Some of the images in the second half (while not graphic) might be triggering for some readers. Please read with caution.

VI

Forget what we're told
Before we get too old,
Show me a garden that's bursting into life.Let's waste time
Chasing cars
Around our heads -I need your grace
To remind me
To find my own.

Nate still hadn't stirred four days later.

The team tore down all the stuff they'd left scattered through the hospital; cleaned up the conference room, stopped the computer from lying about the room being used. Scrubbed the security tapes just in case, wiped the vents for fingerprints. Took turns making lunch runs, picking up dinner or coffee or new DVDs, library books, checking their various P.O. boxes for new clients - anything to pass the time, give them something to look at that wasn't white walls and machinery and each other.

The table in Nate's room held a veritable zoo of animals – one from each time Parker had needed a break from the curtained room and their silent friend. The others had added things slowly. A pile of books from Eliot, a new looking DS and a stack of games that Hardison had picked up somewhere. An old, beat-up Winnie the Pooh that Sophie refused to explain. Flowers and shiny rocks and newspapers. They were, after all, thieves. Thieves collected things, even if it was just to trade them in for favors or pass them off as bribes.

Maybe they were trying to bribe Nate back from wherever he was right now. None of them were certain - they didn't usually speak in passing.

They were running out of things to say.

Eliot was the only one who talked to Bonanno when he came by to check up on them, the only one the cop told anything to – but he turned right back around and told them all, so that was okay.

Malcolm's case, it seemed, was likely to be difficult, the detective kept warning them, if it went to court at all. Toby and Austin would be easy – D.N.A. was hard to argue with, after all, but Malcolm had kept his hands clean. Even their search of his hotel room had turned up absolutely nothing.

"We can get him on attempted murder for what he tried to do here," he said, this time. "If…if Hardison and Parker are willing to testify…"

And there was part of the problem. Most of their cases weren't the sort that went to court – they were the kind where rich men made plea bargains and went to jail much poorer men. They didn't have to be involved in the sentencing. Or the trial. Or anything like that.

"You should stick around, regardless," Bonanno continued; the forced humor in his tone almost painful to hear. "You did good. Unorthodox, but good. If any of you ever want a new job…"

Eliot just gave him a blank stare.

"You could be consultants?" Bonanno tried again.

"Goodbye, Pat," Eliot growled. "We'll call you if anything changes."

But nothing did.

The doctors remained cautious, the team remained stir-crazy.

Parker finished her nineteenth animal rescuing run, clutching a tiny elephant this time, only to return to a room empty of anyone but Nate.

Enough is enough!

She shoved the little elephant in her pocket, turned on her heel and stalked down to the café. Hardison sat sprawled at a corner table, typing away on his computer. She peered over his shoulder – frowned at the search terms. Coma patient. Smoke inhalation and rape victim and psychosomatic were scrawled on the notepad beneath his hand. She growled, grabbed the pen from his fingers with one hand, his computer with the other, slapping it shut.

"Woman!" He barked, "Give that back!"

"Man!" She snapped back, "no." She tucked the laptop under her arm and stomped out of the cafeteria, well aware of the eyes of all the other, normal people on her. She ignored them as she stormed towards the door.

"Parker, what has gotten into you?" Hardison asked as he jogged after her, trying to reach out and reclaim the laptop. She pulled it away, scowling still.

"All of you," she snapped back, storming out the door and across the street without bothering to check the traffic. Hardison almost followed her, but had to scramble to a stop when the light changed. By the time he was able to cross, she was halfway up the fire escape of the Outpatient building. She could hear him clomping and stomping up after her, but kept going until the fire escape ended and she could see the peaceful garden on the roof, see the city spreading out below them.

And Eliot, doing some sort of elaborate, martial arts dance thing in middle of a patch of grass beneath the still-bare-branched trees, his eyes closed and his movements fluid. She eyed him for a second, pulled the elephant out of her pocket. She gently patted its grey plush head and – dimly aware of Hardison panting behind her – chucked it at Eliot's head as hard as she could.

His eyes snapped open when it bounced off to land tusk-down in the grass.

"Parker, what the hell-"

"You!" She yelled, advancing on him enough to poke a finger in the middle of his chest. Eliot looked to Hardison for a second, confused, and Parker grabbed a handful of Hardison's shirt, dragging him close for good measure. "And him! You are coming back with me and you are going to help me get Sophie. Now."

Her tone, she was certain, left absolutely no room for argument. She grabbed Eliot's hand, and dragged both of them towards the fire escape. They balked as one man and she spun, eyes flashing dangerously, just to see Eliot retrieving the poor flung elephant.

"Do you think," Hardison said, timidly, "We could take the elevator?"

She clacked her teeth together, eyed the pleading expression on his still-sweet face, noted the way Eliot carefully brushed the grass off the elephant's head with the leg of his jeans. Mollified, she nodded, once.

"Alright. I guess."

But she kept her hold on them anyways, just in case.

Sophie was back in the Ellis building, in the Chapel.

Parker wasn't entirely sure what she was looking for, but the older woman sat perfectly still in the back row of chairs, her eyes fixed on the sapphire-blue stained-glass window, something dangling, gleaming, in her hand. Parker gave it an appraising glance - saint medallion; 14 karat gold, no resale value – and dismissed it to pay more attention to the grifter, who looked back when they entered.

She almost looked about to laugh when she saw them.

"What is it, Parker?" She said, softly, her voice barely carrying in this sanctum that Parker didn't quite understand.

"You need to stop acting like idiots," Parker said, firmly – and, perhaps, too loudly, if Sophie's wince and Hardison's oh, Lord, and Eliot's hissed shhh was any indication. She jerked on both of their hands, glowering before she hissed in return, ignoring the sidelong stares they were getting from the few others scattered around the room. "Well, you do. Come on."

Eliot looked at Sophie, his eyebrows raised, almost pleading, and she finally stood, tucking the medallion away. "Alright, alright, I'm coming…" She followed on the trio's heels until Parker had dragged the men through the entire hospital, stopped them right at Nate's door. "How are we being idiots?"

Parker had had time storming around to think, to try and process what she was feeling into words, the way everyone else seemed to have no problem doing, but everything was caught between her brain and her lips, it seemed; pooling in her eyes.

"Look," she finally managed to say, letting go of Eliot's hand. The hitter rubbed it, cracked his knuckles, like he was trying to wake it up. "If…if there's one thing you guys have taught me, it's that we're more than just a team. You know? We're…we're a family."

She could feel the water now, welling up. The words weren't coming out right, but they weren't laughing at her, so she kept going. "And all we've been doing since Nate got here is split up and head off in different directions and…and we. We needed that, when he was still out there, but he's not out there now, so…"

"We….we either have each other's backs, or we don't." Eliot said, and she almost snapped at him for stealing her words when it sank in that he was saying them because he agreed.

"I came back because you needed me. All of you." Parker continued, trying for firm, trying for something Sophie would say – it still came out more watery than she wanted. "Maybe…maybe he'll come back…for all of us."

"Well, when we put the three of you together," Sophie said, ruefully, "He's never able to keep his mouth shut." She sighed, running a hand through her hair. "It's…I guess it's certainly worth a shot."

Hardison opened the door. Parker retrieved the elephant from Eliot, caught Hardison's arm and followed him in.

Buried deep as you can dig inside yourself
And covered with a perfect shell
Such a charming, beautiful exterior
Laced with brilliant smiles and shining eyes
Perfect posture, but you're barely scraping by
But you're barely scraping byThis is one time, this is one time
That you can't fake it hard enough to please everyone
Or anyone at all...or anyone at all
And the grave that you refuse to leave
The refuge that you've built to flee,
The places that you've come to fear the most
Is the place that you have come to fear the most.

The party's a success. The house and yard are awash with color - tiny glittering lights in the trees and the bushes, flowers lining the hallway and foyer, leading out to the back deck and into the fairy-world beyond. The air smells like champagne and summer, chlorine from the neighbor's pool; honeysuckle from the trees. Nate can hear the voices of their guests, musical and filled with cheer and compliments.

Something isn't right, doesn't fit, and it's eating at him from the inside out that he can't put his finger on it, and so he still sits inside, sprawled in the upstairs hall, his back pressed to the smooth wood of the banister.

The house is empty, the guests are all outside.

Jimmy's not one of them.

The house phone rests in one hand, blocking the angry lines marring his finger from his sight. The little red light at the base of the phone is blinking on and off regularly. There's a message on the machine.

I don't think I want to know what he said.

"Nate!" Maggie's voice calls up from the foot of the stairs. He turns so he can look down at her, her lovely face cast in shadow and the golden glow of the flowers. She looks…sad, somehow. Worried. "Are you planning on coming out, or are you going to be antisocial all night?"

Antisocial. The word calls up others, like they were just waiting to join the party. Withholding. Cold, insensitive. Distant. Is he distant? He doesn't feel distant. He feels like he's right here, with everyone else drifting away.

"I'll be down in a minute," he says, and if any of his malaise shows in his voice, Maggie doesn't seem to notice it. She turns on her heel and is gone, leaving Nate alone with the phone.

He thumbs the button to play the message, and Jimmy's worn, leather-warm voice rises from the earpiece. "Nate. Nathan, son. I'm gone. Gone. You know that, right? Tell them…"

Nate mashes the button, throws the phone at the wall, kills the voice from the speaker, but not the one in his head.

Tell them how much Jimmy Ford loves his son.

When he manages to stand, manages to look down the stairs again, the girl is there, crouched in front of the door, shining bits of metal in her sure and steady hand. There's smoke rising from near her feet, dark and thick and roiling, and he feels his sore fingers clamp down on the banister.

"What are you doing?"

She doesn't answer, doesn't look up, slides another little strip of metal into the door's oversized lock. He takes a step forward, accidentally kicks the phone. It skitters under the rail, clattering across the hardwood floor below. "I told you to leave that alone."

"Sorry." Her voice is terse, her mouth quirked in an apologetic smile. "Can't."

Something inside the door clicks and she's pulling it open to the tune of wind rushing in Nate's ears. He takes the last five steps in a single leap, lunging for the door, hand outstretched but too slow.

"Stop." The word feels too raw in his throat, too desperate; he's not certain of anything anymore. Jimmy's gone, Sam's gone, Maggie's gone back to the backyard that might as well be a thousand miles away for how close he feels.

He's not certain of anything but that door, that door that desperately needs to stay closed, shut, locked and forgotten.

"Stop." He staggers to her side, grabs the handle, pushes against it. "Stop. Don't. Please." The words feel familiar on his lips, but he can't pause to think about that without feeling sick. "Stop. It needs…I need…" There are tears in the word, and fear, and the girl won't let go of the door, her grip like iron as he shoves on it with all his faltering strength, tries to push it back shut.

"I said stop, Parker, just…just please. Please, please, please. Stop."

The girl pauses, looking over her shoulder at him through a curtain of spun gold; he has never seen eyes that blue, not even in the mirror.

"I never told you my name, Nate."

He falters in stunned silence, and his hesitation is enough that she reaches out and drags him off his feet and through the open door.

And he remembers it all.

He remembers a hospital and too many tests; the house, gone, the car, gone, a too-small boy in a too big bed. Pacing halls and chewing nails and praying. Always praying. And then a too-small coffin in a too-big hole. And the feeling that maybe, maybe, he hadn't been praying enough.

He remembers paperwork and saying goodbye and feeling like that shouldn't be all he could do to repay this; to repair this. That no matter how sorry, how horribly, chokingly sorry he it would never, ever be sorry enough.

He remembers a childhood of watching card tricks and broken fingers, of being yelled at. The bone-deep conviction that he could never be good enough. He remembers the priests and nuns who helped him think that, maybe, for awhile, he could be – and the explosion that took away his chance to prove it.

He remembers this.

Nate hadn't expected the text from Maggie; half-expects something to be wrong when he takes the steps of Josephine's. As such, he's not entirely surprised when Maggie's nowhere in sight. He smiles tight, gives his name, and finds himself led to a table right around the corner from their old booth. Faced with an old man who reminds him, very strongly, of a snake; an old man who tugs at memories thirty years forgotten.

"Mal…?" he says, sitting down cautiously. There are three others at the table, between him and the old man. They're already working on a tray's-worth of appetizers, barely looking up to acknowledge his presence.

Malcolm Ian Vicent's lips split in a broad, pleased smile. "Nathan! You remember me."

"Yeah..." He remembers the other man, vaguely – the obnoxious tie helps. He'd been one of Jimmy's friends, tended to show up at McRory's Place around payday. Always handing out quarters, but with a tendency to yell if you got him upset – and he'd never cared for his crews very well. Nate can remember half a dozen people in the neighborhood, petty thieves, older kids, locked up after helping with one of his schemes or another. It had happened often enough that Jimmy told him to stay away from Malcolm more than once.

But that didn't explain why he's here.

"I haven't seen you since…what…"

"1978."

"God, yeah. Yeah." He shakes the old man's outstretched hand as he sits down, eyebrows furrowed. "You're not Maggie."

"Forgive me a little deception?" Malcolm purrs, reaching down to the side of his chair to pull up his briefcase. Nate sits back in his seat, suspecting (just like that) he isn't going to like this conversation.

Nate keeps his eyes on the older man's hands. "Yeah, sure, you betcha. How about you tell me why I'm here?"

Once the photographs hit the table, he knows he doesn't like it. He stares at the pictures of Parker, and can't help but think of the people the older man left burned in his wake, all those years ago.

…right, that's it. Out of town you go, again.

"I'm borrowing your friend." Malcolm says, simply.

"Not a chance." Nate says right back. "Sorry."

"It wasn't a request, Nathan. It'll only be for tonight. If you don't tell her we're coming to pick her up, we'll just…pick her up. I've already got Austin following her…" The old man's eyes casually flicker to the last empty seat, and Nate doesn't doubt him for a second. Has no reason to when Malcolm pulls the cell phone from his pocket, turns it so Nate can see the time stamped picture on it: Parker in the grocery store, looking through the dairy aisle.

He was always small-time. You can handle whatever it is he wants Parker for.

He draws in a breath; let it out as a sigh. "Look, Mal. I meant what I said. You can't have her." A part of him thinks that this could be useful – Mal was friends with Jimmy, after all, and that means he's had at least some dealings with the Families. Another part of him is certain that, after the patent office fiasco, this is a really bad idea; he should back off and get the team to figure out what the man wants. But the largest part of him is just so angry that Mal thinks he can stomp in and threaten his crew that he doesn't really think it through. Mal doesn't say a word, and Nate goes on. "You don't need to use her. You can use me."

It was almost scary how fast Malcolm agrees.

That should have been his first warning.

It's sort of like chess for awhile after that, trading pieces back and forth:

Malcolm insists he order dinner before he leaves to get ready for this mysterious job.

Nate has no intentions of eating anything, so he orders the most expensive meal on the menu, out of spite.

Mal just rolls his eyes, fondly, and demands his cell phone. "Or," he says, still smiling mildly, "Austin will go back to plan A."

Nate hesitates, but the goon squad is looking a little more alert by now. He passes over his cell phone reluctantly and insists, on principle alone, "I'm taking the pictures, then."

"Just be back by seven."

Nate glances at his watch. It's already 6:38. That's not enough time to pull anything, and he bites down hard on the curse.

Check and mate.

He doesn't bother to reply when he pushes himself to his feet, grabs the photos and sweeps out of the restaurant.

Nate had left enough of his stuff at his apartment above McRory's that he's able to change into something he could move in more easily than the suit – just well-worn jeans, a dark hoodie and his sneakers. He sets the pictures on the bed, and hurries to get changed.

There's something in the pocket, something that snags on his fingertips. He pulls it out to find Zoe Kerrigan's St. Brigit medallion from the first case they'd met Bonanno. It's the one thing in this apartment that isn't nailed down or clothing, so he shoves it back in his pocket, just in case.

In case of what? He finds himself thinking as he ties his shoes. In case Malcolm's pulling something bigger than you thought? The idea makes him pause, looking around the room.

…if I were kidnapped, where is the first place Sophie would look for a message?

That, of course, doesn't require much thought. He places the photographs on the empty floor beneath the bed, stands, and hurries out the door.

"So…what's this big score y'got goin' here?"

He asks the question as obnoxiously as he can, flopping down in his chair, and playing up the attitude just a bit to cover the fact that he's legitimately uncertain about this whole situation. The fact that the other men are still dressed up, suits and ties, doesn't alleviate his nerves; it actually makes him feel…smaller, somehow. His dinner arrived while he was gone, and the whole plate looks cold.

"Score?" Malcolm asks, and Nate shrugs, slides his hand into his pocket, closing his fingers around the medallion's chain. He plays with it for a second, almost like a rosary, letting the smooth metal sooth him.

"Yeah. The job, the scam, the score…" He shrugs, grinning. "I ain't got all night, y' know?"

I don't like this at all.

"Oh, but you'll have to have all night. This…job might take a while." Malcolm chuckles, and next thing Nate knows the old man's switched seats so he's right next to Nate. Something about the new proximity makes a chill run down Nate's spine, especially when Malcolm reaches out as if he wants to take his hand.

"I was sorry to hear about Jimmy."

The simple, earnest words bring a defensive frown to his face, but Malcolm's pals around the table are all pointedly looking elsewhere, as if their surroundings are the most fascinating thing ever. Nate eyes them all before, against his better judgment, reaching out to pat Malcolm's hand wrinkled hand.

Jimmy hadn't ever seemed like a feeble old man. Malcolm, though just a few years older, looks a couple dozen pounds lighter, his shoulders hunched, his fingers gnarled and arthritic. But when he catches Nate's hand, his grip is like a vise, holding his hand to the table.

"He was a good friend. But…business is business."

And as he tries to pull free, there's a sharp, flaring pain in his finger. Malcolm lets go, and Nate looks at his hand. There's blood dripping from his fingertip, near the pad; a long track left beneath the skin.

Injection.

"…what the hell did you…"

His voice rises until he lifts his gaze to Malcolm's, feeling a pang of fear for the first time that evening. Mal's smile is mild, almost kind. Nate can remember that smile behind a handful of quarters, a pack of gum, but for the first time since childhood he can see the razor blade beneath the candy coating. The old man brandishes the cell phone with Parker's picture like a talisman and Nate swallows hard, letting the words die.

Mal nods, regally. "Just…making sure you cooperate."

Nate's finger aches, and he looks around the alcove with the table. If it wasn't for that phone, he would bolt. He would yell and cause a scene and do whatever the hell it took to get out. He's not above looking like a coward if it means he survives, but…on the other end of that phone is a man with an eye (and who knew what else) on an unsuspecting member of his team.

Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat its mistakes. The voice reciting in his head sounds an awful lot like Eliot. He's in trouble – a hell of a lot of trouble – and he talked himself out of the only thing that would have given him a chance. So, basically, you're screwed.

He tries for his best grin, though he knows for a fact that it's weak.

"I guess we've got to have an even playing field. I'll take the handicap."

The old man's laugh is genuine.

It's hard to keep the calm, collected upper hand when you've been injected with an unknown substance, but he tries, turning to the ignored filet mignon and lobster as if that had been the plan all along.

Really, though, it's because he doesn't want the drug or poison or whatever it is burning through his hand to hit on top of an empty stomach. The cold food tastes like ashes, and he only manages to finish his baked potato before the drowsiness hits, wrapping his thoughts in a layer of cotton. His fork clatters to the table, the fingers of his uninjured hand closing around the medallion again, and he finds himself staring at Malcolm though his eyelashes.

Malcolm smirks at him, standing. "Come on. Let's blow this popsicle stand."

Nate slips the medallion out of his pocket with a trembling hand, letting it fall into the crevice between the cushion and the chair's back with a silent prayer – please let someone I know find it - before he levers himself upright. The floor seems to tilt beneath his feet, and two of Malcolm's nameless men slide their hands under his arms, half-supporting, half-leading him out the door and into the chilly evening.

The car he doesn't want to climb into takes them through the city, deep into south Boston with its maze of warehouses. Nate keeps an eye out the window the whole time, listening to the small-talk of the thugs he shares the car with as he tries to memorize the route through the darkness edging at his vision. It's all just football and baseball and basketball, Rhianna and cars; generic stuff that gives him no handle on what he's dealing with. The world goes black two or three times; and each time he opens his eyes to find himself huddled against one of the thugs in the backseat.

They finally stop in front of a warehouse that looks exactly the same as the rest of the row of warehouses. Nate scans the alley as he's hauled out of the car, looking around warily.

"Seriously?" The word comes out slurred, and he's certain no one is buying the bluster in his tone, not with the way his knees are shaking. "No, really. Seriously. You…you had to drug me for this-"

He never sees the punch coming. It slams into his stomach, knocking the breath out of his lungs. He also doesn't see the hand that claws into his hair, jerks his head further forward, rams his face into someone's knee. He lets out a choked yelp as he tries to pull free and finds he can't, and anything he'd been planning to say dissolves when he hits the steel door, feeling his teeth rattle. Someone barks an order, but he can't hear it over the seasick ringing in his head. The warehouse door creaks open and he's dragged bodily over the threshold, thrown to the dusty floor.

He might have tried to talk again, if not for the foot that slams into his ribs. He nearly gags on the air he hadn't been able to breathe properly, the sound terrifyingly weak in his own ears. He pushes himself back upright, takes a swing at his nearest assailant, only to have the big man catch his arm, spin him around and guide him right back into another strike.

Where's Eliot when you need him? he finds himself thinking through the fresh pain in his gut, and then, oh, that's right, you learned nothing from the last time you flew solo. The next punch hits him in the temple, and for a moment all he can see is stars.

And there are four men there now, he suddenly realizes when the stars clear, four men besides the old man. They're all circling him like wolves. He staggers back upright, eyes narrowed against the ache and the burn and the way the room flips.

"W-was there ever really a plan A?" He stammers, licking his lips.

Silence met his question, followed by, "What the hell kind of question is that?"

"There never was a heist, was there?" Talking was becoming more difficult with each word, but he needs to talk, needs some small illusion of control in the situation.

"No." Malcolm answers, calmly. "No heist. Just…some long deserved payback."

There's a signal or a sign or something Nate doesn't see in there; because after that, he doesn't get much of a chance to breathe.

He can't even tell which way is up when it all stops. His head is spinning, his ribs are screaming, and he can taste blood on his tongue. He lays there, staring at the ceiling and trying to convince his lungs they work, trying to convince his legs that they're still attached to the rest of him.

"That's all you wanted, right, man?" One of the men from the car asked, his voice warbling a bit from the sounds in Nate's ears. Malcolm clicks his tongue, a sound Nate finds oddly familiar, and finally makes a sound of assent.

"That's what I wanted, yes…" He can hear Malcolm pacing, shoes loud on the concrete floor. One of them nudges the side of his neck, and his eyes flicker open again to see Mal staring down at him. The old man looks thoughtful, his eyes scanning over Nate's battered form. "Though…"

"What?"

Nate manages to roll over, push himself up on one knee, the room yawing around him like a crazed merry-go-round. Malcolm bends down enough to grab a handful of curls, holding him that way, and he barely registers the fresh pain on top of all the others.

"How much am I paying you again?" Mal's voice is distant, his thumb rubbing gently at Nate's scalp, the touch almost soothing beneath the nausea and the vertigo. The biggest of his assailants, the one Malcolm had called Austin, shrugged with a grin.

"Two-hundred-fifty-k."

Malcolm lets go of Nate's hair, stepping back, distancing himself from his prisoner. It's an effective move; Nate has to catch himself before his chin bashes concrete.

His voice is cold.

"I'll double the payout for any of you willing to fuck him."

The room went quiet besides the white noise in Nate's ears as he stared at the old man in disbelief. His hired help were doing the same, gaping – aside from Austin, who just kept grinning.

"You're serious," one of them finally ventured, and Malcolm raised an eyebrow, calmly.

"Did I ever imply I wasn't?"

Nate rolls over onto his side, gathering his legs for a desperate lunge as, above him, Malcolm haggles with his men over something he has no right to barter away.

"So…five hundred thousand dollars."

"Yes."

"Hell, sure. Why not?"

Nate manages to haul his battered body off the floor though his legs don't want to cooperate. He's halfway out the open door before someone tackles him and he hits the floor, hard, another man's fingers digging cruelly into his arm. He kicks, flails, desperately trying to break their hold on him, but there's too many of them, and they weren't drugged, they haven't spent the last hour as someone's punching bag and they keep him down easily.

There's a fresh, sharp jab of pain in his finger, and he blinks his eyes open to see Malcolm sliding the needle out of his skin, leaving another brilliant track behind.

Everything after that point comes in bits and pieces.

Fighting tooth and nail, to no effect, his thoughts not connecting with the speed they're supposed to, if they even connect at all.

Someone yanking his jeans down, unzipping his hoodie, stripping his shirt off.

Duct tape and silk wrapped so tight around his wrists that he can't even feel his fingers.

The cold steel of the table against his stomach. Math problems going through his head, phone numbers, their client list. Maggie, Sam, Jimmy, Sophie. People he never got to say goodbye to.

A hand between his legs, brushing over his bare thighs, crawling up his ribs; fingernails digging into his shoulders, scraping across his hips. Game theory and philosophy and poetry, paintings and city maps and…

Being shoved down and straddled, slicked and stretched, held still as bodies thrust against him and in him, as hands jerk through his hair, clamp under his chin, trace over his throat, threatening to close and squeeze. Dirty things whispered in his ear in a voice too close, too familiar, predatory and pleased. The sensation of being moved – from his hands and knees to flat on his belly, to sprawled on someone else's lap, the only constants the sawing pressure on his wrists and the blaze of humiliation behind his eyes.

His begging words reduced to whines and wordless whimpers when the tears became too much; burying his face, biting his arm to stop those before the embarrassment kills him from the inside out.

Once he finally thinks its over, he can still feel rough hands on his legs; teeth and lips and tongue mapping his naked skin, Malcolm's palsied hands clamped on his neck, laced through his hair, keeping him pinned down, held down, vulnerable. He can't really see and he can't move and he can't think and it hurts.

Please be done now. Please.

Malcolm's cold fingers trace down his quivering, sweaty back with an air of pride; ownership and triumph.

"This would have been far more satisfying years ago, Nathan, but…well." His movement suggests a shrug, the dismissive gesture scraping his fingertips across Nate's skin. "You know what they say, right?" He ducks down, close enough that Nate can smell the wine he'd had with dinner on his breath under the suddenly strong scent of kerosene. "Absence makes the heart grow fonder."

He plants a chaste kiss to the sweat-curled hair at Nate's temple, tips his head back and presses his lips to Nate's.

He's not getting out of this alive.

The conviction's sunk in his brain and he doesn't resist when Malcolm licks his mouth open, deepening the kiss until his hard-earned breath is stolen; until all he can do is gasp.

Then the violating lips are gone and he tastes paper, pressing his tongue down. He can't spit it out before there's duct tape over his mouth, holding it in. Malcolm breathes in his ear again; his voice a deep-chested growl of triumph.

"I always pay my whores."

The old man stands, straightening his jacket with a chuckle. Nate can't even move; he only lays there, eyes burning, head pounding, still trying desperately to get enough breath through his nose. He's dimly aware of Malcolm giving him a final once-over.

"Alright." Malcolm says, stroking his hand one more time through Nate's hair, gently. Affectionately.

"Go ahead and take out the trash."

Austin's the last person he sees after Malcolm leaves. The look in his amber eyes when he flips Nate onto his back and untangles his wrists from Mal's necktie is horribly, horribly knowing, and all Nate wants to do is curl up and cry.

He's not even given that, though, because Austin drags him off the table, shoves him to the floor in an undignified pile of sore limbs and throbbing muscles and sweat. He grabs the duct tape, wrapping more of it between Nate's already-bound wrists, taping them to the leg of the heavy table.

"You're a fighter, Nathan," he says in his low, lazy drawl as he tears the tape. Nate gives his hands an experimental tug. The tape doesn't budge an inch. "A scrapper. Hopelessly outnumbered and outclassed, and you still fought me." Unspoken: for all the good it did you.

"I like that." He lifts his eyes to look at something beyond Nate, past the table, and Nate slowly turns to see the orange glow flickering in the far end of the warehouse, the crackle of a fire barely audible over the sudden panic flooding him, filling the spaces between his synapses.

"'Course, I'd also like to see you try and fight your way out of that." He jerks his head back around just in time for Austin to slap the duct tape on over his eyes. The big man's hand skims down the gutter of Nate's spine and is gone, leaving him alone with the flames.

When the memories stop spiking through him like so many needles and he can see again, the first thing that swims back into focus is the garish purple and black tie, wrapped over his bloody wrists. He blinks, once or twice, trying to get his eyes to focus as they fill with tears. He can breathe now - no longer choking on the money, the duct taped peeled away - but he's still sprawled on a cold and bloody concrete floor.

He hurts everywhere; body, mind, soul – a deep ache that threatens to claw its way back up his throat and drown him. He bites back a sob, sensing (more than seeing) Parker's presence by his side, solid and real against the howling-ghost anger of the flames licking the walls.

"I don't," his words are thick and hoarse, and they choke off in another barely stifled sob. He burns, somewhere beneath the pain, at the degradation of it all. "I d-don't want to die like this."

There's a long silence, heavy and profound; Nate's heartbeat loud in his ears, burying his thoughts with an almost mechanical regularity.

And then Parker sighs, reaches out and tugs one end of the necktie. It pulls free, slithering off in a hiss of silk on skin, and his hands fall loose.

He blinks up at her in incomprehension as she ducks down to kiss his forehead; a small, enigmatic smile on her face.

"So…don't?"

And like that, she's gone.

His legs are shaky as a newborn colt's and there are a couple missteps when he manages to climb to his feet, but the fire flickering at the corners of his eyes and the gathering gray smoke coiling along the floor is enough motivation to get him to his feet every single time he falls.

The warehouse door is still there, hanging open now, leading to the deserted and empty hallway of his house; the flames are practically licking at his heels. He picks up speed, step by limping step, and drags himself out of the warehouse and into the hall.

If he looks back, he can see the huge warehouse looming beyond that hated door. He reaches out to touch it, shut it again, buy himself some time - just as the whole room-that-shouldn't-be is engulfed in a roar and a crackle of flame. He can feel the heat on his skin as he recoils.

And then the fire starts to spread over the walls.

What are you waiting for?

The photographs are gone, the mementoes of the life he's had to leave behind. There are spaces on the walls where they used to be, but even as he watches the spots darken, smoldering with the heat of the fire beyond the wall. He forces himself to move, again, closer and closer to the front door and its promised freedom.

The photographs are gone, just like the people in them. Sam. Maggie. Jimmy. This life. There's nothing here for him now, nothing to keep him in the house – but his steps still falter, he still hesitates when he reaches the foyer.

There's nothing here for you.

His hand closes around the doorknob as half of the hall ceiling collapses, throwing sparks. There is, he realizes, one last picture hanging on the wall. Four figures, two men, two women. Names he knows now, people he's missed without realizing: Hardison and Sophie, Eliot and the girl, Parker. He reaches out as if to touch it, briefly – and realizes.

Everything's there now.

He opens the door instead.

The breeze blows over him, the fresh oxygen teasing the inferno even higher, the heat flaring at his bare back; sparks landing on his skin. There's a deep, grinding groan from within the house, some horrible creature robbed of its prey, and he can see the floorboards starting to split beneath his feet, revealing a gaping pit of darkness and flame.

But the sun's bright in his eyes, blazing and brilliant, and he holds his hand up to shield his eyes as he takes his first, shaking step out onto the porch.

And his world goes white.

Bonanno passed by on his way out of the hospital, poked his head in the half-open door, and almost smiled at the sight that met his eyes.

Eliot lay sprawled on the end of the bed, his feet over one edge, his head over the other, his long hair hanging down like a curtain to brush the floor as he slept in that improbable position, a book in one hand, his glasses in the other.

Sophie had managed to worm her way between the various tubes and machines to lean next to Nate, one hand resting against Nate's curls, the other tucked beneath her. Her forehead almost – but not quite – brushed his; her hair dark against the white linen pillowcase

Hardison had claimed the chair at the head of the bed, pushed almost against the wall. He sat curled up, his long legs, long arms curled in on himself; one hand wrapped in Parker's, the other intertwined with Nate's, fingers dark against the paleness of their skin. He kept fidgeting in his sleep, restlessly.

And Parker sat on the backrest of Hardison's chair, cross-legged and leaning against the wall, her eyes closed, her lips curved in a small, cat-like smile. As Hardison twitched, her fingers moved, tightening soothingly around his.

Bonanno reached out to take the doorknob, and Parker's eyes flickered open. Her gaze met his, and he held one finger up to his lips. Her smile grew, a bit; sleepy – but safe.

And, as he closed the door, somehow he knew.

They were going to be alright.

~fin