As with so many other things that have gone off the rails in the last year, it starts like this:

"All right," Nate says, and smacks his hands together. "Let's go steal a con artist."

"Ain't right," he says, ambling over to flop down at Eliot's right side. He gives him a quick once over – no visible bruises; just the one cut above the eyebrow. Counts as a win. "Man needs a bed. Needs a bed and a house. Man gets punched and kicked, he needs to take it easy."

Once Hardison has stopped spluttering, he stares at Parker in disbelief – because there is no way she said that, that’s just too weird, even for Parker (who can be plenty weird, with a side of bizarre-crazy-brilliant) - but then she opens her mouth and says it again, as if it’s his hearing that’s the problem.

“Saint Nicholas is our patron saint,” Parker says, again, more insistent this time.

“No,” he says, and then – fainter – “How, why, what, oh my god?”, trailing off into nonsensical protest.

Parker often has that effect on him.

Sometimes, a geeky fanboy has to do what a geeky fanboy has to do.

Neal's so over federal fashion accessories, Hardison's in love and Mozzie's probably raiding the liquor cabinet while no one's looking

"Sometimes you just have to go with the flow, do what seems most sensible, like that time we all had to draw Eliot naked," Sophie offers into the quiet, and Nate can hear her smiling.

"I would like to point out that I was very unhappy about that job," Hardison says carefully. "Surprise nudity in the workplace just makes everybody awkward."

"It wasn't exactly fun for me," Eliot complains.

"It was easy for you," Parker protests, a chirp of blunt honesty through the comms. "You just had to sit around naked all day."

Nate's fairly sure he can hear Eliot quietly smouldering somewhere upstairs.

"And not even upside down," Parker continues. "The last time I was naked I was upside down and it was cold, and no one drew me."

Nate's phone rings fifteen times before he answers. Nate is a coward.

"I'm going to kill you," Eliot says.

Nate laughs. "Keep me updated. This is better than reality television."

Eliot hangs up. Nate is a cruel, sadistic bastard.

It started with a twenty-million-dollar Van Gogh painting.

No, wait, back up. That’s not true. Really, it started with a carton of 2% milk.

"This is how you talk to women?" says Hardison from the peanut gallery. "Really?"

"Hardison helped me name them," she explained. Eliot very carefully did not wonder if she'd called him 'Hardison' all of last night.

"This one is Benjamin," she said, pointing at one who was looking off, unfocused, "and this one is Susan," the one Hardison was using as a posable action-figure, "and the black one is Grover."

Eliot couldn't help help asking. "Like the muppet?" He couldn't quite imagine kid-Parker watching Sunday morning TV in her pyjamas, eating Froot Loops, but she'd grown up in America, so she must have.

Parker looked at him like he was a new kind of idiot. "Like the thousand. They're mommy's little two-thousand and two dollars," she proclaimed. And Eliot had thought Parker in a relationship would be weird.

Eliot dropped his hands. "Do not listen to the internet when it comes to sex!"

Her expression brightened. "See? I didn't know that. You knew that."

Eliot almost said "Everyone knows that!" but clearly that is everyone who is not completely crazy. Eliot would freely admit that he had his moments where sanity is on the other side of a wide river, but Parker lived on the far bank, and that was why this whole thing was a very bad idea.

"Oh, hell no," is the first thing Hardison says. "Excuse me, uh, can we get a little, I mean can y'all just take a step back for a minute and realize this is the stupidest idea we've ever had," is the second.

"I don't think that's fair," Nate contradicts, perched on a desk.

"Yeah, I've come up with a lot worse," Parker adds.

“Come on, Hardison. It’s Vegas. What criminal doesn’t love Vegas?” Sophie said.

“Me.”

“You’re going, and that’s final,” Nate declared.

“When this all goes to hell, don’t blame me,” Hardison muttered.