This is the first story in TML series that can't stand alone. You have to read The Season Six Job… and maybe The Arch-nemesis Job first.

This is mainly a romance, written for readers who've been waiting for too long to see what happened with Eliot/Florence plot. I don't think I'll write romances so often, so I tried to give you here as much as I could. This is PG-13, so no explicit sex scenes, but I made it as hot as I could. I think you'll be satisfied – and you have to be, because this romance thing screwed my structure completely.

Basically nothing happens in this first chapter, because I had to remind you all about the situation, and set things for Sterling and a plot. Yes, there'll be the plot. I hope only one. In fact, though nothing is happening in the first few chapters, except two of them together, it's full of plotting :D The plot jumps out from everything they say or do. Pay attention. It will explode, don't worry – but I had to give this time to two of them, not only to readers.

And don't be too harsh – romance is way out of my comfort zone, and I'm still not sure is this good enough for E/F. Maybe they deserve better writer, not the one who is writing fluff, and cooing, and kissing, all in the beginning, so she could skip that and jump into the action. :/

I would really appreciate some feedback this time. If this sucks, tell me. ( I'm not worried about the first chapter, as I said, nothing really happens there – I'm worried about Chapters 2&3)

Thank you.

PS: I'm on Chapter 4 right now, and still working on 2 and 3. I planned chapters to be about 5000 words each, and set an outline for ten chapters. For now, they have more than 10 000 each. I mentioned the ruined structure, and that means that damn romance prolonged everything, and I'll have to squeeze action in Act 2 and Act 3. We all know it ain't gonna happen, so we have another long story. Figures. Wish me luck.

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The Kryptonite Job – Chapter 1

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"Florence, wait! My mother wants cute, fat, golden-haired grandchildren, and you're perfect!"

Florence McCoy felt her cocktail going in the wrong direction, but she managed to stop the orange drink from spurting from her nose at the bunch of journalists who were taking her statement. Keeping her eyes level, and not glancing down her body – lean and perfect, not nearly close to fat – was much harder. She quickly eyed the incoming sturdy package wrapped in a smile and crowned with ruffled hair almost as golden as hers. Frank, who played Buck Wilmington on her show The Magnificent Seven: The Next Generation flashed that killer smile at journalists, melting them instantly.

"I need you to come with me." He took her hand and dragged her away, avoiding the groups of chatting people. "I wasn't kidding; my mother thinks all long-legged women are vampires in a race for my money. You're short, you'll be perfect."

"Comforting your mother is the last thing on my mind right now," she said. "Even the fact that you almost called me fat isn't important."

"I know, I know, but humor me. You aren't fat, you're miniature, so you aren't a threat. Stay here, look gentle and smile."

She did what he had told her; smiling at the flashes was, after all, the thing she had already done several dozen times this night. The premiere of the first episode of her show, after all the fuss and noise in the media regarding cancelation and miraculous renewal from CBS, gathered again a huge interest.

She should've been happy about it, but she could not enjoy it thoroughly; her eyes darted all around in search for only one face.

"Isn't it too early for any effect of your show now?" Buck asked – all of them called him Buck, it was an internal joke – and she turned around to meet his eyes. The reporters cleared out after taking photos, nobody was near them for a moment.

He knew what she was waiting for. He was the only one who knew why her first episode had a female writer who used her book to find a man she had lost, and whom she could not find. That trust was a result of one half-drunk evening when shooting started, when he was miserable, and she was lonely and hopeless.

They had sneaked from the set together and ended up in a park with a bottle. He told her he was gay – a shock that would destroy the lives of numerous fan girls all over the world – and all his troubles with hiding it. She told him about her divorce, and how she fell for a man with a suspicious past, who disappeared from her life before she could tell him she was free.

Of course she did not tell him anything concrete about Eliot Spencer and Leverage Consulting and Associates, it would be too dangerous. But she still remembered how Buck comforted her at the PVA ceremony, although he was much more scared than she was. She liked him immensely. And she still could not tell him that she was the one who was responsible for his false kidnapping, and who put him as a hero in the spotlight that same day.

"I mean, the episode just aired," he continued when she said nothing. "If he watched it at all, he would only now decide to come – and he could be anywhere in the world. It's Sunday evening, not a good time for travel arrangements. Give him time."

She did start to check her phone the moment when Rosalie on screen revealed her attempt to find her lost love. Nothing. "I know. I'll be patient." Not to mention that she knew he would not call – it was a security risk. Eliot would never let his paranoia subside, especially when she was in question.

But what if all the pros and cons of his coming to her would be decided only by that paranoia? What if he felt that a love affair was not worth all the trouble? What if he had found someone else, or simply let their feelings for each other sink in the past, where they really belonged? More than six months had passed.

"You have to give him more time," Buck said. "He might be busy, or out of the country, or having difficulty catching CBS – maybe he will watch it in a few days. You don't know. So, stop scanning the crowd, and start enjoying this night, okay?"

Days? She was half crazy already. "You're not helping," she gritted the words with effort.

"I'm not trying to help, on the contrary," he grinned with his world-known boyish smile. "If reporters catch you with that morose, thoughtful expression on your cute little face, my mother will decide you're The One, and stop jerking my chain." He turned her around, almost spilling her cocktail, directly into more flashes. She forced a smile and accepted a hug. Who knew, if Eliot did not watch the episode, maybe he would see news about the premiere and remember the episode aired tonight. Media coverage was on her side now.

Premiere tonight, tomorrow three interviews, and big M7 Convention, with meeting of the fans, more interviews, and more reporters. Eliot would have to be in the Antarctic to miss all that – and even if he missed it, she doubted that would skip by Hardison. That thought brought a little relief. There were five of them; one of them would watch it, if for nothing else than to see their efforts coming to life. You do not almost give your life to renew a show, and then do not check to see was it worth it or not.

"And now, come with me and flirt with that handsome guy by the window. He is sending mixed signals, you have to tell me if he's reacting to you, or to me."

She quickly glanced at direction he pointed at, half ready to see Eliot glaring at them, but no – the guy was blond and unknown.

"Well, it's obvious he won't come here tonight, so I might as well spend the evening as a gay tester kit."

"But you're perfect for that! You're adorable, and sweet, my mother likes you and thinks you're a fluffy angel – don't laugh, tall women are all scary bones and high heels – and when you smile people melt. You're melting me, and that's a success."

"Oh, shut up, I'll do it; stop with all the flirting."

Of course, she spent the rest of the evening trying to hide from that blond guy, after he took her flirting seriously.

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She hadn't touched her phone again until she got home. She slipped into her old robe, made tea and cuddled with Orion, and only then did she dare take a look at emails, Twitter, Google plus, and all alerts set to her accounts. All her crew was live tweeting during the airing of the episode, and the mess of hashtags and messages was indescribable. She would need a sieve to go through all that, to find Eliot's eventual message.

Very eventual message. Sometimes, especially during the nights, she thought how useless and stupid her hopes were. Only fool's hope, based on a plot twist in a stupid show. He could easily think that she simply used her own experience, like writers often did, to make a plot. Or even worse, that it was some sort of mocking of their affair, showing him it was only good to be used for the episode.

Yet, however else she could have tried to find him, it would have ended with him caught, or killed. Interpol, State Police, FBI… all of them were after Leverage Consulting and Associates. Nate's apartment – now hers, she bought it – was still under surveillance, and she knew she was a sitting duck, bait for all of them. Any attempt in contact would close a trap.

Nate's apartment. "I'm an idiot," she whispered to Orion. She quickly put him on the working table, and hurried into the corridor that separated their two apartments. Only two of them were on this floor and she could go freely, not bothering with changing.

When they had to retreat, while she was in New Zealand, Eliot left for her a marzipan rose in Nate's bathroom. If he was in Boston, that was a place to find a message, not her phone.

She hurried through the half-full living room, and upstairs. She had decided to fill apartment A2 with the same furniture it contained before, and that filled her months with joy and pain at the same time.

But the bathroom was empty. No message, no roses – the same as she had left it.

Her steps, when she climbed down, echoed through the lifeless room.

No furniture could bring this place to life again, no matter how perfect she guessed the color of the sofa. She slowly reached and touched the dark green sofa; this one was new, it didn't have marzipan smudged where she had sat on it when they kissed. That sofa was gone. This one was just a replica, a false substitute, just like everything else here was.

Her throat clenched, and she swallowed a painful lump in it.

The last voice in this room was not Eliot's, she was robbed even of that – it was James Sterling from Interpol: a dangerous, dangerous man who was after them, and whose hand she still felt squeezing around her. If she only blinked at the direction of the Team, he would find them.

She had checked everything; she wasn't stupid. Her IT guys searched her apartment and found bugs, and things crawling all over her Internet connections. Hardison would know exactly… but Hardison was far away. She hadn't removed the surveillance, she left everything in place. Only if they thought she wasn't suspecting anything, could she hope of their interest to turn away from her. Months had passed, and maybe she was finally proclaimed useless. For FBI and State Police, yes, probably – but she wasn't sure about Interpol.

Sterling knew her role in the PVA action, in bringing Don Lazzara down. Worst of all, he saw Eliot's rose in her hand that night. She wasn't only a client for them, and in his mind, she was still a clear lead, a booby trap that would snap sooner or later.

She dreamt his smile a few times, and his soft British accent had slowly rolled over the dark tunnels under the PVA ceremony while they retreated. Mocking them, laughing in the darkness, as it was closing in.

The last voice in this room almost erased her memory of Eliot's raspy drawl, filled with warmth and laughter. Even his face sometimes was blurred in her mind.

She perched herself on the sofa and curled up with her phone. She had to stop this spiraling into despair, and working would divert her mind from all fears and doubts. Hope was all she had now, and she couldn't afford to lose it.

It took almost an hour to go through her emails and Google plus. She brought her laptop at one point, and worked there on the sofa, in front of six dead screens.

Twitter was next.

It felt like swimming against the current. For every hundred tweets she checked and read, five hundred new arrived, and her eyes burned.

Open a tweet; check its username; check the bio; read the tweet. Repeat.

Any other time she would spend some time replying, retweeting, thanking fans for watching, but now she searched only for something familiar, something that could be from him.

Three hours and couple of thousand tweets later, she saw the username MASSACHUSSETTS GENERAL, and her heart skipped a beat.

Nothing strange, it said only: Congratulations, episode was terrific, keep up the good work… but she opened that profile. No cover photo, egg instead of avatar, and join date was yesterday.

This could be nothing, but she replied with Thank you for watching, and crossed her fingers, waiting.

The reply came immediately: I'll make sure that everyone I know watches THIS episode. Even those who are out of country now. Good luck, little chicken.

Oh. She leaned back into the backrest.

This wasn't Eliot. This was Betsy. She had called her little chicken that dreadful night in Mass Gen after the PVA slaughter; the nurse knew she would remember that.

She typed one quick: Thank you, and put her phone on silent.

She didn't dare contact her all this time, knowing she could direct the surveillance toward her. Betsy was maybe in contact with the Team, and using her, Sterling could find them.

Even those who are out of country now. Yes, she was definitely in contact with them, and Eliot wasn't in state. He couldn't watch the episode, but Betsy would tell him.

Relief was, for a few moments, more painful than despair.

This worked.

She picked up all her things and crawled back to her apartment. Dawn was nearing.

She was exhausted, tired of fear, doubt, and hope. Yet, not even Orion's purring and snuggling could stop her frantic thoughts chasing one another in a constant whirlpool.

She knew she wouldn't sleep this night, and she had three interviews and a tiresome half-day long M7 Convention. Today would be a day for surviving, not enjoying. Who knew where he was, and when he was due home; maybe they all worked on some international job. It could take days before Betsy could reach him. Maybe weeks.

But now she had at least one slim confirmation that her hope wasn't in vain.

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Eliot Spencer was so immensely pissed off that he couldn't believe people didn't hear his teeth gritting as he tried to speak without growling.

"Yes, as I said twice before," he repeated slowly to an indifferent guy at the other side of a bulletproof glass. "Two child seats; an infant one on the passenger seat, and one for a six year old behind it. Chrysler Aspen, silver or black, dark windows if you have them. You already authorized the credit card, and I don't see why everything is taking so long."

"The seats you requested are just installed, everything is ready." A new voice, female, jumped in before the guy could think of what to say. Eliot slowly turned around to a young redhead in a suit, with a plastic smile, and keys in her hand.

He stopped himself from snatching the keys and marching away, and forced a smile. He was pretty sure she could see steam coming out of his head, and his reserves of charm were depleted like never before. Boston women did fall for Southern drawl, in spite of their usually raised eyebrows, but now he didn't even try. "Thank you," he said shortly, and then snatched the keys.

He didn't march while going to the parking lot, though pissed off customers probably weren't something new here; they didn't have bulletproof glass without good reason. He took some time to check and test both child seats, because that was a thing every parent would do, using that time to check his wallet and IDs he had. He used a seven-rank credit card. Hardison had tried to explain all things he did with that, a long time ago, but he translated his twelve-minute monologue in only two useful facts. Untraceable, after seven transfers via protected accounts, all leading to different people, none of which were connected to him. And 'use it only when it's really important'.

The fact he wasn't sure was this – whatever this was – falling into really important category, was the main cause for his distress. And Eliot Spencer, by default, wasn't ever unsure of things.

He set his rage to burn on a lower temperature until he found out what was pissing him off so immensely. For now, Boston was fighting for first place. This damn town was too small and too huge at the same time. It took only fifteen minutes before he drove to the center from Logan Airport, in spite of the afternoon traffic jams, and he needed a couple of hours of driving to clear his mind.

Only yesterday he was flying from Afghanistan – a journey that started yesterday morning, took a whole day and entire night. This morning he was back in Portland. He took exactly three sips of coffee, snatched from Nate, and headed for Boston. Time zones, days, hours, nights and sunshine, everything was so fucked up that he couldn't calculate which day it was at all. The jet lag trying to attack him, just counted the miles he flew across all over three continents, then curled up and died.

It took five intersections before he decided it was probably Monday. Premieres were usually on Sunday; that would be last night. Hardison had sent him that damn episode when he was already on the plane to Boston, to see Betsy. Only a few hours ago.

Only when he noticed his hands hurt, did he became aware he was two seconds from distorting the wheel he clutched. He relaxed his shoulders a little, and tried to take one deep, calming breath. The result was pathetic.

After Florence left Nate's apartment, all those months ago, he scratched her from his life. Finished. Month after month, he repeated that finished, not letting pain and loss rule his life. He was the only one who welcomed their retreat from Boston. Seeing her upon her return, with her damn husband, in their corridor, would kill him.

And now this.

What the hell he was supposed to do now, to think now, and to feel? His progress was linear; he was able to watch other women again without the sinking feeling in his heart. He was even able to think of her without that searing pain. He was recovering.

And now this.

He was waiting for the green light, in rush hour, and slamming his head at the wheel would drive unwanted attention towards him. That thought only reminded him of his automatic going into stealth mode when he watched that trice cursed episode, when he realized what she was trying to tell him. He activated the strongest security protocols in his mind, even before he decided what to do. Hell, no, there was no decision. Not really.

All those months just… disappeared. As if she never left. As if he kissed her only a minute ago. As if…

He was stunned. And dammit, Eliot Spencer wasn't a man who could be stunned, not even with hope. To be honest, he hadn't ever tried that, that… hope thing. It was dangerous. And stupid. No wonder his rage boiled up to the point where he could barely control it.

The thing he hated the most, was all he had done during the flight. Hours and hours of staring into the seat in front of him, while bombarded with all possibilities, pushed him into organization frenzy. He arranged every damn thing, every detail of today. Nothing he did was new; he had many plans ready a long time ago, back when the possibility of their eventual being together was nigh on a one-percent chance. He collected every old idea, wrapped it up into four veils of safe-safer-the safest- are you nuts? and started things, pushed everything into motion.

All of that while he didn't know to what, exactly, he was heading. And he couldn't calculate the percentage of possibility that this was all one giant misunderstanding. For a guy who could tell – who needed to be able to tell, to stay alive – the exact percentage of chances he had upon only one glance at approaching attackers, the feeling was upsetting and humiliating.

A ping of incoming message scraped across his overheated nerves like a rusty razor, and he checked the phone. Betsy's second message, confirmation of the meeting point. He typed the address into the GPS, and relaxed his grip on the wheel.

The Team was another problem. Their silence, after Hardison sent the episode, was deafening. Of course he preferred them staying the hell out of his business; they knew that, and this communication void was expected. Yet, the mere thought that they knew where he was going and why, the thought they all watched that episode and got every message from it, was making his skin crawl. The only worse thing than this would be if he were forced to watch the episode with them. That would be… un-survivable. He had no earbud and his phone was silent, and nevertheless, he had their voices in his head, every voice with its own monologue. Only Parker was more or less silent, the three of them spoke non-stop.

Yeah, thank you all; he knew what they would tell him.

He should strangle that damn woman for bringing this turmoil into his life again; for forcing him to reopen old wounds that had already healed; for making him - whining, pitiful, a frightened piece of shit – upset. Yeah, he was upset. Only that.

He parked the car one block from the café where Betsy was waiting, and used a ten-minute walk to buy car window shades adorned with a dancing Garfield; and few more things.

Another reason for completely losing it was waiting for him when he arrived at the terrace. Betsy wasn't alone. She sat with two women around her age, and all three of them were cackling at fast pace. He scanned the surroundings; every face under the roof of the terrace, all cars parked nearby, windows, roofs, just as he checked all entrances and escape paths as he walked.

His mind, set into highest security alert mode, was screaming in agony.

"Ah, there you are, finally." Betsy noticed him and simply waved. Finally? It took seven hours from the office in Portland, to this table in Boston; he never made that distance this fast.

Did she expect him to simply sit with them and chat? He tried not to glare at her, for a moment too mad to articulate all the dangers of this reckless behavior.

"Oooh, handsome, come sit with us!" One of the ladies – geez, she was double his age – eyed him with a smile.

"You look strange, again." Betsy paid no attention to her friend. Her eyes weren't mad, in spite of her yelling on the phone this morning, but weren't gentle either. Narrowed and piercing was the best description. "You're upright, again."

"Upright?" The other woman asked.

Betsy broke her gaze from him, and turned her head to the women. "Not used to seeing him walking," she said dead-pan. "I was used to seeing him in the horizontal position, in bed. Mostly naked, of course. In fact, that's how I left him, when I saw him the last time, before he… simply went away."

Two shocked sounds escaped her friends – Eliot was careful not to do the same – and they both quickly got up. "We'll leave you two to talk." And with that, they hurried away.

"Was that really necessary?" he grumbled the words out.

"You blush adorably." Her face changed into a normal smile, at last. "They glued to me when I sat down, and I couldn't get rid of them. This way they won't talk about Betsy meeting some suspicious, murky guy – their story will be too rich for anyone to take it seriously. Will you sit, finally?"

Female Nate, Parker had called her. Sometimes that statement was too pale a shadow. He sat, leaned in the chair, and tried to look relaxed. It would be useful to switch his mind from Florence to Betsy. Maybe he would even manage to stop this panicky spiral he was drawn into.

Six months hadn't changed her a bit; she even looked much younger than he remembered. It was always very hard to guess her age. Her dark skin had almost no wrinkles at all, and black hair revealed only a few whites, but her eyes were old. Between fifty and sixty. She had two sons, and at least one of them was over thirty.

When she smiled again, and her face softened, he noticed what was different. Her eyes weren't tired. "You're not working?" he asked.

"A few days leave, ending tomorrow. Why?"

"You were up very early this morning," he said carefully.

"No. You're forgetting time zones; Boston is three hours ahead of Portland. Which isn't too strange knowing how many of them you crossed recently."

And there they were… immediately onto the main subject. There was no beating around the bush with her. He still wasn't completely sure what provoked her rage this morning. Okay, he did promise he wouldn't try to repay her for saving his life, and taking care of him… and being a friend – but there was no way he could sit home and do nothing knowing her son was being held captive in Afghanistan. He had to try. He would do that for any friend, it was only…the right thing to do. And in the end he simply bought him back, it wasn't even dangerous.

He sighed, watching her stir her coffee. "I'm a retrieval specialist, Betsy," he started, slowly. "I retrieve things, items, people, money. I know you are pissed off because I did that, but that's my job. That's what I do."

She raised her eyebrows at him. "You are, also, either very tired, or very naïve," she said. "I'm not mad. I'm grateful. You really thought I was angry?"

"You're always angry at me with no reason at all."

"No reason? Don't you go there, young man, or I shall get angry now. You're a walking stupidity, you know that? Your decisions, connected with your health, are simply indescribable and…" She stopped and shook her head. "No, stop diverting me. Yes, I yelled and raged when we talked – I had to distress you so much that you'd come from Portland to Boston without thinking, immediately."

"You could've just told me to come."

"And you would have come to Boston, just like that?"

He just smiled, and said nothing. He would walk that distance, if needed, for her.

The sharp edge in her eyes softened a little more. "Two reasons," she said. "I wanted to see you and thank you – no, stop, let me finish – and I wanted you to be in Boston, today. Something is happening, and your presence here will be-"

At first he thought something was happening with her, but then he got it. "This is all about-" He almost said her name in public, and stopped in the last second. "You were watching CBS last night? That's what you're trying to tell me?"

"I thought you were on your way back to States last night."

"I was, but Hardison was on the watch out. He sent it to me, and I watched it on the plane to Boston."

She left her cup, leaned back into her chair, and tented her fingers. "So?" she asked. Her eyes, damn her, were laughing. "Did you like the plot and characterization?"

Almost forgotten steam once again boiled within his head. He was a private person. Not only for security reasons. But it was impossible to be mad at her when her eyes were so gentle. No, worse – it was impossible to be mad at her at all.

She didn't wait for his reply, thank god, because his mind was blank and he had no idea what and how much to say; she took her purse and took something from it. "I brought the episode here, just in case you hadn't had a chance to watch it, but I have something else." She gave him a piece of paper. "M7 Convention. It has already started. Hundreds of fans, reporters, the entire crew… everybody will be there. If I calculated the distance correctly, it's just a five minute walk from here."

He took the paper, tore it in small pieces, and sank them into her glass of water. "I know about the Convention," he said. "I had nothing to do while flying, so I read about…well, it. Everything."

"So, you did like the plot then?"

The steam whirled. He would not talk about his private life, about his feelings, about anything. This setup, and her trick to get him here, was bad enough. One more person who knew what was going on, besides the team. Five too many.

The thought that he was the one who didn't, exactly, know what was really going on, made this shit even nastier. And the lean, calm woman in front of him read his every thought, every feeling, with disturbing precision. Her gaze touched every knotted muscle in his arms, measured his too controlled breathing – the old habit in her presence in which he sank without noticing it until now – and softened again when she locked onto his eyes.

"What do you want, Eliot?" Her voice was gentle, but the question was deadly.

Hundreds of explanations, troubles, worries, what ifs, all together clenched in his throat, and he choked on the first word.

"I see," she added quietly when silence stretched over five seconds. "Okay, let's be practical, for a change. How long can you stay here?"

"Two days before going directly to Washington DC, to meet the others there. We have a job waiting." He replied with ease, automatically, the dam broke. He quickly continued to use it, "This time Nate is splitting the team, he and Sophie will stay in Portland and do their part of the job there."

"So you have enough time to decide what to do here."

"It's not about the time, Betsy." It was about confusion and mixed signals, and his rage. "It is, to be honest… but about the shooting time, and production time. Not time in general."

"I'm not following you."

He sighed, using that to unknot his muscles. "It takes several months for shooting and production of a season. That episode was written six months ago, being the first in the season. And it's very hard to change the script during that period… if you changed your mind in the meantime and want to put something else in it." Ah damn, he said too much, he could feel her attention rising.

"I sent her a tweet last night," she said. "Put Massachusetts General as the name. She replied immediately. I checked later, that was the only tweet she replied to. I told her I'd make sure that everyone I knew watched the episode, and she said thank you. That doesn't sound as if something changed during the production. It's public, so we couldn't…" she stopped and frowned. "It's that message thingy with a cute blue bird, Eliot."

"Hey, I know what Twitter is! I saw her using it." He crossed his arms and stretched out his legs, forcing himself to ignore her words. They would just mess with him further, add to this uncertainty, and trouble him more. There was only one way to find out what the hell was really going on, and he knew he had to move.

Right now, all he wanted was to sit here with Betsy for the next ten hours, and not move.

He clutched his arms tighter and glared at her, not quite certain why he felt half offended, and half sulky. Maybe because she looked as if she was about to produce popcorn out of thin air – her too bright eyes showed her entertainment with the whole situation. Great, he simply adored being an object of someone's amusement. He vented a little steam in a barely audible growl, and decided to preserve any dignity he still had.

"Eliot," she said. He twitched and schooled his face into polite interest.

"A wise man once said," she went on quietly, "that everything you want, is on the other side of fear."

He froze. It did help in keeping his face unreadable, but his heart sank deep, deep under the frozen surface. One could count on Betsy to poke directly into the core of this shit.

"Ah, motivational crap from Facebook?" he asked with his voice too light, with his smile too quick.

"How's George doing?" She ran over his words as if he said nothing. Her every damn word was a poke into his bruises – professional deformation – and she was an expert in finding the hidden ones.

"He doesn't like all that rain in Portland. I bought him a dehumidifier."

"Yes, he did like Boston – he was happy here." With that, she got up, while he was still trying to decipher her words. She took her purse and two bags, glancing at his bag; good thing it was closed so she couldn't see what was inside.

"Where are you going?" he tried not to sound alarmed.

"To pick up my grandkids." Yes, she was definitely enjoying this, her eyes laughed. "And you're going to sit here for a little while, and then decide how you're gonna spend those two days you have."

"I never said I wouldn't-"

"Oh, shut up," she leant to him and ruffled his hair. "Just don't mess this up, okay?"

He grumbled something unintelligible, buying time for a more eloquent reply that should've kept her here, but before he could come up with anything, only her laughter lingered on the terrace. She was gone.

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Florence slept exactly seven minutes before her alarm shrieked and she jumped out of bed, followed with a soft British whisper. Her hair was still wet when she hurried out to the waiting taxi, not because she didn't have time to dry it while putting make-up on; no, she simply forgot it.

The way her day started, it continued. She was late for the first interview, and talked nonsense in the second one, until somebody noticed her trouble and brought her her first coffee for that day. The third interview she squeezed between a meeting with sponsors and her crew, and that one was a disaster with technical troubles, with one sparkling wire three inches from her feet, and more nonsense from her part.

Of course, all of that was interrupted by traffic jams and closed roads, and on top of all that, she almost sprained her ankle when she stormed in to the M7 Convention.

Hundreds of fans witnessed Florence McCoy heading for the café in the huge hall, and stuffing her face with food. The afternoon was a lousy time to have the first meal of the day.

Yet, surprisingly, she managed to relax when a familiar routine started. Knowing that Eliot was – presumably – out of the country so there was no point in waiting for him, helped her calm down the most. To be honest, Betsy's involvement was a sign that everything would work out in the end – Betsy made everything possible.

Her actors were stars here, so she could sneak into the background when she wanted and needed a pause, and her fretting nerves calmed down to an almost enjoyable level.

The organizers outdid themselves this time. Every guest had a personal hostess who took care of the schedule and all details; a group of tall, gorgeous women in similar dark grey suits. Their hair pulled back in a classical high bun, and Florence felt like a hippie with her untidy locks, each of them running in different directions. She had chosen brown and gold today for herself. The rich earth tone of her trousers and loose jacket were warm and relaxed, but still classy, and a golden blouse added to her glow. Yet, when she stood by her hostess-assistant, a slim oriental beauty, all in black and white, she felt like an orange Poodle next to a gracious Doberman. Even the girl's shirt collar was as sharp as a needle – flared butterfly, dazzling white and starched. At least her hostess had a warm tone to her skin. Buck wasn't that lucky. He got a Nordic goddess, as tall as he was, cold and perfect like an ice sculpture. His mother would be very annoyed when she saw the pictures.

Min-Jung was the name of her hostess. In spite of a professional coldness, the girl had a mischievous smile, and she was excellent in clearing the way through throngs of fans.

The panel with actors took more than an hour, but the atmosphere was vibrating with excitement and true love: questions sparked laughter, fans were happy, Buck and Vin charmed even inanimate objects, and she enjoyed every minute of it.

"The next stop is signing books and personal items," Min-Jung directed her when they scattered to mingle among fans, after the panel ended with a standing ovation.

"I hoped for a pause and coffee," Florence said. "My blood sugar has dropped, you don't want me to faint here, right?"

Her Oriental Goddess – yeah, call her HOG, sure – checked her tablet with a frown that creased two small wrinkles between her eyebrows. "Would some chocolate, and coffee with it, help your blood sugar? I can push the Sponsor Package Receiving before Book Signing-"

"Somebody said chocolate?" Buck and His Nordic Goddess – oh, stop with that! Her name is Denise – joined them.

Both hostesses exchanged similar, small desperate smiles, the sort of smile that kindergarten teachers would have worn at the end of a long, long day with their class in a Red Bull factory with degustation.

"Follow me," Min-Jung sighed, leading the way to the second booth in a row, now empty.

Wooden boxes, shaped as treasure chests, had their names engraved in dark mahogany.

"With the compliments of your sponsors," Min-Jung said, giving her the chest with a small bow.

Florence almost laughed when she opened it, and Sophie's finely modulated voice echoed in her ear for a few seconds. Samsung won the sponsorship over Apple – her gift was a new tablet with a golden stylus, laid on the top of chocolate pralines.

Buck got the same gift. The hostesses explained to him what to do with it, both of them charmed to the bone – a trick he perfected a long time ago – and Florence was grateful for a few moments of ease. And for chocolate.

Buck would never know how Sophie had pushed Apple and Samsung into yet another war in only three minutes, and made them fight over a sponsorship they hadn't even considered in the first place. He would never know Sophie was one of the kidnappers, the one whom he bit on the ankle. The worst of it all, none of these people would know who made this happen, which had secured their jobs and careers, and gave them a chance at another five years. They almost all died – for her, for them.

It was so unfair.

And she missed them so much. All five of them.

She withdrew a few more steps back in the booth and sat on the desk where the other gifts were piled up. The Samsung tablet didn't provoke much attention from her. After she turned it on, and read the personalized message, she put it back in the box and concentrated on chocolate.

"Excuse me, Miss, can you sign something for me?" a young voice from the entrance said. She looked at a boy who peered into the booth; he held a small package in his hand.

"No, you have to wait, signing is yet to-" Min-Jung immediately took a step forward, but Florence waved her hand.

"Let him in, Min-Jung, I have time now."

Both hostesses glared at that rude protocol breach, but she didn't care. "It's a PR thing," she said. She was extremely unnerved with the tight procedure – her usual 'spending time with fans' was always more relaxed and pleasant. "Come here," she said to the boy when the girls turned to Buck again. "Take care of these 'til I sign it," she poured a handful of pralines into his hand, and observed a little box.

"It's for my brother, who couldn't come with me," the boy said. "He told me to make up a sad story, that you have a soft spot for cats and plants – but I couldn't think of anything. Will you sign it?"

"Of course, darling," she said, suddenly feeling all her thoughts slowing down. Soft spot for cats and plants. No, that was only a coincidence, that didn't mean anything…

Yet, she glanced at Buck and the girls; they laughed together, picking at pralines, and paying no attention to her.

She opened it, and stared inside to see a plastic toy, in too bright green and yellow colors.

"He also said that I can clear out when you open it," the boy grinned, put all the pralines in his mouth, and walked away.

The pen was forgotten in her hand.

It was a bazooka. A plastic toy, probably squirting, she didn't bother to check. She only stared at it, with a happy, stupid smile.

Eliot was here.

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Eliot should've waited for her at home, at her apartment, in spite of probable surveillance on Nate's apartment so close to her. This place swarmed with people and he simply couldn't check everything. Not without two days of preparation, scanning, background checks, and all necessary steps he usually took while preparing a heist. Because, well, this was almost a heist.

His old reflexes cut in, and paranoia flowed freely with every step he took forward. He didn't know, couldn't be sure, what exactly was entering with him. Every damn burden from his past now lay heavy on his shoulders. Every one of them could reach over the same shoulder with its dead, cold finger – and touch her.

Bounties on his head, countless enemies, revenges that were cast upon him, not to mention all the marks Leverage had screwed over their five years… they could be after him, close, right now.

It wasn't likely, though. If some of them were near, if he triggered some invisible tracker and got them on his tail, they would deal with him before, on the street, and not wait for him to enter a crowded Convention. Yet, the feeling remained.

He had made five thorough checks around the building before joining the fans. Escape routes, all possible ways in and out, troubles and obstacles; the perimeter was clean for now.

The interior was another story, and his alarms stirred in unease.

There was too much security, and at least four times more surveillance cameras than was needed for a benign fan convention. There could be many reasons for that – maybe CBS paid more attention to the safety of its stars. Some of them might be the target of some deranged fan, or receiving threats. Maybe the security protocols were put on a higher level because some other trouble. It took only one look at the bunch of glorious hostesses in black suits, to know they were security with police training. Only policewomen would stand in a parade stance, their hands on their backs, while impersonating hostesses who should be everywhere, bouncing as light as a feather, chirping and smiling.

Cameras recorded everything.

There was a blind spot two meters from the entrance, and he used it to calculate his steps from blind spot to blind spot. Not worthy of effort. It would take too much time, and from this place he couldn't see the cameras deeper in the hall. But, there was another route he could take. Somebody was watching that feed, and if one small diversion-

A familiar sound shattered his concentration in a second; he would recognize that laugh amongst hundreds of loud voices. In fact, he just did. A sound of sunshine, he called it when he heard it for the first time.

He turned around and glanced, caught her for a second out of a corner of his eye. The two black clad women with her were gorgeous – she was only pretty. But she dazzled gold and warmth; it was like somebody put a bush of golden daffodils between two black wooden poles.

That laugh didn't remind him of a love he managed to suppress – it returned him to the pure joy she had always awoken in him, when she made him want to live; because of her.

Damn, he was so screwed.

He turned around and went out, joining the fans that were smoking and chatting in groups in front of the door.

Only when he became invisible in the crowd outside, did he allow himself to admit that making this a security issue didn't erase the main problem here: a fear that gnawed at him – fear of rekindled hope.

He snapped his fingers and a boy standing next to him looked at him. "Wanna earn a hundred bucks?"

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Florence dearly hoped no fan was nearby with a camera phone, because her attempts at signaling Buck what was going on looked like a combination of facial yoga and an epileptic seizure. Finally, his eyes glowed with understanding, after a painful five seconds of utter incomprehension while he stared at her twitching eyebrows. He grinned, put his arms around the shoulders of both hostesses, and asked them to take him to the rest of the crew.

Min-Jung immediately stepped away, and Florence knew she had to get rid of her if she didn't want to spend ten minutes explaining.

"Min-Jung, would you please be so kind to go with Buck? Only five minutes? I need some time in peace to work on my questions for the next interview – I really need to concentrate on that."

"I'll be outside if you need me," Min-Jung followed Buck and Denise. Well, that would do. The Samsung box came in handy now; she put the bazooka in it and closed it, pushed it under one arm along with her hand bag, and simply removed the panels that made up the back wall of the booth. She slipped through the opening, lowered her head so the locks covered her face, and mingled through the people.

Her mind whirled in frantic chaos. He was here. But Eliot Spencer wouldn't risk simply showing up. She had to find him. Where were the escape routes? What would he consider a safe meeting spot?

She paced up and down the hall, checking everything, avoiding anyone familiar, and the hostesses.

Four rear exits. She'd been here before, and she knew two of them led to a parking lot. It would be too open for him, and it would have cameras. The building was connected with another one, slightly taller, and they had a common backyard. The third exit led to that, but it was closed and narrow, some sort of a dirty passage with lots of dumpsters. It had only one entrance spot, and Eliot wouldn't risk being caught in a place with no retreat, surrounded with walls. The last exit was the only choice – auxiliary pathway with a cleared bay for emergency vehicles. It would've been very busy during the day, with deliveries and workers, but this late in the afternoon it would be empty.

She chose the fourth door with an 'employees only' sign, and left the hall.

Yet, with every step, her happy grin subsided.

What if she felt nothing when she finally saw him? She stubbornly held on to this love for such a long time; people built expectations in their minds and hearts, and thoughts and imagination were much stronger than reality.

When she finally sneaked out and saw him at the end of the driveway, she stopped as if someone had cut off her legs.

She loved a memory. The man waiting for her in that back street, leaning on the car hood, was unknown. This wasn't the Eliot Spencer she remembered. His, his… shape… was different.

He wore a blue plaid shirt and black jacket, and his head was lowered to his phone. His hair was cut. It had curled in the rain, and even in a ponytail it was a wild mane, she remembered; now those straight whips barely covered his eyes and nose. His stance was wrong. Though he wasn't moving, there was a sensation of a coiled spring inside him, an aura of strength and hidden danger that he revealed before, sometimes - and when needed – now it seemed to be a constant state.

She clutched the box and drew in one shaky breath. He was more than twenty meters away and he couldn't hear that sound, yet he raised his head and looked directly in her eyes.

Oh. So that was how he looked when not half dying.

In her mind, his face still held that ghostly pallor, but this face was tanned, as if he spent a few days under the heavy sun. No black shadows of exhaustion under his eyes, only a warm nuance of sunbath. She fell in love with a pale shadow of a man; she had kissed face carved with lines of pain. Even his eyes were different. Still the same bright blue, but sharp and fierce, unknown. She loved his tired eyes, haunted and warm.

This stranger just watched her, and she couldn't read anything. The thought of saying something only produced a small inward meep; her mind was empty, she had nothing to say to him.

She had waited six months for this, and the last-minute panic struck hard. Maybe he only came to tell her in person that he'd moved on. She thought about turning around and running away, but her feet moved in the opposite direction. Whatever the outcome, now was the time to solve everything. She took small, reluctant steps, desperately trying to look casual. Clutching the box didn't help in the slightest.

She stared at him, watching him put away his phone, and straightening. No restrained movements, no careful breathing. He turned to her in one swift move, put his hands in his pockets, and tilted his head a little. He filled that jacket. Only now was she aware that all of his strength that she had witnessed had been just a mere shadow of his usual condition. He was running on fumes back then, weakened with a long recovery. Now he'd grown back into his shape – shape she'd never seen before.

How she could be so stupid to think that this man would still want her? No wonder he'd moved on, why he should even consider their short sorta-love-affair, when he could have-

"Stop with that, Flo." That gravelly, deep voice hit her unprepared.

She took a few last reluctant steps and stopped in front of him. "Stop with what?" she whispered.

"Babbling."

She almost smiled, but dread froze her. He was simply watching her, closed off and distant as if ten walls towered between them. His eyes were unreadable to her now. Nothing in them, not a trace of feeling.

She shifted uncomfortably under that gaze. "It was n-nice of you to come here. Thank you. I completely understand if you came here just to clear this, this… whatever this is," she lowered her eyes to his chest. No bandages under his shirt. "I also know it wasn't fair to put you in this position unprepared and force you to make this visit – if you'd wanted, you c-could've just called, or sent me an email. Hardison would have easily found my number, it would spare you this troub-"

He reached to her, took her box and put it on the hood of the car. She didn't have time to think what the hell she was supposed to do with her hands now, because she followed the box in an instant. With the same ease. He sat her on the hood and she blinked, stiff and half ready to run away.

He leaned with both of his palms on the hood – their eyes were on the same level now – and he just continued to watch her, with that strange brightness. Yeah, predator, she knew that.

"Why is security on this Convention four times stronger than it should be?"

That was his question, the most important thing now? Her mind did a pirouette, twirled and then slammed into the floor. "What damn security? Where did you see any security at all? It's a fan convention." He was evading her question, and her dread grew.

This was a terrible mistake.

"It would be extremely useful if you would be so kind to say something about, well, you being here," she managed to raise her voice above a whisper. "Unless you want me to explain what I meant with, with that in the episode. You are here because of the episode, right? I guess you are." He was so close, finally, and she ached to touch him, pain and need chasing each other into her heart. To be honest, at the same time she wanted to slide back on the hood until she climbed upon the roof; this bright gaze of his, locked on her, was frightening. "Why am I the only one talking?"

Seconds passed while he thought. His eyes drifted from her for a second, and he lowered his head; it was enough for a few whips of hair to fall over his eyes. It was strange. But when he looked at her again through that veil, she saw a flicker of something restrained, buried deep and hidden, breaking through.

"Because I want to hear your voice," he said finally. He flicked the hair back off his face and took a long breath. "Because I thought I would never hear it again. Because I could stay here, and listen to you for hours, and still not believe you are here."

Tears blurred her eyes, and she wiped them away with one hand.

The corner of his mouth drew up in a small, crooked smile. "And I don't know what to do first," he whispered, hesitation drawling his words even more than usual. "So I'm doing nothing. Just watching you – here, within my reach – and trying to, to… not to come apart at the seams."

Oh. It wasn't just her who was frightened, who didn't know what to expect. "So, you are here because you want to… continue?" She had to ask that, and she managed not to squint when he lowered his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. Her heart fluttered at that familiar gesture.

"I thought you got my message," he said with a sigh.

"There was a message on that bazooka?"

"No, Flo, the bazooka was a message."

He was the only one who called her Flo. "Do you remember when you called me that the first time?" She smiled, finally, all that dread sliding down her soul, melted with the warmth. "In that sniper attack. One thousand and five hundred bullets flying around us, and I remember only how you held me-" He raised his eyebrows at her. That emptied her mind even more, one more well-known thing that pulled all the strings of her heart. Only way to concentrate was not to watch him, so she lowered her eyes and pinned her gaze on the third button of his shirt. "Yes, okay, the bazooka. The message. I'm on it. What about the baz… oh."

The first day they'd met, she made notes for a bad guy based on him: deadly predator, a perfect match for her seven heroes. And she wrote that he could only be killed with a bazooka – shot twice. Parker stole her notes and told him that; he knew. He came here, and put in her hands the only thing that could kill him; in her hands. The realization filled her eyes with tears again; he was blurred when she raised her head to look at him.

And then he finally smiled, with the smile that once again transformed his face and took her breath away.

She slid closer to him on the hood, and wrapped her arms around his back. His warmth and strength engulfed her when he drew her closer. She held her breath, not wanting to miss anything; his heartbeats, his breathing, the slight tremor in his muscles that squeezed her into his chest. She almost told him then, how she dreamt about the scent of his skin, but she stayed silent, breathing him in. Her fingers traced along his back until she settled in his arms and rested her cheek on his.

And she could stay like this, not moving, forever. She had waited forever for this.

"I don't even need, or want, to kiss you," she murmured. "Not now. This – you, this way, in my arms – is all I need right now."

He said nothing, just held her tighter, and she closed her eyes. The happy grin had returned, somewhere along the way; and tears, too. His heartbeat slowed down and met hers.

His hair tickled her nose when he finally, three and a half eternities later, released his grip and moved her away a little. She let out an unhappy grunt; there was too much air between them now – but he cupped her face with his palms and the world was in order once more.

Now she could read his eyes. Those eyes she knew and loved. Her Eliot was back, and a helpless chuckle grew inside her. "I didn't mean, exactly, what I said about kiss-"

His lips stopped her words with a light touch. "Yeah, I reckoned that," he whispered in a kiss, and that lazy, raspy voice burned through her veins. Hell no, this hug wasn't enough anymore. Her hands moved, drew him closer, and she kissed him with the need of six months longing.

This was something that she never wanted to stop.

And she chuckled again when he finally broke that embrace and stepped back; she did remember those shaken, hungry eyes boring into hers. "So, Mr. Spencer, what are your plans for today?" she asked. Her damn voice was a little shaky too, and more than a little breathless.

His hands were back around her waist. He pulled her up from the hood, and for one whole moment he just held her in midair, clearly torn between pulling her to him, and putting her back on the ground. She watched that struggle, fascinated. "Damn," he muttered, and lowered her one step away from him. "Can you leave the Convention? Now? I don't like it, we're sitting ducks here – we have to move."

"Thought I'd never hear that excuse," she grinned, and pushed her box into his hands. "You drive. I made every preparation for this, eventual… for this outcome." She caught his smirk while he got into the driver's seat – oh yes, a paranoid, systematic security expert probably had dozens of ready-to-go plans for this.

She watched him for one more moment, finally realizing he was hers. Hers. And, that her future just started to unravel in a completely unknown direction.

She couldn't stop smiling. He started the Chrysler and she hurried to the car. This looked like a getaway, and she was quite ready for adventure, but…

"Why the hell do we have baby seats in here, Eliot? Are you trying to tell me something?"

Oh, yes, that smirk was familiar, too.

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