Nate liked McRory's after hours, when the only illumination came from the traffic and the hazy red and blues of the neon bar signs. In the midst of a job, when sleep came hard, it was quiet - it was peaceful.

It was occupied.

He stopped short as he saw the figure sitting at the bar, shoulders hunched as whoever it was tapped quietly at the screen of a phone.

Nate hadn't made much noise, but apparently he'd made enough. The man half turned and Nate saw a flash of blond hair and the collar of a leather jacket in the hi-beam of a passing car.

"Hi," the intruder said, and it sounded like he was smiling. "Nate Ford, right?"

Nate nodded; denials would be pointless and, besides, he wasn't in the mood to play games. "And you're?"

"A friend of Eliot Spencer's." The man paused and then added, "Kind of. I mean, last time we met we were pretty much trying to kill each other, but it wasn't personal or anything …"

Nate laughed.

"That's … funny?" Another flash of light and he could see the man had his hands palm down on the bar.

"It's 4 am, everything's funny. What can I do for you?" Nate reached across and flicked the switch on the wall; the small bulbs around the bar flickered on. Low light, but still light. The man squinted as his vision undoubtedly blurred, but didn't seem particularly concerned by the sudden handicap.

So that was encouraging: Fontaine probably hadn't sent an unusually mellow hitter to take Nate out.

Probably.

The man turned away from the bar slowly, still hunched to make himself look smaller. Nate didn't buy the harmless veneer for a moment, but he supposed he appreciated the thought. Or would, as long as a gun or knife weren't forthcoming.

Instead a disarming smile came his way. "Actually, Mr Ford, it's what I can do for you."

"We already have a hitter, thanks."

A wince. "Yeah, funny story - not so much."

Nate paused and canted his head. "What happened?" He kept his tone level and his expression clear, thought about crossing his arms, but decided against it. Sophie's voice whispered it would look too guarded and put the other man on alert: the last thing he wanted.

On the other hand, the man looked more sheepish than dangerous. His hands moved as he sketched vaguely in the air. "There was a thing, and then there was another thing, and Spencer – Eliot - asked me to sub in while he's taking care of…."

"Let me guess: things," Nate finished dryly. "Eliot Spencer - the guy who tried to kill you or … you tried to kill … whatever - Eliot asked you to play substitute, and you came?"

"Well 'asked' may be a little strong," the man admitted. "He said if anything happened to the team – your team, I guess - because of this completely unavoidable thing, he'd come after me and everything I ever loved."

A slightly self-mocking smile appeared. "And I really love my sofa. It's worn just right."

Nate leaned over the bar and fished out a glass and bottle of whiskey. He poured a measured amount, regarded it for a moment and then knocked it back; the man watched patiently.

He poured himself another shot, cleared his throat and then looked back to his visitor. "So – correct me if I'm wrong – you and Eliot ran across each other, let's say fisticuffs were exchanged and by the time you both figured out you were wearing the white hats now, he was too beat up to go on the job tomorrow. Am I close?"

"Pretty close." The man nodded slowly, as if weighing interpretation. "Something … like that. Except, fisticuffs?" He raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

Nate ignored that. "The trouble is – and don't take this the wrong way – if you were good enough to take down Eliot, I'd know who you are."

"Christopher Chance." Chance held out his hand.

Nate shook the offered hand; it was callused in ways he'd come to associate with people who handled guns. A lot.

"I thought that might be a problem, so I brought references. You know Marty Jacobs?"

Nate nodded. Oh, he knew Marty Jacobs.

"He hates me," Chance said with complete sincerity. "I think he has a dartboard with my picture on it. And Paulie Franze? Still tries to kill me at least once a year."

"Traditionally, references are from reputable people you would expect to trust."

Chance smiled crookedly. "You trust anyone, Mr Ford?"

Nate waved a finger as he considered; no one was coming immediately to mind, not even himself. "You have a point," he conceded. And he was inclined to think well of anyone Franze wanted dead. He brought his glass to his lips.

"And I didn't exactly take Spencer down – technically, the army did that."

Nate choked on his whiskey and Chance went on rapidly, trying to reassure. "He's fine, really, and my people are on it. He just didn't want you going into whatever you're going into a man down, and there was no way we were springing him in time."

"Your people?" Nate cleared his throat again and put his glass on the bar, pushed it away.

"Sure, my people. They're like your people, maybe a little - a lot - less subtle."

"What did he say?"

Chance looked bemused. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," Nate looked at him steadily.

The other man smirked. "He said to tell you he really, really hates monkeys. Mean anything to you?"

Nate relaxed, just a little. "Enough. Welcome on board, Mr Chance."

"Just Chance. So … what is the job, exactly?"

-o-

Through narrowed eyes, Parker watched the man sitting beside her at the table. When he didn't seem to notice, she poked him in the side.

"Still not Eliot," he muttered out the side of his mouth, without turning his attention from the screen in front of them.

"I know that. Everyone knows that." Parker rolled her eyes dramatically heavenwards, as if she hadn't spent the first ten minutes of their acquaintance looking at him first through one eye, then the other, as if trying to see through an illusion.

She leaned closer. "You're, what? Five-eleven? Hundred and eighty … three pounds … eighty three and a half?"

"Good guess." He did look at her now, more than a little wary. "Why?"

Her smile was thin and sharp. "I might need to push you off a building."

He relaxed. "I get that a lot."

Hardison cleared his throat pointedly. "If we're finished with the talking? Eliot doesn't do that, by the way. If you're trying to be Eliot-"

"I'm not trying to be Eliot," Chance pointed out – again. "My hair's not long enough ... and I can reach the high shel- ow."

Parker's surprisingly strong fingers released their grip on the pressure point above his elbow.

"Parker," Sophie chided gently, if not remotely sincerely. "Mr Chance is helping us, so stop hitting him." She turned a chilly look his way. "Even if he does deserve it."

Sophie hadn't bought Chance's explanation about the things at all, and she was being significantly more pointed about it than Nate, the pragmatist, had been.

Nate almost wished he had a hangover; at least that would give him a reason to cover his ears. In lieu of that, he spoke quickly before the bickering could really set in. "Hardison! Move it along."

"Hey, I'm moving," Hardison protested. "They're the ones-"

Nate pinched the bridge of his nose. "Hardison. Please. Just – Fontaine."

"Fine." Hardison took a moment to glare at Chance too, and then turned to the screen as digitally tagged documents began to flicker past. It meant nothing to Chance, but the others focused intently.

"Fontaine went for it," Hardison reported smugly. "All her eggs are in one basket and all her basket are belong to us."

"Baskets," Nate corrected automatically.

"No, basket. Well, base." Chance looked to Hardison. "Zero Wing, right?"

Hardison opened his mouth and then closed it, but not before a tiny sound of joy escaped. He drew himself together quickly and pointed a finger. "I know you got Eliot arrested by an entire army, don't think you're winning me over."

Chance raised his hands with an innocent expression. "Hey, wouldn't dream of it." He smirked and quietly added, "For great justice."

Hardison swallowed rapidly, considered proposing and caught himself just in time. "The point is, we're good - all we got to do is get Markham to try and withdraw the money. We don't even need fists of fury."

Nate nodded, all business now. "Okay, good. Sophie, keep on Markham. Parker, you've got the office and Hardison, you're pulling the switch."

Chance waved a hand. "And me?"

"You're with Hardison. Should be a walk in the park."

-o-

Three explosions, a sprinkler malfunction and a hail of bullets later, Hardison begrudgingly admitted that Chance had been useful, and maybe even nearly as good as Eliot, and way more understanding when someone – for example – screamed like a girl and accidentally hit him with a rebar.

-o-

Sophie was gentle as she smoothed a Band-Aid over the cut on Chance's cheek. It had been a glancing blow, he'd been lucky, but it was still red and sore-looking, and he'd been very understanding all things considered, so she was inclined to defrost a little.

"Thank you," she murmured. "For filling in. We do appreciate it."

He waved a careless hand and tried to stay still; Winston had trained him well. "Hey, any time. As long as that time is later and Hardison isn't allowed within ten feet of me."

Hardison scowled. "Look, it was dark and I didn't recognise you. I apologised, it's not cool to keep bringing it up."

"I'm surprised Spencer didn't teach you a little self-defence."

"Oh, he did." Sophie smiled grimly.

Apparently Chance had stepped into an old argument.

"These hands? Are artist's hands." Hardison waved said hands. "I break these and you're back in the Stone Age, people. Respect the hands."

"Right. Respecting the hands." Chance nodded. His cell rang and he reached for it gratefully; sanity would hopefully be on the other end. Recognising the caller ID, he revised his hopes a little. "Chance."

"Hey, dude."

Guerrero sounded relaxed, but that didn't mean a whole hell of a lot and that it wasn't Winston wasn't real encouraging. "You guys done?"

The line crackled. "We've got a good news, bad news thing going on."

Chance glanced around the ring of faces looking at him expectantly and turned slightly away. "Uh huh?"

"We found Spencer."

Out of the corner of his eye, Chance could see Hardison tapping at his computer and frowning. Given the private conversation was probably about to become public in a few seconds anyway, he switched to speaker and put the phone on the table.

"We already knew where he was," he replied in what he hoped was a confidence inspiring tone.

"Yeah, turns out we just thought we knew where he was."

"So where is he actually?" Nate asked quietly, a thread of something in his tone that made Chance tense, just a little.

Guerrero ignored the new voice. "You remember General Bak?"

Chance winced. "Okay, there's the bad news - what's the good news?"

"That bar you liked in Chunghwa is still open."

"Thanks, Guerrero."

"Hey, any time, dude."

Chance leaned forward to collect his phone and then looked up at the faces surrounding him with expressions ranging from concern to hostility. He smiled brightly. "Field trip?"