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kathierif_ficTitle: Lean On Me
Author: Kathie
Fandom: Leverage
Rating: FRT-13
Warnings: alcohol consumption? AU
Disclaimer: not mine. Leverage belongs to someone else who’s not me. Ho harm meant, no profit made.
Summary: They are always there when he needs them.
A/N: Written for a prompt here: Nate has four imaginary friends. Then![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ginny305 came up with the prompt “Someone has an imaginary friend”.
Word Count: 1285
Nate had stopped trying to find out where Parker always came from a long time ago. He had realized soon after getting to know her that he couldn’t figure this one out, and no matter how familiar Parker became, how much time they actually spent together and how well he got to know her, he could never tell where she came from or how she managed to arrive unseen and escape the same way. She just was there one second and the next, she was gone.
She really was a great thief, talented and dedicated, and whenever he needed the proof that he wasn’t crazy, at least not compared to Parker, Parker was there, companionably sitting by his side, a glass or bottle cradled between her delicate-looking but unbelievably strong hands. Sometimes she danced through the bar, through the room, and stole wallets or exchanged them, leaving utter confusion, chaos and annoyance behind, and Nate hid his amused grin behind a glass of whiskey and gave the hint of a headshake, a sign to Parker that this wasn’t socially acceptable. Sometimes, she snuck someone else’s wallet into Nate’s pocket before disappearing, and Nate had a hell of a time trying to explain how it had ended up in his possession. Those days he frowned angrily into his drink or at her, when she returned later.
She usually just grinned back at him, a carefree expression on her face, and Nate forgot his anger and had to fight the urge to pull her against his side, brush the bangs out of her forehead and promise her that everything would be all right.
He never did it. Parker didn’t like being touched, and she didn’t like being lied to, and Nate didn’t want to get stabbed by a fork.
In that, he reflected around another mouthful of whiskey, she was surprisingly similar to Eliot, his hitter. Eliot wore a perpetual scowl on his face, as if he was constantly in a bad mood, and he was a quiet companion when Nate needed one. He was a protector, too, always there when Parker’s stealing threatened to leave Nate in trouble, a steady presence at Nate’s elbow, drinking silently with him, playing pool with him, but discreet enough to retreat when Nate felt like he was suffocating and things became too much for him to handle. Eliot had a sixth sense for Nate’s moods, and he stayed away when he wasn’t needed.
But when Nate was in trouble, Eliot was there, his scowl replaced by an amused smirk, his long hair escaping from the messy ponytail he usually kept it in and flying as he dodged kicks and hits and dealt out his own, until he was the only one standing. He wasn’t even breathing heavily after such an encounter, no matter how long it went on or how many people were involved, and Nate was caught between gratefulness for the other man’s protection and jealousy about his condition.
When Eliot slipped on the bar stool next to him after such an altercation and lifted his beer bottle to his lips, to continue drinking and being there for Nate, as if nothing had happened, Nate sometimes fought the urge to reach out and clap Eliot on the shoulder, to tell him he’d done a great job.
He never did. Eliot didn’t like being touched, and Nate didn’t want to risk losing a hand just because Eliot thought he was being mocked.
When the silence became too much, Hardison slipped on the chair on his other side, mouth running a mile the second, never shutting up, teasing Eliot and not flinching back anymore when Eliot growled. Hardison’s drink of choice was orange soda, and the more he drank, the more he talked. Those nights, Nate let Hardison’s chatter about the latest computer game or piece of equipment wash over him and soothe his raw nerves.
Hardison’s favorite pastimes were to hack into government systems and to annoy Eliot, and sometimes, Nate shook his head amusedly about the fact that Hardison could type faster than anyone else Nate knew and still tease Eliot at the same time, or tossing in random bits of knowledge into the silent conversation between Nate and Eliot.
Sometimes, Nate wanted to reach out and squeeze Hardison’s elbow gently, to let him know that he would make sure Eliot or anyone else didn’t hurt him, that he appreciated Hardison’s attempts to fill the glum silence and his vast knowledge about technology. Without Hardison around, things would be much quieter and much more boring, plus, he offered technical support whenever he was asked for it and sometimes when he wasn’t.
He never did. He didn’t want Hardison to feel as if Nate didn’t trust him to take care of himself, or that Nate wanted to belittle his efforts. Hardison’s talents were not beating someone up – that was Eliot’s speciality. Hardison’s job wasn’t stealing things – that was Parker’s – but to sneak into computer systems and cause as much havoc as possible or extract the information Nate needed.
And then, there was Sophie. Cool, calm, sophisticated and relaxed, she was sitting on one of the stools, her legs crossed elegantly and her fingertip brushing absent-mindedly along the edge of the tea cup or wine glass in front of her when she listened to him talking. She soothed him when he was feeling too frazzled to go on, her presence enough to help him get back to himself.
She never needed to say anything. A raised eyebrow from her was all the conversation they needed for Nate to know what was going on in her head. The two of them were in sync, a well-oiled machine, a dream team. Sophie could charm anyone if she wanted to, just with a wink of her eye and the promise of a good time. Sometimes Nate was jealous of that ability, but most of the time, he just wanted to lean into Sophie’s side, feel her hand rest feather-light against his upper arm, and hear her tell him that it would be all right, her voice pitched low, just for him, so that Eliot and Hardison wouldn’t even realize what was going on.
Most of the time he wanted to turn into the contact and press his lips to hers, taste the lipstick and her, wrap his arm around her and hold her close, cling to her with all his strength and forget himself in her.
He never did. He respected her too much to even suggest something like that.
And so, he sat unmovingly, his elbows on the bar, a glass of amber liquid in front of him, his head bowed low, day in and day out, a broken man waiting for the day the empty feeling in his chest where Sam had been would go away.
To everyone else, it looked as if he was always alone, but he wasn’t. Even if nobody else could see them, he knew his friends were around him, protecting him, cheering him up, soothing him, always being there for him.
Who cared what everybody else thought, he told himself firmly while straightening his bowed shoulders and lifted his glass. Making eye contact with the four people around him, he grinned a crooked little smile.
“Cheers,” he murmured, not caring about the carefully guarded and slightly alarmed look the barkeeper gave him from the other side of the bar. He wouldn’t understand that Nate wasn’t talking to himself, Nate knew. His friends were too good thieves to get seen by any random people. They were just that good, and he was proud to call them friends, after all they had gone through together.
“To friendship.”
He drank.
~end.
Author: Kathie
Fandom: Leverage
Rating: FRT-13
Warnings: alcohol consumption? AU
Disclaimer: not mine. Leverage belongs to someone else who’s not me. Ho harm meant, no profit made.
Summary: They are always there when he needs them.
A/N: Written for a prompt here: Nate has four imaginary friends. Then
ginny305 came up with the prompt “Someone has an imaginary friend”.Word Count: 1285
Nate had stopped trying to find out where Parker always came from a long time ago. He had realized soon after getting to know her that he couldn’t figure this one out, and no matter how familiar Parker became, how much time they actually spent together and how well he got to know her, he could never tell where she came from or how she managed to arrive unseen and escape the same way. She just was there one second and the next, she was gone.
She really was a great thief, talented and dedicated, and whenever he needed the proof that he wasn’t crazy, at least not compared to Parker, Parker was there, companionably sitting by his side, a glass or bottle cradled between her delicate-looking but unbelievably strong hands. Sometimes she danced through the bar, through the room, and stole wallets or exchanged them, leaving utter confusion, chaos and annoyance behind, and Nate hid his amused grin behind a glass of whiskey and gave the hint of a headshake, a sign to Parker that this wasn’t socially acceptable. Sometimes, she snuck someone else’s wallet into Nate’s pocket before disappearing, and Nate had a hell of a time trying to explain how it had ended up in his possession. Those days he frowned angrily into his drink or at her, when she returned later.
She usually just grinned back at him, a carefree expression on her face, and Nate forgot his anger and had to fight the urge to pull her against his side, brush the bangs out of her forehead and promise her that everything would be all right.
He never did it. Parker didn’t like being touched, and she didn’t like being lied to, and Nate didn’t want to get stabbed by a fork.
In that, he reflected around another mouthful of whiskey, she was surprisingly similar to Eliot, his hitter. Eliot wore a perpetual scowl on his face, as if he was constantly in a bad mood, and he was a quiet companion when Nate needed one. He was a protector, too, always there when Parker’s stealing threatened to leave Nate in trouble, a steady presence at Nate’s elbow, drinking silently with him, playing pool with him, but discreet enough to retreat when Nate felt like he was suffocating and things became too much for him to handle. Eliot had a sixth sense for Nate’s moods, and he stayed away when he wasn’t needed.
But when Nate was in trouble, Eliot was there, his scowl replaced by an amused smirk, his long hair escaping from the messy ponytail he usually kept it in and flying as he dodged kicks and hits and dealt out his own, until he was the only one standing. He wasn’t even breathing heavily after such an encounter, no matter how long it went on or how many people were involved, and Nate was caught between gratefulness for the other man’s protection and jealousy about his condition.
When Eliot slipped on the bar stool next to him after such an altercation and lifted his beer bottle to his lips, to continue drinking and being there for Nate, as if nothing had happened, Nate sometimes fought the urge to reach out and clap Eliot on the shoulder, to tell him he’d done a great job.
He never did. Eliot didn’t like being touched, and Nate didn’t want to risk losing a hand just because Eliot thought he was being mocked.
When the silence became too much, Hardison slipped on the chair on his other side, mouth running a mile the second, never shutting up, teasing Eliot and not flinching back anymore when Eliot growled. Hardison’s drink of choice was orange soda, and the more he drank, the more he talked. Those nights, Nate let Hardison’s chatter about the latest computer game or piece of equipment wash over him and soothe his raw nerves.
Hardison’s favorite pastimes were to hack into government systems and to annoy Eliot, and sometimes, Nate shook his head amusedly about the fact that Hardison could type faster than anyone else Nate knew and still tease Eliot at the same time, or tossing in random bits of knowledge into the silent conversation between Nate and Eliot.
Sometimes, Nate wanted to reach out and squeeze Hardison’s elbow gently, to let him know that he would make sure Eliot or anyone else didn’t hurt him, that he appreciated Hardison’s attempts to fill the glum silence and his vast knowledge about technology. Without Hardison around, things would be much quieter and much more boring, plus, he offered technical support whenever he was asked for it and sometimes when he wasn’t.
He never did. He didn’t want Hardison to feel as if Nate didn’t trust him to take care of himself, or that Nate wanted to belittle his efforts. Hardison’s talents were not beating someone up – that was Eliot’s speciality. Hardison’s job wasn’t stealing things – that was Parker’s – but to sneak into computer systems and cause as much havoc as possible or extract the information Nate needed.
And then, there was Sophie. Cool, calm, sophisticated and relaxed, she was sitting on one of the stools, her legs crossed elegantly and her fingertip brushing absent-mindedly along the edge of the tea cup or wine glass in front of her when she listened to him talking. She soothed him when he was feeling too frazzled to go on, her presence enough to help him get back to himself.
She never needed to say anything. A raised eyebrow from her was all the conversation they needed for Nate to know what was going on in her head. The two of them were in sync, a well-oiled machine, a dream team. Sophie could charm anyone if she wanted to, just with a wink of her eye and the promise of a good time. Sometimes Nate was jealous of that ability, but most of the time, he just wanted to lean into Sophie’s side, feel her hand rest feather-light against his upper arm, and hear her tell him that it would be all right, her voice pitched low, just for him, so that Eliot and Hardison wouldn’t even realize what was going on.
Most of the time he wanted to turn into the contact and press his lips to hers, taste the lipstick and her, wrap his arm around her and hold her close, cling to her with all his strength and forget himself in her.
He never did. He respected her too much to even suggest something like that.
And so, he sat unmovingly, his elbows on the bar, a glass of amber liquid in front of him, his head bowed low, day in and day out, a broken man waiting for the day the empty feeling in his chest where Sam had been would go away.
To everyone else, it looked as if he was always alone, but he wasn’t. Even if nobody else could see them, he knew his friends were around him, protecting him, cheering him up, soothing him, always being there for him.
Who cared what everybody else thought, he told himself firmly while straightening his bowed shoulders and lifted his glass. Making eye contact with the four people around him, he grinned a crooked little smile.
“Cheers,” he murmured, not caring about the carefully guarded and slightly alarmed look the barkeeper gave him from the other side of the bar. He wouldn’t understand that Nate wasn’t talking to himself, Nate knew. His friends were too good thieves to get seen by any random people. They were just that good, and he was proud to call them friends, after all they had gone through together.
“To friendship.”
He drank.
~end.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2010-11-15 06:42 pm (UTC)*nods and agrees*
:)) Yeah, I think the icon would be more fun.