Disclaimer: I do not own Leverage, or any of the characters, places, or events contained therein. Which, frankly, is a very good thing.

"Flashbacks": This flashback is also about Nate and Eliot's first meeting; this time--Eliot's perspective on Nate. This is actually what will be the third flashback in the series. Confusing? I know, bear with me. I wish for them to fall chronologically into the timeline of The First David Job, so while the elements within the actually flashbacks do coincide, I will soon be putting in another chapter, with a flashback between Nate and Sophie that falls chronologically between these two. It's almost done, this one just happened to finish writing itself first. Oops.

Note: To those who reviewed the previous chapter—Arigatougozaimashita! (Thank you very much!) I had hoped for 10 reviews and that's precisely what I got. I'm very grateful. If you liked this chapter and want to see more, do let me know! As I mentioned, another flashback is in the works. You can look for it soon. Till then--Dozo yoroshiku onegaishimasu!

Flashback 3: "Honest Man"

Eliot came to full consciousness and gave no outward sign of it. It had taken years of careful training, but he had learned to claim the advantage of surprise by assessing his surroundings and his own physical status well before betraying the fact that he was conscious to anyone nearby.

Where was I? was the first question to address. He quickly pulled 'number three safe house' from recent memory and then checked that information against what was currently being provided by his available senses. He was pleased to discover that he was in the same approximate location.

What woke me? came next. The answer to that question was often an unpleasant one. He discarded the throbbing of his ribs and head. They were a factor, but not what he was looking for. The faint sound of an exhaled sigh gave him the answer. He was no longer alone. His eyes snapped open and locked onto Nate Ford's.

"Morning." said the older man with a grim smile.

(Eliot: Flashback)

Eliot's return to consciousness was violent. He was aware only of pain and the fact that he was prone, vulnerable. His instincts told him to come up fighting. Unfortunately, the hospital bed he was lying in proved an uninteresting opponent while the handcuffs tethering his good arm to the side of the bed were an unyielding one. But pain was the opponent that defeated him. All those sudden movements tore at injuries that had only just begun to heal. Eliot curled up on his side as he rode out the pain with a gasping hiss of frustration. When he opened his eye (one was still swollen shut), he found himself staring directly into the eyes of...Nathan Ford?

The rookie insurance agent sat there with a grim smile on his face and a small bandage on his temple, over what was becoming one of several nasty bruises. "Morning," he said simply. There were no twinges of compassion this time, as he watched Eliot struggle to master the pain. Apparently he had learned his lesson well.

The part of Eliot that wasn't writhing in agony smiled at this. He could respect a man who learned quickly. Still...his fevered brain was slowly kicking into gear...why is the insurance cop here? Why was he himself here at all? He briefly replayed his most recent memories.

He had somehow made it to the drop point. His client had been there with the money, everything had gone as planned. But then there had been a signal and another guy had appeared; the sort of guy whose appearance evokes images of the Incredible Hulk. The client had gotten greedy: why just take the painting when you can also keep the money you paid for it? It was not an uncommon gambit. No honor among thieves, after all. Eliot was generally capable of thwarting simple tricks like this. Not tonight. One solid hit and he was done. Another, and he was blissfully unconscious. Then why was this irritating company-man sitting in his hospital room, instead of standing over his corpse several floors below? It made no kind of sense.

One thing was for sure. "...'s not..." his attempt at speech was less than successful. He tried again, "'s not morning." he managed.

Ford's eyebrows went up, but he winced as the movement stretched nearby bruises. "Well I wouldn't know," the man said, "Some kid knocked me out earlier." He put a hand gingerly to his temple.

Eliot made what would have been a snort, if it had not been interrupted by a fit of coughing.

"Um," said Ford with a frown, "You should try not to do that." he advised.

Eliot gave him a skeptical look when the fit had subsided and Ford shrugged. "Doctors were saying something about internal bleeding.If I'm not mistaken, they even did some very interesting surgery down there." He motioned vaguely towards the hitter's torso.

Eliot's one useable eye went immediately to his middle in alarm, as if some unthinkable horror might have occurred beneath the blue dotted pattern of the hospital gown.

"Don't worry," said Ford evidently trying and failing to keep the laugh out of his voice. "Everything seems to be generally in order."

Eliot scowled back. "So why'm I here?" he asked pointedly.

Ford shrugged. "Luck, I guess." He said simply. "When I woke up I followed your trail to see if I could snag the Monet as the deal went down, but all I found was you, your payout, and a very large man about to take care of both."

Eliot was still frowning. "And?" he asked.

"And I took care of him," supplied Ford.

Eliot's battered face still managed to convey his utter disbelief.

Ford seemed affronted. He patted his jacket pocket. "Hey, just because I'd rather not use it doesn't mean I don't know how!"

Eliot found the small vein of hurt in the older man's voice rather amusing. "So ya brought me here?" he asked.

Again, a non-committal shrug from Ford. "I'm out of leads," he said, "And I was already headed in this direction," he gestured toward the bandage on his temple.

"So why stick around?" Eliot rasped, still frowning stolidly, "Ya'already got the money, 'n the painting's long gone."

"Oh the money's right here." said Ford, standing and pushing open the door of the room's tiny closet. Inside was a nondescript black duffle. "I put some clothes in on top, in case anyone looks in. Local goodwill stuff, possibly not your style," the insurance cop smiled at that.

Eliot was lying in astonished silence so Ford took the opportunity to continue. "And if anyone asks, I'm your cousin Jim." He walked back over to the bed. "Here's the key to that," he motioned to the handcuffs and dropped a small key into Eliot's right hand. "But I recommend you stay here for several more days." He caught Eliot's reflexive frown and added, "The doctors and nurses here agree with me--strongly." He pulled his coat off of the side of the chair and slid his arms into it as he turned to the door.

"Why?" Eliot's question was barely audible.

Ford turned back with a questioning look. "Why, what?"he asked.

"All of this--" Eliot's gesture was less than effective with one arm tethered and the other bound and cast. "Why're ya doing it?"

Ford sat back down and looked him intently, chin in one hand. "I'm an honest man, Spencer," he said, "I don't steal what I'm not sent to recover, and I'd never leave a man to die in the street just because he won a fight I started." He let those words sink in and then stood up again, "Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to track down the lowlife you handed that painting off to."

He again made for the door and again was stopped by a quiet word from Eliot. "Wait," said the stunned hitter.

Ford turned back with a questioning look.

"Marco," said Eliot quietly. "The client's name is Marco. His collection is in his mansion up at Clearview. The Monet's gonna be headed for his impressionist gallery in the..." Eliot thought for a moment. "...northeast wing."

Ford was nodding appreciatively.

"Security's ex-military contractors, so run a tight con, pay a good thief, or hire a small army, but don't (Eliot was surprised at the conviction in his own voice), don't try ta go it alone."

Ford smiled and walked over again, this time taking the key from Eliot's hand, unlocking the cuff and grasping the hand in a firm handshake. "Thank you, Eliot." He said warmly, and released the hand.

Eliot felt he should say something but wasn't sure how. His core assumptions about human nature had just been shaken. And there was also the fact that he couldn't remember the last time he had thanked a fellow human being for anything. Words of gratitude were truly alien to him. Still, this man deserved the attempt. "Thanks...Mr. Ford," he muttered tentatively, not making eye contact.

"Nate," the man said, "You can call me Nate."

Eliot nodded and then managed to meet the insurance man's open gaze. "Thanks Nate," he said, and found he actually meant it.

Nate nodded and opened the door, "Here's hoping we never cross paths again," he said with a wave and then was gone.

"Yeah," Eliot mused, allowing himself a wry smile. "Here's hoping."

(Back to the present)

Eliot gave a chuckle at the memory. Funny how glad he was that that wish hadn't come true.

"'s not mornin'," he noted as he sat up with a smile that was quickly interrupted by a wince. Those ribs ached something fierce. He hadn't intended to drift off, but pain was tiring--and so was waiting.

"Concussion must not be too bad if your internal clock is still working," said Nate with false cheer.

"Wouldn' count on that," muttered Eliot, as a wave of nausea swept through him.

Nate correctly identified Eliot's expression and tapped his foot against the small plastic garbage can he'd placed strategically by the bed.

Eliot wore a look of intense concentration for a long moment but then shook his head slightly. "I'm alright." He said at last.

"Good." Nate nodded. "You've got a part in the recovery operation." He said as he stood, beckoning Eliot to follow.

"'K." In honest self-assessment, Eliot found that he was still up for some action. Not a lot of action, perhaps, but the lives of two of his teammates were on the line and he could afford the risk to his personal safety. That was, after all, what he did.

But something he'd thought of earlier was still nagging at him. It took him a moment to find it.

"Nate," he asked, once again as the ex-insurance man was almost out the door.

"Yeah." Nate's reply was curt, preoccupied.

"How did Sophie manage ta blow us?" he asked.

Nate looked genuinely surprised. "What makes you think this was Sophie's fault?"

Eliot shrugged. "Gen'rally when a job goes bad, it's the one who didn't get caught or beat to shit who's to blame. So..."

"That would be two of us, Eliot," Nate reminded him, looking at the hitter as if possibly his concussion was a good deal more serious than he'd previously thought. "Sophie and me. What makes you think it wasn't my fault?"

Eliot gave a short laugh, as if the question wasn't even worth considering. "You're an honest man, Nate."

The leader of the band of thieves blinked at Eliot, seeing for perhaps the first time the level of trust, the implicit respect that was at the core of their relationship.

Eliot just rolled his eyes and swung his legs over the side of the rickety bed with a grunt.

Nate offered him a hand up and the hitter took it without a second thought, standing with one hand supporting broken ribs, pausing to quell another wave of nausea.

"Thanks Eliot." said Nate.

Eliot gave him a sideways look, not really understanding what he was being thanked for. He shrugged. "Whatever, man." And he gave Nate an amiable slap on the back as they walked into the little apartment's main room. "Any time."