Work Text:
The surveillance room hums with the low thrum of cooling fans and the flickering glow of a dozen monitors. Parker perches on the edge of a console, nibbling absently on a protein bar she’d lifted from a vending machine downstairs. Nate leans over her shoulder, his gaze fixed on the screen showing Eddie Maranjian pacing his eighth-floor hospital room like a caged animal, his face slick with sweat under the harsh fluorescent lights. Jim Sterling leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, a predatory grin playing on his lips as he watches Eddie’s escalating panic on another feed. The air smells faintly of ozone and stale coffee.
Jim’s knuckles are white where he grips his own bicep, his breathing just a fraction too fast. He tears his eyes from the screen, turning to Nate with a wild, exhilarated gleam. "This," he declares, his voice tight with adrenaline, "is the excitement I've missed, working with you."
He pushes off the doorframe, taking a step closer into the cramped room. The fluorescent light catches the sharp angles of his face, highlighting the faint tremor in his hands. Nate doesn’t look away from the monitor showing Sophie, now disguised as a stern CDC official, efficiently directing two orderlies wheeling away her own ‘corpse’ on a gurney. Eddie’s frantic shouts are muffled through the speakers but unmistakable.
"The marks keep it exciting," Nate replies flatly, his voice devoid of inflection. He adjusts the feed, zooming in on Eddie clawing at his own face, a thin trickle of blood starting from his left nostril.
Parker pauses mid-chew, eyes wide. "Whoa. Did you just... cause a nosebleed with your mind? On purpose? That's new."
Jim’s grin widens, sharp and almost feral. He closes the remaining distance until he’s inches from Nate, invading his personal space with practiced ease. The scent of expensive cologne and nervous sweat cuts through the room’s stale air. His eyes lock onto Nate’s, intense and unblinking. "I can see that," he breathes, the words rushing out. "You wanna get married?"
The silence that follows is thick and sudden. Parker stops chewing entirely, her head swiveling slowly from the screen to stare at Jim, then Nate, her brow furrowed in utter confusion. "Married? Like... with cake? And stealing the rings?" she whispers, genuinely perplexed.
On the monitor, Eddie is now pounding on his door, his muffled screams rising in pitch. Nate finally turns. He doesn’t step back. He meets Jim’s intense gaze head-on, his own expression unreadable – a carefully constructed mask of weary professionalism cracking just slightly at the edges. There’s no surprise in his eyes, only a deep, bone-tired resignation mixed with something darker, sharper. He lets the silence stretch for another heartbeat, the only sound Eddie’s distant hysteria and the hum of electronics.
"Jim," Nate says, his voice low, dangerously calm. "We are currently stealing a hospital floor to psychologically torture a hedge fund manager into giving up forty million dollars before two U.S. Marshals downstairs realize their prisoner is missing and not actually getting an MRI. Parker is actively committing felonies involving ductwork and chemical sprays. Eliot is probably breaking someone’s nose in the lobby as we speak. And Sophie is pretending to be a corpse." He pauses, his gaze flicking pointedly towards the screen where Eddie is now hyperventilating into his hands. "Is now really the optimal moment for impulsive life-altering proposals?"
Jim doesn’t flinch. If anything, Nate’s deadpan rebuttal seems to fuel him. He leans in fractionally closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur meant only for Nate, though Parker cranes her neck to hear. "Optimal? Probably not," he concedes, a reckless spark in his eyes. "But predictable? Safe? Boring? Where’s the fun in that, Nate? Look at him!" He jerks his chin towards Eddie’s screen. "He’s terrified. He’s cracking. Because you pushed him there, that’s power. That’s control. That’s... exhilarating." His gaze sweeps over Nate’s face, lingering on the lines of stress around his eyes. "Don’t tell me you don’t feel it too. That old buzz. The game." He gestures vaguely around the surveillance room. "All this? It’s just chess with higher stakes. And you and I... we play it better than anyone." His hand twitches, as if he wants to reach out but stops himself. "Marry me. Let’s make it official. Partners. In everything."
Before Nate can respond, Parker interrupts, pointing urgently at another monitor. "Uh, guys? The Marshals? Bob and Charlie? They finished washing. Eliot’s distraction wore off. They’re heading for the elevators. They look... annoyed."
On the screen, the two marshals, hair still damp, faces grim, stride purposefully towards the elevator bank, hands resting near their holsters. Nate’s mask snaps fully back into place. The brief, charged moment with Jim evaporates under the immediate threat.
"Hardison, lock down that elevator bank. Medical emergency override code Gamma-7. Buy us ninety seconds." His voice is clipped, efficient. "Jim, eyes on Eddie. If he so much as whispers 'lawyer', we lose him and the money." He turns back to the main console, fingers flying over the keyboard, pulling up Sophie’s comm channel. "Sophie, Marshals are incoming. Stage Two. Now."
As Parker scrambles to input the code, Jim finally moves, stepping back towards the monitors, his eyes fixed on Eddie’s feed. The manic energy hasn't left him, but it’s channeled now, focused. He watches Eddie crumple onto the hospital bed, head in his hands.
A slow, satisfied smile touches Jim’s lips. "See?" he murmurs, almost to himself, his gaze still locked on the screen. "Perfect timing."
His right hand slips casually into his trouser pocket, fingers closing around something small and hard nestled within the lining. The stolen ring. He doesn’t pull it out. Not yet. But his thumb traces its hidden outline, a silent promise hanging heavy in the electrically charged air. The game wasn't over. Not by a long shot. The sterile white hallway of the hospital’s eighth floor feels unnaturally quiet after the chaos, broken only by the distant beep of machinery and the muffled sound of running water from the shower stall where Sophie had expertly sequestered the confused guard.
Nate leans against the wall outside Eddie Maranjian’s sealed room, watching through the reinforced glass window. Inside, Eddie sits slumped on the edge of the bed, trembling violently. His expensive suit is rumpled, his tie askew, and his eyes dart wildly around the room like a trapped animal. Two distinct smears of dried blood mark his upper lip from his self-inflicted nosebleed. Sophie, back in her own clothes but radiating an aura of calm authority, stands nearby, speaking to him in low, soothing tones – a stark contrast to the CDC official who declared her dead minutes before. Parker flits past Nate, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet, her eyes bright with triumph.
"Did you see? He totally gave himself a nosebleed! That wasn't even in the script!" she whispers excitedly.
Downstairs, the lobby hums with a different kind of tension. Eliot Spencer leans casually against the reception desk, radiating an effortless aura of a bored police officer. His knuckles are slightly reddened – evidence of his "distraction" downstairs. Beside him, Hardison stands impeccably dressed in an FBI windbreaker Nate had procured.
"Yeah, Belbridge P.D. appreciates the heads-up. We'll handle the transfer paperwork... Uh-huh... Yeah, mental breakdown seems likely. Guy was ranting about plague spores and CDC lockdowns... Yeah, classic Maranjian." He covers the receiver and mutters to Eliot, "Boston PD bought it. They're coordinating with the Marshals' office now."
Eliot gives a curt nod, his eyes scanning the lobby entrance. Marshal Bob Henderson, looking weary and deeply irritated, walks towards them, guiding a handcuffed Ronald – the hired muscle Eliot had efficiently subdued earlier. Ronald sports a rapidly swelling eye and walks with a noticeable limp.
Bob nods grimly at Hardison. "Appreciate the assist, Agent...?" he trails off, fishing for a name.
"Agent Burke," Hardison supplies smoothly, flashing a convincing badge. "Just doing our civic duty." He pockets his phone just as it buzzes again. He glances at the screen, a slow grin spreading across his face. He holds it up so Eliot and Bob can see the text: `Eddie in custody. Singing like a canary. Funds secured. Plague delusion holding strong.'
Parker, who had silently descended the stairs, materializes beside them. She reads the text over Hardison’s shoulder and lets out a delighted little squeak. Sophie, descending the stairs moments later, catches Parker’s reaction and allows herself a small, genuine smile, the tension of the last few hours finally easing from her shoulders. Across the lobby, near the sliding glass doors leading to the ambulance bay, Jim Sterling leans against a vending machine, watching the scene unfold. His earlier manic energy has settled into a watchful stillness. His gaze isn't on the celebrating team or the subdued Marshals; it's fixed solely on Nate, who is now walking down the stairs. Nate walks towards the group, looking tired but satisfied.
Jim pushes off the vending machine. As Nate reaches the group, accepting a weary nod from Sophie and a fist bump from Hardison, Jim intercepts him. He doesn't hesitate this time. He steps directly into Nate’s path, blocking his view of the others. The fluorescent lights overhead gleam dully on his perfectly styled hair.
"Nate," Jim says, his voice low but carrying clearly in the suddenly quiet lobby corner.
Parker stops bouncing. Sophie’s smile fades into watchful curiosity. Eliot’s eyes narrow slightly. Hardison subtly shifts his stance. Jim ignores them all. His focus is absolute. He reaches into his trouser pocket, not with furtiveness, but with deliberate, almost theatrical purpose. He pulls out a simple platinum band, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. It catches the light, a cool, hard sparkle against his skin.
"Earlier," Jim begins, his voice losing its usual sardonic edge, replaced by a startling intensity, "was... poorly timed. Adrenaline talking. Mostly." He takes a half-step closer, invading Nate’s space again, but this time the gesture feels different – less challenge, more... plea? "But the sentiment stands." He holds the ring up slightly. "I stole it," he states plainly, a flicker of his old arrogance surfacing. "Thought it might be more romantic that way. Fitting, really." He searches Nate’s face, his own expression uncharacteristically vulnerable beneath the bravado. "So. Properly this time. Nathan Ford..." He pauses, the name hanging heavy. "Marry me?"
The silence in the lobby corner is absolute. The distant sounds of the hospital fade away. Parker’s eyes dart from the ring to Nate’s face, wide with fascinated disbelief. Sophie watches Nate, her expression unreadable but deeply attentive. Eliot’s jaw tightens imperceptibly. Hardison lets out a soft, incredulous breath. Even Marshal Bob, halfway out the door with Ronald, pauses, glancing back with bewildered curiosity.
Nate stares at the ring. Then he slowly lifts his gaze to meet Jim’s. His eyes are shadowed, exhausted, filled with the ghosts of lost wives, drowned sons, and countless cons. There’s no anger, no immediate dismissal. Just a profound, weary assessment. He looks at Jim Sterling – the brilliant, treacherous, utterly self-serving bastard who could beat him at chess, who understood the darkest corners of his mind, who had walked away and crashed back in, bringing chaos and this... impossible proposition. Nate’s lips part slightly, not to speak, but as if tasting the absurdity of the moment. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Somewhere down the hall, a phone rings unanswered. The game, it seems, is about to enter a whole new, unpredictable phase.
Eventually, Nate smiles. It's a slow, tired, and deeply complicated smile. "Jim," he says, his voice low and rough. "You always did know how to make an exit strategy... complicated." He doesn't reach for the ring. Not yet. But he doesn't look away. The challenge, the dangerous thrill Jim spoke of, is reflected back at him, clear as day.
The silence stretches, thick with anticipation, broken only by Parker's whispered, "Oooooh."
"Can I consider that a yes?" Jim presses, the ring steady in his outstretched hand, his gaze unwavering. The chessboard is reset. The pieces are moving. And Nate Ford, Mastermind, finds himself staring down the most audacious con of his life, proposed by the only man who might just be crazy enough to pull it off.
"Yes," Nate says softly, his eyes locked on Jim's. "But you're buying the drinks tonight."