For Mitchy

Parker likes money.

Money and space, and space is space - she doesn't care if it's horizontal or vertical. It's all distance, if you think about it - it's not her fault no one ever seems to want to.

And bunny. Money, space and bunny: that's home.

And cereal.

And top of the line security systems with motion activated, infrared cameras.

So when Hardison shows up at the warehouse door – her door - she can see him and (more importantly) she can see he isn't bringing any of those things.

He couldn't bring bunny, she allows. Or space. He might have money, but he'd be pretty stupid to have it out in the open in this neighbourhood - jeez.

That just leaves cereal and he does have a bag slung across his shoulder; it might have cereal in it.

He doesn't knock; he waits, patiently looking up into the security camera. The camera he can see.

Warily, she opens the door just enough that she can sidle through the gap and then tugs it closed behind her. "Did you bring cereal?"

Hardison blinks as if that wasn't the question he was expecting. She gets that look a lot; she ignores it.

At least he always catches up quickly.

"I did not," he confesses, "and that's just rude, because guests bring wine or a box of chocolates or … cereal. I can run to the store. That sugar crunch stuff, right? Bad for your teeth, good for your soul?"

She wavers, but shakes her head; she has fifteen and two-thirds boxes, that's probably enough. For now. "It's okay. What do you want?"

He shuffles his feet and seems to try out a few answers in his head before he finally settles on, "I was in the neighbourhood."

"Really?" She looks around doubtfully. "Why?"

He smiles. "Because you're in the neighbourhood."

"Oh." That means something, she knows that, but there are so many possibilities and it's just easier when there's a bowl of pretzels around. But, she can do this. She can totally do this. "Would you like to come in and … do stuff?"

"I would like that. And I did bring you something, just not cereal."

She backs up to let him in, closes the door and then leads him through the darkness – the clean, empty space – to her little living area.

"What did you get me?" Was that too demanding? She's not sure, but Hardison seems to take it okay. She relaxes; this is Hardison, who gets it, who doesn't look at her funny unless she asks if he's carrying concealed cereal.

"Meet Herbert." From his bag, he pulls a small, leafy plant. It's like the one she had in her office, when they had an office, before it exploded. With her plant. It's green and vibrant, and a little squished from the bag.

"It's squished," she says, and touches a leaf to gently smooth it.

"Sorry, Ava's a little heavy." Hardison pats his laptop gently, as if worried it will take offense.

"No, I like it." She puts it on her workbench, picks it up and moves it again – it can't be too near the papers. Can't be too near the edge. Can't be too near -.

"You know, plants need sunlight."

She pauses on the fifth re-arrangement and looks around pensively. "No windows."

"Well, maybe we can figure something out." Hardison's smile widens, and she still doesn't know exactly why, but she smiles back.

Space isn't just distance, if she thinks about it.