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!

Timeline ~ Takes place directly after The Bottle Job.

Rated R for language.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Eliot sat at the traffic light a block from McRory's, trying not to shiver while he waited for his truck's heater to kick in. He stared out into the darkness, glad he'd decided to drive rather than ride over for the wake. The sky had been threatening snow that afternoon, but hadn't actually delivered. Now, it looked as if Hardison's fake weather forecast might be prophetic. The snow was coming down faster now, and thicker every minute.

He glanced back at the pub, wondering if Nate was still inside, falling farther and farther off the damn wagon.

Biting back a sigh, he shook his head. "Not gonna think about it," he reminded himself. "Not my problem."

The satisfaction that should have come after a job – especially a job pulled off as spectacularly as this one had been – was completely absent. His muscles were tense, his gut a solid knot of anxiety.

He thought again of his bike, safely stowed out of the snow. What he really wanted to do was just ride, just open it up and let the wind and cold air freeze out the turmoil in his mind, but that would be monumentally stupid, if not actually suicidal, in this weather.

The light finally changed, and he did his best to put the evening behind him. A brisk walk would do the trick. Especially if it ended at the bar a couple blocks from his place.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

With his truck parked and dripping in his garage, Eliot swiftly pushed through the storm, hands in his pockets and shoulders hunched against the cold and the snow.

Worrying was useless. What was done was done, and Eliot had known as soon as Nate picked up the glass that he wasn't going to stop at one shot, or even one bottle. And he knew it wouldn't be just tonight, either.

He'd tried to tell himself he was worried about the team, about Nate as their boss, about how Nate's drinking would affect their work and make his own job harder, but those were all lies, and he knew it. As uncomfortable as Nate still was with the idea, he was a friend, and Eliot didn't know if he could just stand by and watch the man spiral down toward destruction again, the way he had the previous year.

He turned the corner, his lips curving into a grin as the bar's neon lights shone through the swirling snow. A couple of beers – no, a shot or two, and maybe a few pretty distractions, and he might be able to stop all this damn thinking.

Stepping through the door, he pushed his hood back and shook snow from his hair and shoulders. The bar was dark and gloomy, only half a step up from a dive, and Eliot felt much more comfortable in it than he ever did in McRory's. Southern rock blared from the jukebox, pool balls cracked against each other, and despite the storm, the bar was full, mostly regulars who glanced toward him without much interest before returning to their drinks.

The look he got from the blonde seated at the end of the bar, however, held more than a little interest, and he smiled as he stepped closer.

"Evenin'," he said with a nod as she returned his smile. Turning briefly to the bartender, he tapped the bar. "Shot of Jack."

He turned back to the blonde. "Can I get you anything?"

She raised her glass of beer. "I'm fine here."

He avoided the obvious line and simply gave her another smile as he settled onto the barstool beside her.

Her green eyes flared with heat as she studied him. "Looks like a hell of a storm out there."

"It is, and gettin' worse," he replied. "Eliot."

"Catherine."

The bartender set a shot glass before Eliot, and he nodded his thanks and immediately knocked it back, signaling for another.

Catherine was watching him with amusement in her eyes, and he grinned.

"Rough day at the office."

"I can see that," she said with a laugh.

The laughter in her eyes flashed into annoyance just as a heavy hand fell on his shoulder.

Eliot slowly shifted his gaze over his left shoulder. There was a mountain of a man behind him. Six and a half feet, easily three fifty, deep lines carved into his weathered face. The man opened his mouth to speak and Eliot almost expected to hear the sound of pebbles cascading down.

"That's my sister you're bothering, asshole."

Easing himself off the stool, Eliot turned to face the man, even as Catherine sighed and set her glass down with a thunk.

"He's not bothering me, Michael. We're talking."

"Yeah, well, maybe I don't want you talking to this asshole."

"Maybe you need to let your sister pick her own friends," Eliot said quietly. A pretty face wasn't the only effective diversion, after all. Kicking this bastard's ass would probably work just as well.

"Maybe you need to butt the fuck out, asshole." Contempt filled his eyes, and he reached out with a finger the size of a hot dog to flick at Eliot's hair. "Braids? Are those beads? What the hell are you, a fuckin' – "

Eliot's hand shot out, digging deeply into the thick flesh of the bigger man's throat and applying just enough pressure to stop his airflow – and cut off whatever slur he'd been about to spew.

"You're going to want to think very carefully about what you were going to say next," he said calmly.

Mt. Stupid's move was not only telegraphed, it was faxed, emailed, semaphored, and smoke signaled, and Eliot definitely didn't need Catherine's gasp of alarm to know it was coming.

"Michael, don't!" she demanded, even as Eliot let the clumsy blow land and absorbed the hit, letting his head rock back.

"Oh my God, are you okay?" she cried as Eliot let go of the jerk's throat, touching his stinging lip with the back of his hand.

Blood glistened, and he smiled. "Don't worry, darlin'," he told her. "That was just a little love tap, wasn't it, Mikey?"

With a furiour roar, Mt. Stupid rushed him, and Eliot pivoted and struck with his elbow, propelling the guy chest first into the bar, which shook with the impact. He choked out a gasp, and Eliot was just realizing this wasn't going to be nearly enough of a distraction when the bastard turned and tackled him.

They went down in a tangle of limbs and curses, and the breath whooshed out of Eliot as he ended up on the bottom. The man was clumsy as hell, but he was big, and he kept Eliot's arms vised to his sides.

They rolled on the sticky floor, battling for control as Eliot tried to bring his knees and legs into play. Slamming into a table, they sent drinks spilling and glasses flying, and Eliot grunted as one of the table's occupants swore and sent a vicious kick at him.

Eliot finally got enough leverage to break the bastard's hold on his arms, but before he could find an advantage, his head was yanked back hard, and he cursed as stars burst behind his eyelids.

Furious, he slammed an elbow into the man's solar plexus, following it with a knife-hand strike to his radial nerve. Mt. Stupid cried out as his arm went dead, fingers nervelessly tangling in Eliot's hair as his useless hand fell to the floor. Eliot's head was dragged back once more, and he swore again.

The bigger man lay stunned, eyes huge in his pale face as his breath wheezed in and out.

"Seriously?" Eliot snarled. "You just fucking pulled my hair, and you're calling me names?"

He pushed off the bastard, making sure to brace himself by planting a knee in the guy's stomach. Mt. Stupid groaned, but made no move to get up.

Eliot straightened his clothes and pushed his hair back, lip curling in disgust as he realized he was covered in God only knew what from the barroom floor.

He wiped blood from his cheek – a lucky shot by the bastard's ring – and smiled at Mt. Stupid's two friends, who were warily watching him.

He beckoned them forward, and both stepped quickly back and turned toward the door.

"Hey," the bartender called. "Take your friend with you!"

They half-carried, half-dragged Mt. Stupid out the door as Eliot turned to the bar again and slammed back his neglected shot.

"Sorry about the mess," he told the bartender, pulling more than enough bills out of his wallet to cover his drinks and the damage.

The bartender shrugged, pouring him another shot. "You always keep it contained."

Catherine was eyeing him, one slim finger sliding through the condensation her glass had left on the bar. She didn't seem particularly upset that he'd just kicked her brother's ass, and Eliot was intrigued.

He smiled, then licked his lips when the smile started them bleeding again. "Sorry about your brother."

She shook her head in exasperation. "God, he's such an asshole."

He kept his agreement to a slight nod as he swallowed the last of his whiskey. "He greet all your friends that way?"

She sighed. "Just the male ones. I'm so sorry. Believe me, if I'd known he and his buddies were coming in tonight, I'd have gone somewhere else."

"Now that would have been a damn shame." He leaned casually on the bar, only to grimace when his elbow stuck to the wood.

Those green eyes raked over him again as she finished her beer. "Well, Eliot, you've had a rough night. It looks like you might want to go get cleaned up."

The words sounded like a dismissal, but her tone was definitely not uninterested. Heat curled low in his belly, starting an ache that had nothing to do with any of the fighting he'd done that night, and he smiled.

"Oh, you think so, do you?"

"Mmm, yes," she murmured, delicately running a finger down the buttons of his shirt. "Need some help?"

Eliot raised an eyebrow. "As a matter of fact..."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He didn't think about Nate Ford for two days.