Disclaimer: I don't own Leverage.

Note: I am finally trying my hand at a plotty Leverage fic! Updates on this may be sporadic.

Stepping into the eight foot by eight foot cell he's told he will share with a man named Big Mike, Nate decides that there are many worse places to be.

He's been sentenced to four years in a minimum security Massachusetts prison for fraud. If he exhibits good behavior he will get out in three.

He's allowed full access to his mail, though it will go through a basic screening process first. He can use his bank accounts to purchase almost anything off the internet. He's not permitted any non-governmental visitors, which Nate thinks Sterling intended as additional punishment but which he's really quite thankful for.

He has a pretty good idea that no one on his team is happy with him for getting himself into this situation. They've all spent the better part of their lives escaping from people like Sterling. (Like Nate.) They can't understand why Nate would choose to turn himself in rather than do everything possible to escape, even if that meant being a fugitive forever. They don't understand (because they're happy to be thieves and can't comprehend how very hard it was for Nate to accept that he truly wasn't one of the good guys—at least by his old definition—any more) that Nate did the only thing he could, the only thing that would take the heat off of all of them, and that he'd make the same decision again in a heartbeat.

So, yeah, he's glad they aren't allowed to visit him. He doesn't want to rehash all of his decisions with them. He doesn't want to be a part of any rescue plans. In fact, he doesn't want them to be tied to him in any way. He's not an insurance agent any longer. He's a thief now, and that makes him dangerous to be around.

Big Mike is maybe six and a half feet tall and has black prison tattoos that run the length of his arms, which are about the size of Nate's legs. When two prison guards—and a smirking Sterling, who has continued to insinuate himself into Nate's business long after Interpol's interest in events was satisfied—usher Nate into the cell, Big Mike rises to tower over him, scowling impressively.

"Enjoy your stay, Nate," Sterling says, smirking, as the bars swing shut, locking with a clang.

"Thanks," Nate says, strolling over to his bunk and testing it with his hand. It's hard as a rock but he doesn't show any signs of dismay as he flashes Sterling a grin. "I plan to."

Sterling grimaces. He's spent the last few months trying to get Nate to admit that Sterling is superior, to no avail. "Keep an eye on this one," he tells the guards. "He's tricky."

One guard stifles a yawn and the other nods. "We'll show you out, sir," the yawner says.

Nate listens as they walk away and only relaxes when he can no longer hear them. He looks at his cellmate, who gazes back and cracks his knuckles. "You must be Big Mike," Nate says. "I've heard good things."

Big Mike glowers a moment longer before his craggy face breaks into a smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Ford," he says, extending his hand. "Eliot talks very highly of you."

They shake hands—Nate notes that Big Mike is clearly making an effort to be gentle, as he could easily break Nate's fingers just by squeezing—and settle comfortably on their bunks facing each other. The healed bullet wound in Nate's abdomen tugs a bit uncomfortably, but the doctor assured him that within a year or so the scar should fade and most of the lingering soreness should dissipate.

"The feeling's mutual," Nate says. "What did Eliot tell you?"

"He asked me and a few of the other guys in here to keep an eye on you—said you've built up a nice collection of enemies who might start gunning for you now that you're stuck here."

Nate thinks that it's unlikely he's in any real danger, but he appreciates the thought. He takes a moment to examine their cell. Big Mike's side is sparsely decorated with a few pictures of an older couple that must have been Big Mike's parents and movie posters of Casablanca and Sabrina. He has a bookshelf filled with magazines and a small clock radio. There's a toilet and sink roughly in the middle of the back wall, both of which appear to be in good repair. Nate's side of the cell is bare except for the bunk.

Nate smoothes his hands down his stiff orange prison uniform. "When can I order some things to liven the place up?"

"I'll show you the computer lab after dinner," Big Mike says. "What are you going to get? A Rita Hayworth poster?"

Nate laughs at the Shawshank Redemption reference. "I'm not planning to tunnel out of here. Nor am I going to carve my own sandstone chess pieces. I'll buy them instead. And a few books to keep me occupied."

"Want a magazine for now?" Big Mike offers, reaching into his bookshelf without waiting for a response.

"Thanks." Nate accepts the copy of Tires and Wrenches and leans back in his bunk to read while Big Mike does the same.

Dinner is about half an hour later and is heralded by a loud buzzer followed by the cell doors automatically opening. Nate takes his time getting up, not particularly excited by the thought of prison food, and follows Big Mike into the mass of inmates heading for the dining hall.

It's impossible to lose sight of Big Mike even in the crush of people, but Nate allows himself to be separated from the man nevertheless. Much as he appreciates the security of knowing Big Mike's on his side, he wants to take some time to learn about his fellow prisoners and he can't do that by sitting with the most conspicuous man there.

He reaches the dining hall and gets in line between a grey-haired man who manages to look as if he's wearing a suit despite his orange attire and a young Asian fellow who gazes at Nate with a total lack of interest. He waits to receive his serving of the evening meal—a brownish lump of meatloaf—and carries it to a table at the far side of the room, where he sits alone.

He eats mechanically, doing his best not to taste the food—though it isn't much worse than some of the meals Hardison used to cook up—as he peruses the crowd, making mental notes as he goes.

Most of the inmates are sitting in cliques. At one table are the rich white men, the Enron types who weren't quite rich or high publicity enough to merit an even cushier prison. At another are what appears to be an entire gang of Hispanics who were probably arrested on tax evasion or something similar since they aren't in a higher security prison. Then there are the petty thieves, the brutes (Big Mike is part of this group), the would-be con artists, the hapless criminals, and…he's not sure how to classify the last group, three young men, all of them small in stature and thin as if they've dropped too much weight recently, but he thinks he'll call them the innocents. They're the ones who haven't actually committed any crimes—or who at least do a good job pretending that they haven't.

There are a few outliers, of course, people who haven't successfully insinuated themselves into any group, but most of these look either dangerous or pathetic. And then there's Nate, who is as unique in this pit of criminals as he was in the world of honest men.

It takes him about fifteen minutes to size up everyone in the room. It takes him ten to finish his meatloaf. He spends the next fifteen minutes until dinner ends tapping his fingers restlessly against the table and longing for a scotch.

Big Mike finds him when the buzzer goes off again. "Everything okay?" he asks, as if Nate might be hiding a stab wound.

"Dandy," Nate says.

Big Mike carries Nate's tray to the garbage and clears it off for him, dropping it onto a stack of other trays. "We've got three hours for recreation before they shepherd us back to our cells. Let me show you to the library."

The library is bigger than Nate expected, with ten large shelves overflowing front and back with books. There are two computers and four desks and a sign on the wall that says "Respect Your Neighbor—No Talking."

"I'll leave you to it," Big Mike says, gesturing at the computers. He pulls one of his magazines from a back pocket and sits at a nearby table.

"You don't have to wait," Nate says.

Big Mike laughs. "If I leave you alone and you get killed I'll have to explain what happened to Eliot someday. No thank you."

Nate reminds himself that it's endearing, not annoying, to have an overprotective family of thieves.

He spends the next little while hopping from website to website, ordering a bookshelf, books, a chess set, and a Van Gogh print to hang on his wall. He finds that all e-mail and chat sites are blocked. He's just settling in to catch up on the news from the past few months when someone sits at the computer next to him.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Big Mike tense, sit up, examine the newcomer, and relax again.

The newcomer is barely more than a boy, perhaps 19 or 20 years old. He has short blonde hair, worried blue eyes, and a bit of fuzz around his lip as if he is trying and failing to grow a beard. He is one of those Nate deemed to be innocent.

Perhaps feeling Nate's eyes on him, the boy glances at him and forces a smile. "Hi."

"Hello," Nate says.

They don't talk for a long while after that. Nate can't help but look over every once and a while and note that the boy appears to be researching appeals and phrases like "circumstantial evidence."

There's only five minutes left to go before they're sent back to their cells when the boy blurts, "You're Nate Ford, aren't you?"

Nate minimizes the article he's been reading about a stolen Degas. (The theft has Adrian Connor written all over it, with the clever use of mirrors and the fact that the owner is an old woman—Connor's got a strange mother complex—but Nate's not going to tell Sterling that. Let the cockney bastard figure it out for himself and try to hunt down a man who's not averse to spending the night in an outhouse to avoid capture.) He turns in his seat to face the boy. "I am," he says.

"I've, uh, heard about you through the grapevine. They say you're a genius."

Nate shrugs modestly. "I'm just a thief."

"Not just. Not from what I hear." The boy rubs his hand over his short hair. "I'm Sam," he says. "Sam Michaels."

The world freezes around Nate for a moment at the name—his dead son's name—and then releases in what feels like a sigh. "Sam," he manages. "That's a good name."

Sam blinks at him, his brow furrowing. "I guess?" He shakes his head. "Listen, I was wondering whether you'd be willing to help me. I'm not supposed to be in here. I didn't do anything wrong."

Nate scratches his chin. "I'm sorry, but I'm out of the business."

Sam stares at him blankly. "Business? What business? I was just hoping you could give me some advice about arguing my case in an appeals court."

The buzzer goes off. Nate closes the windows on his computer and stands, sensing rather than seeing Big Mike stand as well.

"Find me tomorrow," Nate tells Sam. "I'm no legal expert, but maybe I can help you out."

Sam beams and sketches a sloppy mock salute. Nate would give anything for one drop of alcohol.