now resting both his hands on her knees; this time her ice-cream melted over his fingers and he didn't notice it.

"Nothing," he breathed. "Nothing at all." He stood up in one swift move. "Do you still want to go back and check on my bruises?"

"Seriously?" She jumped from the swing. "What kind of stupid question is that?"

"Wait until you hear the next one… How often do you receive flowers from your fans?"

.

.

.

.

Nate cut the last piece of bacon, and lowered the heat under the garlic. The phone between his ear and shoulder, with Eliot's monologue of seven minutes, almost slid in the pan at one point. He put it on the counter and onto speakerphone.

"…and buying two flowers shops, one in Boston, one in L.A. would spare me the trouble. It's easier to give direct orders than grift personnel to send the exact message you want. I've already sent Hardison specifications and by the time we're back to Portland from Washington, both flower shops will be functioning. I don't have to tell you how important it is to have the last, most critical, means of communication, for use in only the severest of troubles? And untraceable; she receives flowers on a daily basis."

Nate allowed himself to sigh now while the phone wasn't too close to his face. Sometimes, being right wasn't as thrilling as usual. He looked at Sophie, silent and invisible on the bar stool. She listened breathlessly, with a gentle smile, and when he raised his eyebrows at her, she just waved her hand away. He had told her that Eliot would fall into this berserk paranoia spree. She obviously found that extremely cute.

"…of course, means of delivering the message multiply when flowers are in question. She will have to memorize all possible combinations. For example, three roses have one meaning, two orchids another… basically, I'll make an entire system just like those Navy flags I used to send you a message. Endless possibilities, and entire sentences."

Nate put bacon into the pan.

"What's that sound? Whatever you're doing, you're burning it. Lower the temperature, oil must have been spraying-"

"It's only bacon. Relax. I'm expecting Sophie for dinner."

"Good. You don't have to tell them all about Sterling, it's enough you know all the gory details. Be ready – he'll show up somewhere around you very soon. Maybe he just misses you."

"Right. Tell me again about Florence's steps with usual phone communication – before this last critical flower-shop solution – the one where there's thirty-five percent possibility of trouble from your side."

"That would be – wait, no names, Nate, I want you all to dismiss her name from your heads – that would be… thirty-five percent is Step nine, I think. I have to check. For Step nine, which isn't followed by Step ten, but with two variants- Nine A and Nine B-"

"Eliot."

"What?

"Do you remember The Gold Job, when Hardison led the case and when he terrorized us with his complicated-"

"This isn't complicated. It's logical, very simple and-"

"Before his plan went south and crumbled, I put a few words on paper for him to open when it was finished. Remember that?"

"My plans don't crumble, Nate."

"Of course they don't. I'm not saying they will. But – just for fun – I'll write down two words. Sophie will be my witness."

"What's with that 'two words' all of a sudden, all of you… Nope, there isn't anything that can go wrong with my plans. They are thorough and realistic. Are you stirring that bacon? It doesn't sound as it should. Bacon shouldn't sound as if it's writhing in pain, more like sunbathing on the beach. Lower that temperature."

"I'm sure your plans are thorough and realistic." Nate nodded. Sophie bit her lip; her eyes gleamed with amusement. "Okay, I have to go now; Sophie will be here any minute. I have the all-important info about Sterling, I lowered the temperature, and I know all your plans with Flo- with those flowers shops. Anything else?"

"Yeah. The next time, when I say wait for my signal, try to actually wait for it, okay?"

"I'll work on that."

Sophie waited until the sound of the call ending, and then she let out a cooing giggle.

"Told you so," Nate said. "And this isn't even the beginning."

"You really have two words that would destroy his planning?"

"Yep. Very simple. But he will come to that conclusion all by himself."

She took her glass and came closer to peek at the pan. "Maybe you're wrong. He is quite capable of pulling many strings together."

"Yeah, multitasking level: beast mode. I know. But not this time, not when he is emotionally involved. And I still think we had to show him that recording."

"No, Nate. Not while Sterling is still so close to him, in the same town."

Sophie took a remote and started the recording Hardison had sent them.

"Interpol agent in charge of the operation, James Sterling, singlehandedly took down an entire sleeper cell of ten North Korean agents. There are rumors of a joint US and UK highest authorities working together to honor his bravery. Queen Elizabeth particularly might consider him the next candidate for-" Sophie clicked the remote, and Sterling's smiling face disappeared.

"Do you think he can cause more trouble before Eliot leaves for Washington? They are still too close, both in Boston."

"Nah." Nate smiled. "I don't think so."

She took a small piece of bacon from the pan, and her eyes changed. "I was wondering… do you know Portland is actually very busy and very popular filming location? The Twilight was shot here…Grimm too. They have everything needed for an A production series."

"Your con voice, Sophie? Seriously? You want me to con CBS to move shooting to Portland so Eliot shouldn't have to drive to L.A? That's impossible."

She batted her eyelashes, took another bite, and just smiled.

.

.

.

.

"Eliot Spencer." He heard a call behind the door. "Have you locked yourself in the bathroom? I've seen a great deal of your escaping to bathrooms, so don't try to fool me."

"Talking with Nate. And just finished."

He went out with the phone. Florence waited with her head tilted, and an evil smile. "Good. For the moment I thought you were negotiating with the Jacuzzi, though this one didn't show any hostility. Or you threatened it to behavior. Or perhaps you were seeking revenge for its cousin, which made you look like a half-drown rat."

"You do notice when your writer brain takes over, don't you?"

She wore only a robe, and mere mention of the Jacuzzi tilted his mind with too vivid images, but he shook his head. Later. They had time. "You couldn't have seen I took the phone," he continued, "and with water running it covered all sounds. Are you bluffing?"

"No." She grinned at him. "You have a tell. When retreating or hiding something you straighten up your back and keep your head a little higher than when you walk normally."

He threw the phone on the sofa, swept her off her feet, and carried her to the chair that looked through the glass wall. "Stay there." He went back to fetch their wine glasses left on the table, and turned off the main light.

The chair was spacious enough for both of them to sit in, especially when she snuggled deeper into his arms.

"Here's for Thursday ending." He knocked his glass with hers.

"Two more days," she whispered. "My mind knows it's just the end of our first meeting – but I wish I could explain that to my heart."

He rested his face on her hair and said nothing. They watched the Boston lights below them. He cleared his mind from all plotting and calculations. She would feel if his mind was too occupied, and the last thing he wanted now was to trouble her with any plans. They would have enough time for working that out later. This night, and both days they still had were not for thinking about the future. Becoming caught up in the cycle of fear and doubt could spiral out of control, unless he consciously intervened. This was for now, for the present.

After all, the future was made up of small presents, each separated in steps. Now, then now again. That way, they could live.

"There is one thing that's positive in a long wait to see you again," she said quietly. "Every time it will be like a honey moon. Just like this."

He held his breath.

She couldn't know how close he was to asking her to marry him, back in the park. He hadn't ever seen something so beautiful as her right then, sitting on the swing with slouched shoulders, holding melting ice creams and frowning. That was an image he would carry forever with him; not her naked, or dazzling, or gorgeous in silk. Smudges of chocolate on her chin, and ruffled hair. Yet, he fought that impulse, a need to keep her forever; it took both a physical and mental struggle to stop himself. He was glad he managed not to blurt that out – that wasn't for him. For them. Yet.

That yet put a smile on his face. He pulled her up to sit on him and put both their glasses by the chair so he could wrap his arms around her. Her robe slid off her shoulders, and the feel of her skin against his stifled his breath. He closed his eyes and breathed in her scent, while his hands began running across her shoulders, arms and waist. Remembering, caressing and embroidering that touch, this shiver of hers, deep into his mind.

Leaving her after two days would be the hardest thing in his life, because now he knew what exactly he had to leave behind. He knew every damn demanding, complicated and maddening part of this bundle in his arms.

Sorrow and love always mingled together. She felt it, too; she leaned back into him and even though he couldn't see her face, he knew her eyes were teary.

The softness of the moment wasn't for tears – it was for utterly happy smiles.

"Remember what you told me the first day?" he whispered. "We can't make our days longer. But we can make them wider."

She looked at him over her shoulder; Boston lights drew lace across her face. Yes, tears glistened in her eyes, but her smile ignited them with a sparkle.

Just what she did with him, with his life. His flame had died out, but she brought a sparkle and rekindled it.

"Wider, yes," she breathed. "And fulfilled."

She turned to him then, and her lips trailed across his collarbone.

It was his turn to shiver now.

.

.

THE END

.

.

EPILOGUE

.

.

"No, Amanda. I don't want oranges. Thank you. I want a bloody laptop. I want Nate Ford. And Spencer. Can you get them here? No? Then stop terrorizing me with damn fruit!"

Sterling expected a quiet Yes, Sir. He got twenty oranges poured into his lap and the door being slammed.

He pushed the fruit away and straightened in his bed. Sherrel and Kindra didn't offer to put pillows behind his back; they stood in parade stance with their arms crossed, and scowled at him.

He took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly, expending all his annoyance. "Look," he said, putting a reason in his voice. "It's Thursday morning. I've spent an entire night in hospital, the wound is taken care of, I've had IV fluids and blood, and everything I need, and now it's time to do our job. I don't have to sit here. I can sit in our vehicle. Spencer and Team Leverage had a job scheduled for Sunday, and I want to get to them before that."

Their scowl deepened.

"Fine. I'll stay. Now tell me, have you found all the restaurants and food facilities that have oca menu on Tuesday?"

"Yes, Sir. All two thousand two hundred and thirty nine." Kindra gave him a bunch of papers.

He went through the papers. "Listed by the State?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Great." He smirked at them and gave her the papers back. "When you hear someone say that you would have very little use of a solar charger for your phone, which States come to your mind first?"

"Hawaii, Washington, Oregon, Georgia? They are all rainy."

"Hawaii is too far away, Eliot wouldn't have enough time to fly into Boston after the episode." He stopped for a second. He couldn't believe he just called him Eliot. The agents didn't notice that, so he went on, "Georgia is too close to Boston, they usually move to opposing States. That leaves us with Washington and Oregon."

Kindra shuffled through the papers, and put most of it away. She handed him four papers.

"I don't have to look at them." He put them on the bed and secured them with an orange. "This is Nate Ford, people – and I know Nate Ford. Now, I don't believe I haven't figured it all out at once, but we are all very wise generals after the battle. Our Headquarters is in Portland. That means Nate Ford is there, too. I'll have to check the entire Highpoint Tower to make sure their new offices aren't in our building- that would be just like him." He pointed at the papers. "For now, take Portland. One of those restaurants, small hotels, cafeterias or breweries is owned by the Leverage team."

"Do you want surveillance on them?"

"No. I'll go there myself. That's why it's important I get there before they leave for that job on Sunday. I can walk. I can fly there. Give me my shoes and we can be in Portland before Thursday ends."

"That's against doctor's orders," Kindra said. "Now tell me… what are we going to do with Florence McCoy? Keep an eye on her? Spencer will surely come to her again."

No. That woman deserved to be left alone. She fought and won that prize. Now with their almost confirmed location in Portland, she wasn't his only trail to Spencer. He expected everything from Spencer, but this was a surprise. Spencer brought him directly to the ER entrance last evening and left him with paramedics. That was a fair thing to do – this time he could return the favor.

And that reminded him of something else. "I want all ten Koreans transferred to our super-secret jail. That way no word about Florence's involvement with Spencer will ever get out to other ears that might use that."

Sherrel took her tablet and made a note. "One more thing, Sir."

"Yes?"

"Megan and Merlin applied for Interpol. For our team. They have a letter of recommendation from Maddox."

"No way. They wear those shiny things on their teeth, for crying out loud! In twenty years, maybe."

Deadly silence.

"We like them." Both Kindra and Sherrel said at the same time.

"Look, be reasonable-"

"We like them a lot."

The joys of working with an all-female team. "I'll think about it. I will-" He stopped, eyed their dazzling smiles, and gave up on finishing his sentence.

"Now go away and be useful," he said and pressed a button to call for a nurse, closing his eyes.

One of them took the papers from the bed and removed the offending oranges. He listened to their steps and opening of the door. Finally, silence fell in the small room.

When he opened his eyes a minute later, a lithe black nurse stood there in front of him. He didn't hear her coming.

"Thank you for coming," he said. "I'd like to have my clothes and belongings back. I've been very well treated and am extremely satisfied with your services, but I don't need them anymore. Please, bring my bill, too. I'm ready to leave. Now."

She tilted her head a little, watching him.

Damn, he was in a hurry; he didn't have time for slow thinking nurses. "Dear lady. The last word sums it up. Now."

"Your bill is covered." She came closer to the bed, and checked his chart. "Why are you intent on leaving?"

"Because I have something important to do in the next couple of days."

"No." Her eyes turned gentle. "I have special orders to make sure you're properly healed and recovered. And in bed for at least four days."

"No?" He snorted a word. "You found the wrong person to play with. Ever heard of LAMA? Leaving Against Medical Advice? Now please go and find someone faster and suitably skilled in their job, to tell you which documents you should bring me. Paper, as in white rectangle sheets with black lettering, saying: Release Form for patients to read and sign prior to leaving hospital against medical advice, relinquishing the hospital and medical staff of any responsibility relating to the patient's decision or its subsequent consequences."

She sat on his bed, and he withdrew a little. Maybe she wasn't a nurse at all, but a patient… Mass Gen did have a psychiatric section. He narrowed his eyes and locked onto hers.

She slowly reached up to his face, and to his utter consternation, slid with the back of her fingers across his cheek. The hair on his neck stood up.

"You're adorable," she said.

And she smiled. Calmly.

.

.

THE END