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The gunshot changed everything.
Sophie bloody well knew better, too. She knew she shouldn't have let Nate keep talking. He had a talent for aggravating others in every situation, hitting just the right combination of smugness and condescension to make a saint furious without even trying. Judge Roy was no saint.
"Damn it, Nate," she hissed at him. Maybe this time he wouldn’t heal, she thought, eyes locked on the gunshot injury to his stomach. Maybe this time the Gods would revoke their gift. No, they wouldn’t. This couldn’t be the end.
"What did you just call him?"
She had neither the time nor inclination to deal with the mark. She stared at Nate, pressing her hand firmly over his wound, catching hold of the bullet as his body ejected it and slipping it into his pocket for him. She felt instantaneous relief that did nothing to deaden her rage.
Nate stared back, working himself into a ragged pant. She pressed harder on his chest, making his breath catch. More convincing, Nate!
He gave a choked kind of cough and moaned, slumping to the ground. A bit underwhelming, but it would have to be good enough.
"I want you to explain something to me," the judge was saying.
Sophie glared up at him. "Explain what? He's been shot! He needs a hospital."
"You called him Nate," he said, working through his thoughts aloud. "You know him, don't you?"
That was it. They needed an extraction. They should have gotten one from the start—damn Nate and his need to play hero. "Eliot—" she whispered.
The gun clicked, ominously close. "You've got one of them ear things, don't you missy?"
"Sophie, I'm too far away," Eliot said. She could hear how he was castigating himself for a failure that wasn’t his. If there was any argument to be made on Eliot's Christianity, that was it.
"Take it out," the man ordered, flicking the gun at her.
She felt cold. Fear wrapped around her spine and clung viscous to her heart. She glared up at him as she did what he asked. That look on a man had never led to good things, no—but she was past the point where she would take it lying down. She was Sophie bloody Devereaux. She'd survived things he couldn't begin to imagine. This man? He was nothing compared to her.
It was strange, she thought as he crushed her sole point of contact with the others. It was strange how you could train yourself out of having an immediate fear response without even realizing. Pity you couldn't do the same to feeling fear in general. She'd love to be able to ignore the danger looming over them, or even think logically about it. The orchestra of her mind had been untuned, turned into so much noise. She had no plan, no idea what to do.
She would just...just have to trust that it would work out.
Her hands were shaking. She pressed them harder to Nate's side, studying his bloodstained shirt to keep from looking at his face.
"I've got the money," Eliot said. His heart was pounding late, late, late, with every beat.
"Alright, get it to Parker, I'll take it in," Hardison said over comms.
His heart stuttered. "Wh—what? No."
"What do you mean, 'no'?"
"It's—" Eliot felt an iron band around his chest, around his throat "—dangerous, Hardison, what the hell! He has a gun! And unlike some people, he's prepared to use it."
"Some people, who—? You know what, never mind. What do—hello, great work, keep it going—what do you expect us to do, huh? You can't bring it in."
"Parker can do it."
"Wait, but I'm supposed to grab the money and plant the drugs," Parker said, confused.
"Which means I bring in the money in the first place," Hardison said. "C'mon, man, you helped make this plan."
"I know. I know, Hardison, I just—you—" All of his words were sticking in his throat. There was no other way—none this clean at least. "Fine," he gritted.
As they loaded up the boxes, Parker awkwardly patted his hand. He glanced at her. "It'll be fine," she said, unconvincing.
"Parker, he's not like you and me," he muttered. "One and done. That's it."
There was tension around her eyes. "What else can we do? He volunteered. And we can't leave Nate and Sophie in there—"
"I know, okay?"
Parker stopped. "You really shouldn't get so attached," she said quietly.
While Eliot was still trying to grapple with that statement, Hardison swept the boxes away, shooting them a cocky grin. "I got this, man."
Lord. He was going to give Eliot a heart attack. He could barely stand letting him go in alone, but they couldn't let Nate be found out. As they waited, he couldn't help the way he kept straightening the buckles on the gurney over and over, trying not to listen too much to what Hardison was risking all the while.
"Go," Parker finally hissed at him. He went.
The plan they'd made with Hardison was for them to swap with the original robbers in the chaos, having them reunite with the mother in the ambulance. Then they needed to get away from the feds as quickly as possible. Hardison thought it was so Eliot could give Nate first aid.
It was going to be damn hard to fool him. No way Nate should die that fast, and Hardison would be able to do the research to put that together. What the hell was he supposed to do? Pretend to be incompetent? It was probably his only option, but Hardison had seen enough of his true skills that that would be a tough sell.
The plan went without a hitch even though he let himself follow orders without paying full attention. He and Parker made it to the ambulance and cleared out the newly reunited family. Hardison got waylaid by the feds, luckily, but they didn't have much time. Eliot drew an overdose of sedatives into a hypodermic, nodding to Nate. "Come on, lay back."
"Now wait a minute. How are we playing this?" Nate asked, trying to sit up.
Eliot pushed him back down. "What do you mean, 'how are we playing this?' Hardison knows you got shot, Nate. You're dead." He poked at where the bullet wound should be.
Nate batted his hand away irritably. "I'm fine."
"Yeah, that's the problem," Eliot said. "You know it takes at least six, eight months to recover from getting gut-shot? If you ever recover at all."
Sophie sighed from the driver's seat. "Nate, when you die you leave that life forever. You know that."
"I'm not done."
"You have to be."
"Sophie, I am not done."
She shook her head in dismay.
"He already thinks I'm a time traveller," Parker said brightly, sitting shotgun. "We could just tell him that I fixed Nate with my TARDIS."
The three of them stared at her. Nate got a funny look on his face, as if he was actually considering it.
Eliot growled in frustration. "Nate, play dead already."
"No, we can make this work—"
"No we can't, Nate," Sophie said, exasperated.
"I can make it more than playing," Eliot warned him, holding up the needle.
"Sophie," Nate said.
She looked torn.
"You know what we gotta do," Eliot reminded her.
Instead of doing it, she scowled at Nate, who stared back, unflinching.
The rear door of the ambulance flew open. "—Ain't nobody answering comms, I swear, if Nate's not dying...." Hardison trailed off, staring at each of them in turn. "Uh...something going on?" he asked carefully, completely at odds with his formerly panicked tone.
"Well, I'm uh, not dying," Nate said.
Eliot put down the needle and covered his face with his hands.
Hardison clambered into the ambulance, shutting the door behind him. "Okay," he said. "So...this was part of the con the whole time, or what? I know I didn't set you up with blood packs."
"No, no, it was never part of the con."
"Okay," he said. "Then...you did get shot?"
"No, not exactly—"
"What do you mean, 'not exactly'? Either you got shot or you didn't!"
"Grazed," Eliot said, his voice muffled by his hands. He smoothed his hair back. "It was just a graze, he'll be fine."
Hardison looked him in the eye. Eliot had the grace to look strained. He wasn't expecting him to believe it.
Hardison nodded, looking between them. "So you were playing it up?"
Nate bobbed his head. "Exactly, yes."
"Faking the bleeding somehow—"
"Yep."
"—And stopping the bullet from hitting anything or anyone behind you with, what, magic?" he demanded.
Nate started to talk, then stopped. Hardison scanned the ambulance; no one would meet his gaze. "Somebody's going to have to tell me something. I've been cool, I've been respectful, but now—?"
"Just tell him, Nate," Sophie interrupted. "You're the one that wanted this."
Nate ran a hand over his face. "I...." Sophie glared at him, and he rallied, leaning forward to lock eyes with Hardison. "I was born in Italy in the fifteenth century," he stated. "I have lived for over five hundred years and I am immortal."
Hardison shook his head. "What? No you're not."
"Yes, I am."
"No, you're not, because that would be impossible."
Sophie groaned.
"You know what? This is what you get for being dramatic about it," Eliot said, sounding pissed. He picked up a scalpel. Then he stabbed Nate in the leg.
Hardison shrieked as Nate doubled over, swearing. Eliot jerked the scalpel back out, unfazed by the blood spilling from the wound.
"What the hell—?" Hardison cut himself off as the blood stopped, the gouge closing up as if it had never been there.
"Damn it, Eliot." Nate grabbed the blanket and started dabbing at his clothes. "You could have hit an artery or something."
"And?"
"I liked this suit," he said, regretful.
Hardison's hands were shaking. "You...you healed," he said. "You really can't...you can't die."
"I really can't."
Hardison's thoughts were swirling. That couldn't be possible. It just couldn't—but at the same time, it almost made sense. He had just seen literal proof! How would that work, though? How did that—Nate was Catholic. How the hell did that work? Where did immortality come from, aliens? How was he supposed to react to this? Would Nate have survived that plane crash? How much had he survived already? The blood was making him feel nauseous—or maybe it was the fact that Nate was immortal or something.
In the midst of this whole nightmare, it didn't escape his notice that nobody else was surprised. Not even a little. Worst joke ever. He felt betrayed. "And everybody else already knew?" he demanded. "What the hell, man? I thought we were a team!"
Nate paused. "To be fair," he said slowly, "they're immortal too."
Parker hung upside down off the motel bed next to Hardison, watching Eliot pace back and forth and back and forth. And back. And forth.
Sophie and Nate had gone into their own room after a lot of shouting during the drive about what Nate was and wasn't allowed to say, whether or not Hardison would have figured it out anyway, and if Nate was pressured into it in the first place—
A lot of shouting. Apparently they weren't done yet.
"You okay, man?" Hardison asked.
"Fine." He smoothed back his hair for the eleventh time since they'd walked into the room.
"Because it doesn't seem like it."
Eliot didn't answer, which meant it was serious. He yelled most when it wasn't serious, and he'd barely said anything since Nate had snitched on them. Parker wrinkled her nose. This was not good. Normally Sophie was supposed to fix the team's brains. Although she did focus on Nate, Nate was the one that needed it most. How was Parker supposed to do anything about this?
"Look, I have a lot of questions," Hardison said, "but if that's not cool, I don't need to ask...them...? Eliot?"
He kept pacing, not even looking at them. Parker bit her lip. This really wasn't good. Hitters were supposed to be aware.
Well, if she couldn't fix him she could at least distract him. Interrupted processes, in Hardison's magic. She set her hands on the ground, bringing her body up into a handstand then arching over to her feet. "The Old West," she declared, pointing at him.
Eliot stopped to stare at her.
"Sparta? Wait, no, Athens!" She squinted at him. "A World War? Roman gladiator?"
"Parker, what are you doing?"
"I'm guessing who you first died as, silly. Ooh, a pirate captain!"
"No, I was—"
"Don't tell me," she interrupted. "I have to guess."
Eliot pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Confederate state?" Hardison asked innocently.
Eliot shot him a look. "I fought for the Union."
Hardison grinned, and Eliot looked away quickly.
"Aha! So you're older than that," Parker said, poking him.
"What—don't poke me."
She poked him again. "Samurai?"
"No."
"Shaolin monk?"
"No. Why would you even ask that?"
"The man likes horses," Hardison said.
"He does like horses," she agreed, making a face.
"Sounds to me like he was a knight."
Eliot threw up his hands. "Yes. I was a knight. You done yet?"
Parker shook her head. "There were a lot of knights." She clapped her hands, delighted. "Oh! Did you ever fight a dragon and take all its gold?"
"Dragons aren't real."
"Shows what you know."
Eliot gave her a strange look at that.
"Huh," Hardison said.
"What?"
"I don't know, you just don't have the vibe."
"What vibe?"
"You're not all..." he waved at him. "You're not all snooty."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Parker flopped back onto the bed with a smile as they started to argue. Much better.
"—I mean, what does it even matter? We both know Hardison was going to put it together sooner or later. By controlling the information—by giving it to him, he'll trust us more! I mean...."
Sophie sat down hard on the bed. Nate trailed off in his rant, concerned. "Sophie?" he asked.
She shook her head. "You've had such clean deaths, haven't you?"
"I don’t know what you’re talking about. ‘Clean death?’ What does that even—?"
"You got some control over who knew. Over when and how and how much you told them." She sat back with a little chuckle. "You've never had someone shout 'Burn the witch!' at you just when you'd woken up."
His heart lurched. "Sophie—"
She looked up at him, her eyes full of her years. "All I'm saying, Nate, is that you had a choice, even with this. You didn't give the rest of us one. And in that?" Her expression darkened. "In that, I almost can't forgive you."
"Look, I didn't—"
"I know. You were only thinking about how to get what you want." She scoffed. "You'll be lucky if Eliot doesn't vanish in the night."
"If he really cared, you'd think he'd stop joining armies," Nate muttered into his drink.
Sophie shot to her feet. "If you cared, you would be more careful!"
"What, you'd rather the judge have shot someone who would die from it—?"
"The identity of Nathan Ford is almost two decades old, Nate," she interrupted. "You started a family with it! What were you thinking?!"
"I don't know, maybe that I wanted my life to mean something!"
She stopped. Nate ran a hand over his face, swallowing past the lump in his throat. "I kept—the world's gotten so dark, Sophie. I thought I had a purpose, that there was a reason, but nothing's ever gotten better. It's all rotten, and I'm just—just a walking corpse. Always hiding, always running, I can't...I can't keep doing this. There's no point." He closed his eyes. "And I couldn't even have Sam."
"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I'm so sorry."
"You've been alive so long," he said, desperate and bitter in equal measure. "What do I do?"
"I can't help you."
He scoffed, turning away to pour himself a refill. "Nearly three thousand years and you can't help me?"
"The world has always been dark," she said, voice low. "And my life has never been important. Even in my first life, I never held any illusions about that."
When he looked up, the door was already closing behind her.
fin