Disclaimer – Leverage is owned by Electric Entertainment and TNT. If I owned it, we'd have more episodes, and Eliot would have a lot more screen time!

Comments and feedback to Ralkana47@yahoo.com would be greatly appreciated. Thanks!

Author's Note – Takes place between season one and season two.

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Eliot sprawled over the bed in the drab hotel room, listlessly flicking through the snowy channels. He shifted to ease the pressure on his bruised ribs and bit back a sigh. Not even the bar brawl he'd gleefully participated in – okay, possibly instigated – the evening before had lifted his mood.

His thoughts drifted to his bike, securely parked in the hotel's garage. He could just go. Just get on and ride, like he had been for the past two months. Nothing holding him here, wherever here was.

Nothing holding him anywhere, and wasn't that the problem? He glared harder at the TV, trying to dispel the images and memories struggling to form. He'd never wanted a team, but somehow or another, he'd ended up with one. For a little while at least.

He'd spent his entire adult life with no ties. Nothing to keep him from going wherever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Able to go where he was needed, when he was needed. It had always been... freeing.

Now he just felt adrift.

The shrill sound of a cell phone jolted him out of his melancholy spiral.

His heart leapt, and he ruthlessly shoved it down. It wasn't the phone he'd used with the team – he had that one, but it was always off. No sense making it easy for Hardison, or more likely Sterling and his pals, to find him. He'd been meaning to dispose of it, but every time he pulled it out of his bag, he ended up scowling and shoving it back in.

No, it was his sat phone that was ringing. He slid it out of his duffel, muting the television.

"Spencer."

His brow lifted as he listened. He didn't usually receive calls from quite this high up the chain of command.

"Yes, sir."

Pulling out a notepad and pen, he began taking sparse notes in a mixture of shorthand and alphanumeric code.

"No, sir. Nothing pressing. I can be there for a briefing by..." He trailed off, calculating distances and flight times. Of course, it all depended on if he was where he thought he was. He hadn't really paid attention to the city limits sign when he'd ridden by at ninety. "1900 tomorrow."

He nodded, rolling his eyes as the man on the other end spouted all the customary platitudes. Need to know, great strategic importance, national security, blah blah blah.

"Yes, sir," he responded quickly when the other man stopped for breath. "1900 tomorrow."

Eliot shut the phone with a click, stretching out on his back with his hands behind his head. His kidney throbbed and his ribs protested, but he ignored the pain.

This was what he was, he told himself. Whatever he'd done over the last year, the people he'd worked with, the feelings of belonging, of rightness – those were the anomalies. Momentary blips in the course of his profession, his life. That was all over now. He worked alone.

"Hmm..." he said speculatively, staring at the ceiling. "Pakistan..."

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