This story was written mainly to set up all important things for The Brown Dutch Job. I had to set up the scene and show all important things, including the passing of the time. If I didn't do it, I would have to write five chapters of similar things before the real action in TBDJ.

If you haven't, now is the time to watch the trailer again – video is in my profile.

Big thanks to Smooth Doggie for betaing.

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Chapter 5.

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"I will have to hide you somewhere when we get close to the pub," Florence explained to Buck while they searched for the nearest rent-a-car outlet. Portland airport was smaller than she expected, but still a pretty busy place. "I don't know whether it's okay to bring someone unknown to the team, or not. Nate will have the last word about you."

"I thought only your boyfriend has issues with paranoia," he said. He carried Orion, using the carrier as a barrier between himself and any curious glances. Dark glasses helped him to hide. She'd also bought a pair – it was sunny in Portland, and rainy in LA. Clearly, the world had turned upside down. In more ways than one.

She fought hard not to show Buck how truly scared she was. Eliot's paranoia confirmed itself. What if he was right about the team being monitored and maybe even attacked, just as he was? What if she found nobody in that pub, if there wasn't any Leverage team left?

She stopped a whimper forming in her throat and hurried up a step in front of Buck.

A simple knock on Nate's door was out of question. It would be too reckless, too dangerous for them all. Even if nothing had happened today, she wouldn't risk exposing them that way.

She had to think of something. First, hide Buck somewhere nearby, in some bar or café, until she had completed her recon. Nobody could see Florence McCoy entering that brewery. She had enough money; she could pay someone, maybe a group of teenagers, to go there with her and give her some of their clothes as a disguise. Skaters! Yes, skaters would be perfect, with their knee and elbow pads, and helmets. She was short, she could get lost within the group. Once inside and away from any prying eyes possibly monitoring the brewery, she could think of her next step.

"Need a ride, Ma'am?"

She glanced sideways.

Nate stood only ten feet from her. He leant against the wall with his right shoulder, his hands in his pockets, and a derisive smirk on his face.

That smile broke the dam. She hurled herself at him, almost knocking him over.

"He is okay," he spoke only that.

All her questions evaporated from her mind; words betrayed her.

She grabbed at him, fistfuls of his shirt, as if her life depended on that hug – and while her tears fell freely, she realized it really did.

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"What's your purpose in my life, anyway?"

George didn't answer.

Eliot sank deeper in the seat.

He left the cabin because he couldn't think straight, not in the place in which every part reminded him of Flo. He needed a cool head now and emotional distance. He crawled to the car to find it, but instead he faced George's stare.

The more panicky he felt, seemed that George appeared calmer.

He knew he should try to calm down; he didn't need a tree to tell him that.

"I should've left you with Hardison and his pink water," he said and started the engine.

LAX and Florence's apartment were in the same direction, and for almost an hour he didn't have to decide between either. He only needed to survive that time, left without a clue and with a sarcastic tree that tried to direct his thoughts and mood. And who succeeded, at least on some level.

A ringing phone stirred them both; he almost dropped it when he grabbed it, and the car swerved on the road. He quickly pulled over.

"Angy again, Mr. Baker, Bill is at that crime scene. I'll connect his call, wait a sec…"

He turned the engine off. He waited the longest five seconds in his life, grateful he wasn't standing. Crippling fear wasn't just an expression.

"Mornin', boss," a young male voice said. "I talked with neighbors; the cops left. This here is one nasty and confusing mess, I tell you."

Nasty confusing mess at the crime scene had one meaning for him, he tried to remind himself. It would have different meanings for a delivery boy, a college student.

"Be more precise."

"Nobody knows what's going on. The cops arrived on scene and almost got in a fight with the CBS Security Team, who were offended because nobody had told them that something had happened. There was yelling and-"

"Apartment, Bill," he grated out. "What happened there?"

"Nothing. It was a false alarm. Somebody had reported a burglary but the cops entered and found no sign of forced entry, and the apartment was empty. So, I have no idea what to do with those flowers, nor when to return for another delivery attempt."

"Leave them on the doorstep and forget about it."

He cut the call, closed his eyes and just thumped his head backwards on the seat, breathing through sheer relief.

She was alive. Not dead. Maybe not even taken. The timing of that stupid burglary was what set all this shit off in the first place – when she returned to her apartment from here, following their crisis plan, she would have faced the cops blocking it. Thus she simply retreated, not knowing clearly what was up. She would try again later, and ultimately find his bouquet with his new number waiting for her.

His throat clenched; he had to clear it to be able to speak again. If he were still in their cabin, now he would be sprawled out on his back on their bed, staring at the ceiling. Lifting the burden turned him into amorphous mass – a very exhausted and frozen mass. The last night was gruesome, and the morning was terrifying. He would need a week to recover from the fear alone.

But his recovery had just started. He started the car again, though he wanted to stay there for the next ten hours, simply enjoying this relief.

She was probably drinking coffee in some café near her apartment, waiting for the air to clear. He could go there and find her, but it would take time. One hour, two hours, maybe more. And two hours in Portland might mean the difference between life and death for the team.

Fear fueled his rage, and he slammed his fist into the wheel. Damn it, had there been anything that hadn't gone wrong since they entered that pipe facility? He needed her, desperately needed to feel her in his arms, to know she was safe – and he had to leave without even being completely sure she was okay. The ache for that touch was so strong that he felt physical pain in his heart, in his arms.

But that would wait. Now he should go to Portland, and be there in less than three hours. By that time, she would have discovered the flowers and call him, and he would explain everything and tell her what to do next.

He was at position A – but now he had a clear plan for position B in front of him. It was time to deal with this doomed day once and for all.

He took the left turn and headed for the airport.

"And for your information, I wasn't panicking," he said.

George looked through the window on his side, and hummed Total Eclipse of the Heart.

Damn lunatic.

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"I already made a call," Buck said while the three of them walked towards the Portland Airport parking lot. "Leave me out on the corner of Madison and Main Street, and they will pick me up."

"You're welcome to join us after lunch with your friends," Nate said. Florence darted him a grateful smile, but said nothing. She was too busy with her mental review of all their steps by now. Nate had told her about the car accident and dead phone that had triggered all this, and she was balanced between relief and banging her head upon any flat, preferably hard, surface nearby.

"Thank you, but I'll use this time to catch up. Besides, if I don't know where your lair of crime is, I can't tell anybody, right?"

Florence wasn't sure if Buck took all of this too seriously, or too lightly, and that was confusing. Nate didn't seem to be bothered, though. He just smiled and nodded.

Then she saw them. Sophie, Parker and Hardison, all three of them resting with their backs on Lucille's side, waiting for them. She squealed and took a quick step, but Nate's hand flashed and caught hers, stopping her.

She froze mid-step and glanced at him for any warning of possible trouble. She saw none; Nate only tilted his head at Buck.

Uh-oh. Buck stared at the three members of the Leverage team.

It must've been the van that triggered his memory. They hadn't used Lucille when they grabbed him, but some other van, yet they wore black clothes then just as they did now, sans masks. He studied their shapes and postures for a moment, then shook his head.

"Something wrong?" Nate asked.

"Nah, nothing," Buck said. "Just a silly thought… forget it. So, this is your vigilante squad, Mr. Ford?" He pushed the carrier into her hands and continued with them to meet the team, putting his warmest and most charming smile on. "Florence never told me how enchanting they were."

Buck had years and years of experience in showing adoration to his female fans. He was a world-class actor, and even Sophie didn't notice his quick admiring glance at Hardison.

Sophie held out her hand. "Florence spoke very fondly of you."

He took her hand and bent to place a kiss on it. "I remember this perfume," he said. "And I remember how gorgeous you looked as Alison Hastings at the PVA ceremony. If you don't mind, I'd like to continue calling you that – that way I won't know your real name, so Florence's boyfriend won't take my head off."

Nate passed them by and straight to the driver's seat. "I suggest we continue this inside the van. Hop in."

Hardison opened the side door so they could all jump in, but Buck lingered with Sophie a moment more.

"I also remember how delicious your ankle tasted," he said.

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Florence let Sophie explain everything that led up to Buck's false kidnaping, garnered with Hardison's techy remarks, and she just sat back and reveled in the sound of their voices.

Parker was silent. She studied Buck as though a security threat, which was clear from her stiff posture. At the same time the thief seemed confused with the living, breathing Buck who stood before her, from the one on the show she watched and liked.

Nate was silent, too.

After five minutes, Florence got up and took the passenger seat.

"I have to tell you something," she said. "I might've made a reckless move."

Nate spared her a glance. "It was the right call, don't worry about it," he said. He returned his gaze upon the road, concentrating on driving. "Sterling is currently in his mild phase, pretty open to cooperation. He is, also, still in debt to me from Dubai, and we'd have to be at least even, before he makes any dangerous moves against us again."

She looked at him, at his half- ironic smile. She forgot how terrifying that mind of his was.

"You didn't know how to find us," he continued when she said nothing. "It was him, or Betsy – and I know you wouldn't risk involving her into something that you thought meant danger for us all."

"Nate Ford," she said. "Did you just explain something, or I maybe misheard? That would be, what, the first time ever?"

He smirked. "Corner of Madison Street," he announced to the back of the van.

She got up and jumped out with Buck, after he said his goodbyes and waved to the others.

She hugged him as tight as she could. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

He tapped her on her shoulder with – again - his Richard Castle smirk. "You were right – it was fun. I liked this glimpse inside your criminal world. And all's well, that ends well." He didn't wait for her reply. He strode towards the pair who waited for him, and disappeared amongst the busy street.

His words only reminded her that this wasn't yet finished at all. Eliot was still out there searching for her, worrying – and the word worry, in his case, never took on its normal meaning. She sighed and returned into the van, to her seat by Nate. Now that Buck was out of the picture, it was time for serious matters.

"I might have some bad news," she said. She pulled out her USB stick. "Hardison, here's something for you."

The hacker took it, and she moved closer to the door so he could sit in the middle seat with his tablet.

"The CIA might be after me," she said. "And since I'm not interesting to them, that means they are trying to get to you and Eliot through me. On that USB drive, I have everything suspicious I collected about our CIA advisor on my show – he's monitoring me for some time. Clark Woodward."

Nate squinted.

"What?" She glanced sideways at Hardison – his fingers hovered over his keyboard, not moving.

"Nothing, go on," Nate said.

"It started after we returned from Boston. Perhaps our trek through the Vermont woods, surrounded by Police – and with the press involved – has raised some flags."

Now Hardison squinted.

"What?!"

"Nothing, go on." Hardison's voice sounded more like a moan.

Well, having the CIA on their tail might disturb even the Leverage team.

"That's why I panicked so much. The same day I tell Eliot about me being monitored, he disappears. Worst of all, I didn't know if that same guy was working for someone else, someone far more dangerous, perhaps one of your enemies." Even thinking about it disturbed her stomach again, and she took a shaky breath. "And that's why I asked Buck to help me. I'm sorry about that. I know you'd prefer him to stay out of the picture, but he helped with covering my tracks. If only Eliot had thought of something like that! This shit would've been entirely different if only he had someone who might serve as a middle-man in times of crisis. Perhaps, using a real person, who could be a trusted contact, instead of flowers floating everywhere; hundreds of flowers with hundreds of damn meanings. Fucking geraniums."

She expected a reply – she got only utter silence. She stirred from her grumbling to look at them – both of them looked straight ahead, with thoughtful expressions and bordering on empty stares.

"What?"

Nate took one deep and shaky breath, just like she had a moment before. "Nothing. Nothing at all. Hardison will work on that USB while… Hardison."

"What? Ah, yes, I'll work on it, right away, on my way, I'm psyching myself up…" Hardison jumped to his feet and returned to the back of the van, and Sophie and Parker.

"I suggest you discuss that CIA problem with Eliot," Nate went on. "You didn't mention that guy's name?"

"Duh; not over the phone, Nate."

"Right. " He rubbed his chin. For a second, he looked like a person suffering from a nasty toothache.

There was no time to continue their talk. Hardison returned, this time without the tablet. "I have a slight change of plans, Nate."

"Listening."

Hardison pushed a huge bucket between their two seats for Nate to observe. "I was thinking we might have time to make a small detour and drive by the pipe facility. I'd like to collect a little of that green goo – for scientific purposes only."

"A little? Five gallons? Forget it."

Hardison sighed and hid that bucket behind his back. His hand showed up again with a smaller bucket.

"How many of those do you have- No, Hardison. No visiting. We're driving directly home. No trespassing, no further trouble today, please."

Florence agreed wholeheartedly. Her happy ending was in sight and pretty certain at this point, but only when Eliot showed up would she be able to relax. Nate seemed serious – but Nate always looked serious – and that wasn't any marker for the situation. The others looked relieved and positive this was all just a major fuckup.

Hardison returned to the back of the van with grumbling sounds. She used the rest of their drive to observe Portland, before Nate parked Lucille in the huge backyard of an even bigger building.

The Leverage Headquarters, finally. The first part of her happy ending was within her reach – but when Nate opened the door and let her in into the dark, spacious office, Orion in Hardison's arms growled and let out one low hiss.

Her plot twist was already there, waiting.

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"Hello, Nate."

Sterling sat at the working table with a reading lamp, full of papers and techy thingies. If Florence felt a twitch of unease with the thought of his eyes going over the paper trail of their jobs, how did the others feel? She took a step back, letting the others go before her, thanking all gods she could remember that Eliot wasn't with them right now.

"Hello Sterling," Nate said. He turned on the big light, somewhere above them on the very high ceiling, and she now saw why her feet felt slippery. The floor was soaked with water. The air she breathed was a jungle air – warm, damp, and soil-y tasting.

"I always thought greenhouses were supposed to have more light than humidity." Sterling took one piece of paper between two fingers. It dripped. "Or you just stopped half way through?"

Nate said nothing, just observed him with his head slightly tilted.

But the rest of the team stepped forward. Florence frowned when she saw their smiles while they approached the sitting agent. Sterling frowned, too.

She knew that Sophie's smile; a predator in charge. The grifter stopped by Sterling's chair and lowered her head to his ear. Nobody knew what she whispered to him in those two short seconds, with that fiery smile. She passed by him and continued to the room behind the glass wall. It looked like a back office. Harlan Leverage III hung on the wall above two more tables.

Parker and Hardison surrounded Sterling. Hardison hooked his hip on the table at Sterling's right side, hovering over the sitting man. "Welcome to my house, Sterling. Again." His smile was tight lipped.

But Parker's smile was the one to worry about. Sterling offered a wolfish smile to Hardison, but it grew into a cautious one when he turned to Parker on his left side. The thief took the paper from his hand and put it back on the table.

Then she bent closer to him, with a gleam in her eye. "Hardison and I are dating," she said.

Florence felt a chill running up her spine. It was the most dreadful warning she had ever heard – and she heard a good deal of Eliot's growling and threats.

Sterling caught it, too.

Nate stepped forward. "Parker," he said. "Go help Sophie with water in the back office, please." She glanced at him, then tapped Sterling on his shoulder with a friendly, slightly plastic smile.

Hardison followed her and closed the glass door behind them all.

"When you're ready to get rid of those weirdoes," Sterling said, "and they are getting weirder every time I see them – you know where to find me."

Nate didn't smile. "Why are you here?"

"I smelled trouble and came here to gloat." Sterling looked past Nate at her, and smiled. "I am not here to help."

Of course he wasn't. And he was. Florence was careful not to show any of her thoughts. She saw this balancing before – a grumbling inward fight between what was a right, and what was a just thing to do. It went deeper than his and Nate's justice versus law battle. He did come to gloat – but if they needed his help, he would provide it. With interest, of course.

"I forgot about your curiosity," Nate said. Florence raised her eyebrows. In her world, it was a compliment. Sterling's weary expression confirmed to her that he wasn't sure of Nate's meaning either.

"I wouldn't call it curiosity." Sterling stood up and felt his trousers. The darker spots on the dark grey fabric looked damp. "I'd like to know what your deadly bunch of renegades on the loose is doing in my town. I call it control. And damage prevention. I presume your trouble has ended with satisfying results, according to her smile, so you don't plan anything spectacular, that might disturb Portland?"

"Right now, the only spectacular thing on my mind is a late lunch. Would you like to join us?"

"By all means." Sterling's derisive smile matched Nate's. "But I'll decline the offer. Too busy providing law to the good people of Portland."

"Till the next time, then." Nate went to see him out. Sterling nodded at her while passing by – she replied with a gentle smile.

She used that minute to study their new place.

It had no warmth, all in metal, bricks and glass. Numerous little plants scattered all around, did add a little color, but it was clear that nobody lived in this office. She remembered that Hardison said a long time ago that he would live in their next Headquarters, so the huge stairs going up to the gallery must've led to his place. And there was no kitchen.

Nate returned when Sophie and Parker came back from the back room, with cloths, mops and buckets. Hardison followed them typing on his tablet.

Nate went directly to the table and glanced at the papers that were in Sterling's reach. He nodded to himself then took a big yellow envelope from the drawer. "I wasn't kidding when I mentioned lunch," he said. "We'll go and see what's on today's menu – you have yet to see Hardison's brewery and restaurant."

Whatever. No matter how close the restaurant kitchen was, it wasn't here. She missed seeing Eliot cooking for all of them.

"You three." Nate turned to the rest of the team, and raised the envelope. "Put them in there."

Sophie giggled as she passed by him. Florence saw a glimpse of a couple of credit-cards she slipped into the envelope. Parker followed, with a shiny Interpol badge and a sulking frown.

"I didn't touch him," Hardison said.

Nate waited.

"What? I didn't! I might've cloned his phone – ain't any need for touching to do that."

"Send this to The Highpoint Tower." Nate pushed the envelope into his hands, with a pained expression.

Florence barely suppressed her giggle. Some things never changed.

She took a bunch of cloths from Parker, still grinning, and followed Sophie towards the dampest part of the floor.

Yes, she was home.

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This new office didn't have a sofa in front of the screens, just one huge chair and a few smaller ones in a semi-circle. Their working table, taller than a normal desk, lit up and techy looking, followed that semi-circle as a wall behind the chairs. It was comfortable, at least for Parker who took the big chair.

Even cleaning up the office was fun. Parker and Sophie spoke about their jobs, she told them anecdotes from shooting, Hardison whined about the wet dust, and she could almost forget the time that was passing. Or maybe they wanted to keep her occupied so as not to worry further about Eliot and his whereabouts. Nate had said that he would be all right – Nate who withdrew from the cleaning saying he had to personally go through all the wet papers – and she trusted him. She only had to wait.

They took her on a short tour through the brewery. Its huge kitchen only further reminded her of her problems with cooking in general, though that was yesterday's trouble and it seemed so irrelevant today.

They decided to eat in the office. The first shift employees went home only minutes before they had arrived, and the new ones were busy with a full restaurant, so they moved out of the way.

Her bouquet arrived along with their meal, and she spent all that time explaining her day to Nate. Flowers, warnings, danger degrees, precautions, reactions – she tried to pour out every detail she remembered. Hardison and Sophie were fascinated; their questions pointed out a few useful tips that might help later, so she jotted them down for Eliot. Nate, on the other hand, asked nothing. He just listened with undivided attention – always very disturbing for her – and his eyes seemed to be slightly glazed over.

Orion nestled with Parker in the chair, after he rummaged through the office and casually knocked over a few small plants. The thief surprised them all at one point. When Florence thought about going out and buying the cat's litter, or taking him out in the back yard, Parker left the table and went upstairs. She returned a minute later, armed with a cat toilet, litter, and his favorite food.

Even Nate was taken aback.

Parker sat and continued her meal, as if that wasn't anything special or even worth mentioning. Florence had a hard time hiding her warmth – and warmth often led to tears in her case – so she played along and simply said nothing.

She forgot that meals with the Leverage team never went without the sound of typing. Hardison worked on his tablet while they ate.

"I found him, you know? He is on his way here," the hacker said when the plates were taken away and only glasses remained on the table they had put in front of the chairs. "It took some time, though – I had to search for every alias I ever made for him, poking and probing all of them in various searches, until I found one of them used to rent a car. If only I'd asked you at once where your cabin was, I could've used it as a starting point, but by the time I remembered that, he'd already left. I caught up with him at LAX. He will soon be here."

"No, he won't be here soon," Nate said. He pointed towards the screens, and a square in the upper left corner, with many little surveillance camera recordings. "He is here. And I suggest you go and meet him."

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Whatever had happened with the team, Eliot knew he would have a hard time dealing with that alone. If they'd been grabbed, killed, held captive, arrested, or scattered – and he could come up with a few more outcomes – working on that without the hacker would be a gruesome stumbling in any search for clues. He had forgotten how on-foot investigations were slow and maddening, especially when results didn't simply appear on the screen.

Initially, he thought about a careful, probing approach, but his distraught nerves wouldn't let that happen. He pulled in directly at the front of the back yard, slammed the car door shut and marched in, carrying George.

He put him on the ground. The tree hummed Sitting on the Dock of the Bay, out of tune, and obviously out of his mind.

No one in sight; no delivery trucks or brewery staff. An eerie silence lay around the usually busy backyard.

If his luck held, somebody would be there hidden, waiting for him. A solid, dangerous trap was what he needed right now. It would give him a chance to finally punch somebody, and also spare him from trying to figure out where to start his search for the team.

That pathetic somebody would be his first trail, and dammit all, he was going to squeeze every last bit of information out of him. Preferably, out of them. The more, the merrier.

The first thing he saw was Lucille, innocently parked in her usual spot. Version A: the team was there, safe and sound. Version B: Lucille was full of somebodies waiting for him.

Both versions put a smile on his face, and he hastened his steps.

A quiet whistle, coming from the back door, stopped him mid-step. He turned sideways, keeping an eye on Lucille.

A small hand reached through the slit, and waved up and down. He didn't recognize the hand, but he did recognize the move.

One eye under a mess of tangled curls peered through the opening. "Hi there, handsome stranger."

He took another step towards her… and stopped.

"We are all here, the team is safe, and everything is fine," she said. She opened the door completely so he could check – no guns pointing at her back. Just an empty hall that led to their office.

"I will explain everything," she quickly continued, "but now stop staring. Breathe. And come here, finally."

He stopped staring. He took one long, long breath, held it a few seconds, and slowly exhaled.

Forcing his feet to move was more difficult than that. For the second time that day, relief melted him into a pitiful poodle.

Keep your composure up. Don't let her see how scared you were.

He came to her and put his hands into his pockets, putting an unfelt smile on his face. "Hello, stranger," he said, leaning with a shoulder on the door frame. "Ya' come here often?"

She raised her eyebrows at his casual tone, and something dark flickered in her eyes, dimming their light. Yeah, he thought his acting wouldn't fool her, anyway. One step, and she slid into his arms.

A painful knot clenched in his throat at that touch. He balanced between irrational anger, gratitude, tears and kisses, and a storm of curses and caresses whirled in his mind. He choked on the first word he tried to say, so he simply buried his face in her hair, and said none.

It took an immense effort not to squeeze her with all his strength; his muscles still vibrated with adrenaline and fear, ready for a fight. Her face was buried in his neck, her arms wrapped around him – and he just stood there, holding her, trying to calm down.

"You are allowed to feel, Eliot Spencer," she whispered finally. "You are allowed to be afraid. Don't act for me." She put her palm on his face and looked up, a gentle smile almost hiding a sorrow in her eyes. Almost.

Yeah, she knew. She could feel the tremble still set in his body, and no casual smile could hide his eyes.

Feelings are weakness, and that can be used against you, he tried to tell her, but stopped before any word went out. There wasn't any enemy out there, waiting to use that weakness, only the inner one. And that one has already beaten him. Every time he fought with his feelings, he lost. It was time to change the tactics.

He scooped her off her feet, and sat on the doorstep with her on his lap.

"My mind is a scary place," he said. His voice surprised him; a strangled, hoarse whisper. "No, be quiet." He put his finger on her lips; her eyes were big and dark. "Let me finish."

How could one explain fear and control, mingled together in order to survive?

"If you let fear out, if you show it, you're giving him power," he said. His hand trailed through her curls, too shaky for his liking. "I don't give power over me to anything." He gritted his teeth for a moment, fighting the storm raging in his chest. "Only you have it. And you always will."

She let out an unintelligible sound, and tears filled her eyes.

"That's why I don't have to show you how I feel. You know. You always knew that. And I would even cry now, without any problem, if only I could remember how to actually do it."

"I don't have problems with crying," she whispered. "I was so damn scared. I did everything – well, almost everything I remembered – and all those steps just complicated everything. I didn't know what to-"

"Shhh," he said. "Not now." He kissed her, and kissed her tears, but it didn't stop them.

"Coming here was the only thing I could think to do when you disappeared. I had to get to Nate to tell him what happened, so he could start searching for you – and then I remembered you told me that the team was being monitored too, and I thought they might have been killed or something…" Her whisper wavered as she spoke faster. "I thought I would never find out what had happened to you – and that's maybe even worse than actually knowing. Just imagine how you'd feel if I were to simply vanish one day, and you never-"

Dammit, no. He didn't want his thoughts going in that direction, ever. The weight of a heavy stone sat in his belly, cold and heavy. He reached to her face and gently wiped her tears, again, and then pinched her cheek.

That stopped her words. She looked at him in disbelief for the moment before her eyes flashed.

"I'm not…I don't look like mashed potatoes when I cry!"

"Of course not." He pinched her cheek again.

"Stop it." An amused frown, smile, and tears all mixed together, and took his breath away. "I mean it, Eliot. Bitch face commencing in three, two-"

He pinched her again and again, and she grumbled waving his hand off – and she finally laughed.

"That's better." He feigned another pinch and used it to block both of her hands. He wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. "And now, no more talking," he whispered in a kiss. "Just sit there and smile. This day is over, and it ended well. We'll start our weekend - now."

"Deal." She relaxed in his arms and snuggled closer, and he just held her, aware that his words were meant to calm him down more than her.

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Orion and George slept on the plant's shelf, under the artificial light. Orion had his nose resting on George's soil. This day had been exhausting for them too. Eliot sighed, wondering when he could grab Florence and leave the office. He hadn't slept for two days in a row.

He diverted his gaze from the pair and looked at the small bundle of annoyance marching to and fro in front of his feet, which were raised on the table.

"And, you meant to tell me about Woodward whenexactly?"

Eliot took the last bite of his black risotto, using it as an excuse to say nothing. It didn't stop Florence's pacing. He simply adored when her voice elevated to this angry thunder, followed by the lightning from her eyes. His own personal and miniature hurricane. Adorable.

"Sophie," she turned to the grifter curled up with a glass of wine in another chair. The team enjoyed the show, especially Hardison and Nate who were also a target of her grumbling. "Sophie, you have to teach me how to pull off a real bitch face. It seems that my current one is nothing but a source of immense joy for him."

Was he really that transparent? He quickly put on his sternest façade, and tried to scowl.

"Oh absolutely, no problem, my dear." Sophie sounded as if she was in matchmakers' heaven, and her cooing and warmth helped him to maintain his scowl. "It's quite easy, in fact. Just take a look, and try to repeat it."

Maybe he should've warned Florence. Sophie's face changed only slightly, even her smile stayed, but her eyes narrowed, cold and distant. Florence gasped. Yeah, she had never met Annie Croy before. Parker cackled as loudly as an evil imp.

"Leave it for later," Hardison jumped in, right on time. "After we all discuss the last twenty-four hours and the unfortunate chain of events-" That gave him another nasty look darted in his direction; she would continue with the Woodward issue later, he just knew that, "-we can concentrate on yesterday's case wrapping up. I'd prefer I could get my hands on some samples. We can still go an-"

"Nope," Nate said from behind them. He withdrew at the working table with papers and a bottle of whiskey after they had broached everything important.

"Are you sure? Scientifically speaking-"

"Nope. Do continue with the wrap up."

Hardison glared over their heads to Nate, and then obeyed. "Okay," he let out a tortured sigh. "In short, we have a happy ending on all fronts. First, the Police get one more tip about Francouer. This basic formula for gummy frogs in liquid form was meant for fake bonbons that would soon flood the market. It was almost in its final stage – the final action would be to add more jelly, or equivalent, before molding them into their frog shape. Thousands of gummy frogs…" his voice trailed into a whisper.

"Hardison, focus."

"The formula isn't exactly the same – hence the rose smell – and without scientific proof which I'm forbidden to provide, we can't tell whether it was hazardous for our health, or safe for consumption. The Police will have to take it over now and finish everything." Hardison pulled the documents and transactions onto the screen, and engaged into his report.

Florence sat in the chair next to him, and Eliot removed the plates around himself to make room for her, when it hit him. This was their first encounter with the Leverage team as a couple. Maybe that was the reason for her being so itchy when they joined them all in the office. He couldn't make her laugh even when he saw her bouquet for Nate and translated to her what, exactly, she had sent. Yeah, two sequences made her smile: Eliot flower flower away, and coming flower me followed – but that was all.

She had kept herself in the background while he talked with the team, until Hardison, very carefully, pulled her data from the USB on the screen. And the storm about Woodward followed.

No wonder she sat straight and stiff, not knowing what to do with her hands, or how to look at him.

And for the one long, long moment, he wasn't sure either.

She saw he stopped reaching for her, and she diverted her eyes as if watching Hardison's screen.

"… and if we add this to all the documents we already have framed him for, he is done for good." Hardison removed the images and put another sequence on the screen. "I also had time to wrap up a few missing details from our last three jobs. Ushi Gaeru Conglomerate has no connections with Francouer, nor does that hospital, or any make-up industry we fought in Drag Queen. However…"

Eliot tuned out Hardison's voice again. Hardison would provide a printed report anyway. Now he had more important things on his mind.

They were his damn family. She was the woman he loved. He had to, as soon as possible, override this strange hesitation. Showing his feelings within a small, trusted circle wasn't a weakness – it was supposed to be normal.

Yeah, he'd never considered himself a normal person. He had to learn how to behave as one, after so many years of hiding behind the masks and false identities. Reset buttons didn't work on whole pictures, whole lives. He had to apply them one by one, targeted application.

"Parker," he said to the thief sitting left of him in her chair. "Move."

She frowned at him at first, but she clearly read something in his eyes, because she sighed and got up.

He jumped onto his feet and scooped Florence up from her chair. They could both sit in Parker's throne; very close and very glued, just like he wanted it.

"She is mine," he proclaimed to the wave of flickering smiles on all the faces around them, even on Nate's. "Any objections?" Florence did smile, too, but she also blushed. That pink nuance almost stole all his attention, and he had to force himself to focus on the team.

"Nah, no objections," Hardison grinned as wide as he could. "Moving on with the briefing… btw, I found Farmville on Sterling's phone. Any idea how he got it?"

He squinted. Their smiles grew downright evil for a change. They all knew how he got it. "Yeah, a few ideas come to mind. I'll send him a friend request. Maybe a duck, or two."

Florence, still nestled in his embrace, looked at him a little weary. He hadn't reacted at her calling Sterling when they talked about the day's events, yet she clearly expected some sort of reaction. And the reason he said nothing was because he was so damn proud of her decisions. Some of them almost crushed him, like calling those damn cops… but it was worth it. And she noticed Woodward, a pro, all by herself. Calling Sterling for help was the right call.

He would wait until they were alone, finally, and tell her everything that he thought of her moves and decisions. She deserved it. And that finally wasn't in any near future. Sophie and Parker were already arranging tons of popcorn for the evening – they planned to watch the last three episodes of The Magnificent Seven together, with editorial notes just as they did back in Boston. Their crazy pace in the past month made them skip the viewing, and they wanted to catch up. And Florence so visibly enjoyed being here with then, that he didn't have the heart to mention leaving early.

His arm was wrapped around her shoulders and she rested her head on his chest. He could only see the top of her nose and curls, but even that was enough.

She was here now. They had time to be together. He stopped watching her and concentrated on Hardison again.

"… and with that, our happy ending is complete."

Wait, what? Hardison's briefings were usually endless.

"Can you repeat that last part?"

He gave him the perfect chance for mockery, but Hardison played nicely this evening and only frowned at him.

"Facial recognition camera wasn't aimed at us. We weren't the target. I tracked the manufacturer and followed the serial number. A woman bought it. Sue Walton, a journalist. She is a freelancer specialized in frauds and fakes and quite well known in Portland. I didn't have time to dig too deep, but I can be pretty sure Francouer was her mark. A high-resolution camera was needed to catch the details around the facility, more than faces of the personalities. I will work on her later and see if she might be useful in future. So, as I said, a happy ending. No threats, nothing connecting our four jobs. We've found our precious lost princess…," Hardison clicked his remote and the screens turned dark. His smile grew wider. "And even Florence is safe and sound, too."

Flo's giggle vibrated through his chest, so he spared the hacker any nasty glares. He was right, after all. This day couldn't have ended better than it did.

"And now," Sophie snatched the remote from Hardison. "Binge watching M7. Parker, bring forth the popcorn. Nate, will you join us?"

"Yeah, eventually," came his reply. "I can see the screen quite well from here."

He turned sideways to glance at Nate who rearranged the bunch of papers in front of him.

Nate poured his third glass of whiskey.

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Eliot waited until the middle of the first episode before he went for more popcorn, and after that he walked over to Nate. He waved to Florence he would join them again shortly, and they all continued with their comments and babbling.

Nate didn't look drunk, though his eyes shone a little brighter than usual. It could be because of the small lamp on the table, the only source of light except for the screens. It added a glistening, but still kept him in a half shadow.

Nate pulled out one more glass when he sat in front of him. He even directed the lamp sideways so it didn't flash into his eyes. The shadows deepened, and so did his worry.

It wasn't the time for beating around the bush. "What's wrong?"

"Not wrong, just… not pleasant thinking."

"Care to share?"

"You won't like it." Nate leaned back in the chair, and his face fell in deeper shadow. "It isn't wise to speak about the uselessness of protection when you have a protector in front of you. But you know that, too, right? You know how fragile our safety nets are."

"Both kinds," he said.

Nate raised his eyebrows in silent question.

"The real ones we put under the ones we love, and those in our minds, keeping us sane from fear."

"And because you know that, I can tell you this. You can't protect the people you love. You can't save them. The only thing you can do is to be with them as much as you can, to seize the time you are given. Don't waste time running around, destroying everything that might threaten them, because in the end that time would be wasted. Fate always finds a way."

"Is that the bottle speaking?" But even before pain flickered in Nate's eyes, he knew the answer. No, it was experience.

"When that time comes," Nate said quietly, "your security measures won't protect her. Your presence might. And even if it doesn't, you'll at least be with her. At least you'll know you haven't wasted your time."

"My security measures are-"

Nate raised his hand. "Wait. Do you remember the Occam's Razor Principle? A wise man once said, if I recall correctly…'If you have two equally likely solutions to a problem, choose the simplest'. If you go further, it simply becomes the Cut The Crap Principle; see what you must do, and do it the simplest way you can, without complicated plans, investigations, cons and all that shit."

Damn you, Nate, you and your perfect memory. His own words, as he had told Bonnano a long time ago, returned as a boomerang to his head.

"There's nothing simple in the protection business, Nate. You can't apply that to this situation."

"By all means. I wouldn't think of telling you how to do your job. But…"

"But, you are about to tell me how to do my job?"

A small smile danced on Nate's lips. "No. I will tell you something about fear. That shit forces us to build our defenses, to put defending walls around those whom we love. And it's never enough. You dig a ditch around your castle and fill it with water, then dig another one and fill it with fire. You strengthen your walls and build high towers; you spread barbed wire and sniper's nests… and again, fear whispers. It's never enough. So you add three more flowers to your signals, to cover more warnings. Making you dissect your fear into levels and degrees of danger, and charge at destiny, challenging it."

He took a sip of his whiskey, watching Nate's fingers playing with his glass. He rotated it on the table, one small movement to the right after every sentence. His unease grew.

"All parts of your planning are perfect. I talked with Pixie; she told me everything she remembered. Every wall, every tower would stop the enemy advancing to your castle. Tactically, it works."

"And what would a strategist do?

"He would take a look at your towers… and then go to your basement to study your groundwork. Remember my Center of Gravity plan back in Boston, when we thought we would have to take four jobs at once? To find the one point to press, that would crumble all of them at the same time? When you plan, you have to think of that one thing… one thing that's a core weakness. Pull that one card, and entire house of cards will cave in. Pull one string from a woolen vest, and see how it untangles. That's what happened to you today. If you learn how to eliminate that one weak link, there'll be no stopping you."

A weight settled firmly on his heart. The last time Nate did this was when they solved that cheerleader job. He pushed him to work on the mark, forcing him to find for himself what the best approach would be, how to press the right buttons. It wasn't his job.

"You did this before," he said. "You could have told me how to hook LeGrange the whole time, but you wanted to see if I could figure it out on my own. I trust someday very, very soon, you're gonna tell me what kind of game you're playing."

And the same reckless smile appeared on Nate's face. "I see the whole picture – I search for deep weaknesses in people's plans and actions. One day, you might face someone like me. Learn how to deal with him."

"That's your job. I bust heads."

Nate finished his drink in one sip, and pointed with the glass towards the group in front of the screens. "She is in LA," he said. "You will be there, perhaps, when trouble strikes the next time. You might be on your own, again. And I don't have to tell you how important the initial correct steps are if somebody charges at your castle."

"I'm surprised you didn't use chess as an example."

"Ah, chess is too simple for comparing against this game you are playing. It's the mere moving of pieces on the board. You made your plan like a three-dimensional chess board."

"Somehow, that doesn't sound like a compliment."

"It wasn't. One card was pulled out today. It crumbled."

Nate put the glass back on the table and leaned forward. The bleak amusement that colored his eyes until now evaporated. "In the end, Eliot, maybe whatever you do won't be enough. There is no such thing as perfect protection, even if she is here with you all the time – and you know it. And because you know it, because that fear never stops, only grows, you raise your towers."

The weight pressed harder. And he could feel the same weight on Nate's heart, when his eyes flickered towards the rest of the team.

He took the bottle and filled their glasses again. This time, when Nate ended his shot in one twist of his hand, his knuckles around the glass were white.

"You take care of the groundwork, and I'll take care of the towers, Nate."

"Yeah, it's working. For now." Nate put the bottle in the drawer. "No, go back to them. Don't waste your time. I'll join you for the second episode, as soon as I'm finished with this."

"This?"

"Final details about those four jobs. I'm taking one more look before I file them away."

Nate turned the lamp back on the papers, not watching him anymore, and he got up.

But he didn't go to Florence. He went to the shelf with light.

Orion purred when he tapped his head; George tried to purr, too, and almost choked himself.

He pulled an envelope under Orion; the envelope containing two words Nate wrote for him when they talked immediately after Vermont mess.

It said: phone malfunction.

A curse escaped him. One thing that would pull all others after itself, and everything would crumble. If he had a spare phone…if he had an earbud... if he…

Yeah, indeed his house of cards had many towers. And was useless when it first came to test.

"Sleep," he said to Orion and George, put the paper in his pocket, and returned to Florence and popcorn.

But Nate was wrong with one thing. He didn't have to learn how to make his groundwork solid. He didn't function that way. Tacticians never dwelt on lost battles; it was a waste of time and resources. They prepared for the next one.

He tried to play this chess game by moving the pieces and connecting them into an impenetrable net, one piece protecting the other in multiple layers. Too complicated and too fragile. Cut one layer of protection and even a hundred flower shops couldn't save the game.

Florence would spend more time in LA than in Boston. With C4, her show had fifteen episodes, but with CBS, twenty-two episodes in one season. His Queen would have a bishop now openly by her side, with Woodward's role revealed. She even had a useless King, that Buck; good for nothing except for being there to cover one field at her side. But it wasn't enough.

"Is everything all right?" Florence whispered.

"Perfectly fine," he said with a smile. "Unless you attack us with spoilers."

And it really was. Now he knew what his next step would be, and a glimpse of that future brought a grin on his face.

He wouldn't move the pieces anymore. He would move the board. He would change the players. He would mess with nuances between black and white, confusing everyone, hiding his Queen in plain sight.

And he had a brilliant idea how to do it.

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Five people in front of him laughed and commented on the episode; the smell of popcorn almost erased the taste of whiskey from his mouth. But Nate didn't join them.

Hardison had missed one small detail in his report about their four jobs. The hacker had no time to check everything, and this day was too filled with information.

He had told the hacker today that if he managed to find just one thing that connected them, it would be proof of something nasty going on, and now he had it. Hardison didn't think of translating the name of that Japanese conglomerate.

Ushi Gaeru. Bullfrog in English, the same as Lithobates Catesbeianus, a code name for Francouer's liquid gummy frogs. The two jobs that came one after another, with regular clients with no connection between them, with completely different case and crime.

Someone was playing with the Leverage team. Someone was messing with his game, leaving him bread crumbs to see and follow them.

He put four documents on the table – four jobs.

Letters danced in his mind. Details pirouetted on the papers, weaving all four jobs into one complicated spiral.

There was a center in that whirlpool, a fragile axis. It was too evasive for him to catch it, but he felt it right there, in the middle.

They had many enemies, some of them more powerful than others. But those four jobs that stirred his unease were all after they returned from Phoenix. After Ian de Bruin.

"I feel your mind," he whispered. "I feel you probing."

Laughter from the chairs, light and high, only gave a darker tone to his thoughts. He looked at the five people gathered around the popcorn, and a heavy weight settled in his heart.

You can't protect the people you love. You can't save them.

But sometimes you could.

He opened the drawer in his table, but he didn't touch the bottle this time.

He pulled out a gun and put it in his pocket.

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THE END