This is … what happens when you let me watch an entire season of Leverage in a week and a half. *cough* Tír na Cali/Leverage fanfiction crossover.
It’s written in an experimental style for me, and, well, it’s fanfic, so pls. be kind.
(There are a lot of commercials. It’s being played on one of those syndicated-show channels, I suppose, TNT or Spike or something.)
Luck of the draw pulled it up twice on my list in a day, after being off rotation for over a week!
Fade back in from commercial. Sophie is wielding a folded piece of paper. “We are not Americans.”
“Because of your…” Parker squints. “Your take-out menu?”
Sophie seems to deflate. “Well, it’s supposed to be my passport, but I don’t exactly carry it around with me, do I?”
“Anyway, you might not be American, but I was born here, and so was Alec… Hardisson. So was Hardisson.”
“It’s cool, Parker, I’ve got this.” Hardisson held up both hands. “We can be English. We can be anything that we want. I’m just that cool. Going in as the Duchess, then? You don’t like her, do you?”
“I don’t like her.” Sophie’s smile is small and tight. “But the Californians love her.”
“Here, sit down here.” Lady Anastasia still has her arm around Eliot’s waist; she guides him to an overstuffed armchair in what looks like an expensive but rather spartan bedroom. He sits heavily, shifting and trying to get comfortable while still cuffed hand and foot.
“You really think I’m here to kill you?”
“You’re really not?” She falls into a cross-legged seat at his feet. “Here, hold still.”
“I don’t want to be here at all, lady.” He falls still. “What are you doing?”
She pulls the keys Alessia gave her from her pocket. “Unlocking you.”
Eliot stares down at her, angry all over again. “Why?” Pause. “My lady.”
She looks up at him, her expression serious – a mirror of the face he often wears, albeit in a more gamine face. “Considering the training you’ve likely had, if you’re going to kill me, the shackles will only irritate you. If you’re not going to kill me, there’s no reason to cause you further discomfort.”
“I never said I really was black ops.”
“You never said you weren’t, either. And besides -”
“Takes one to know one.”
“Something like that.” She scoots back, holding the shackles in one hand. “Wrists.”
He shifts so that she can reach the handcuffs, his back to her. “So, now what?”
“Well, first I’m going to get that monstrosity off of you. And then… then we can talk.”
“Look, I’ve got a team back home. Friends. Is there any way I could call them, send them an e-mail?”
She stills. The cuffs come off. “A brief call. But first, I want to talk about a couple things.”
He rubs his wrists. “You’re in charge.”
“Here.” She moves him with a couple light pushes. “One more piece of jewelry to deal with.”
Eliot’s hands go to the collar. “You’ll get this thing off of me?”
She reaches into her drawer and fiddles around for a few minutes. “There has to be a collar. But there doesn’t have to be that thing.”
He stills. “Do it.”
An estate in California
“These… these stepford slaves are creeping me out.” Hardisson closes the door. “We’d better get Eliot soon. I’m going to go postal here.”
Cut, once again, to commercial.
Part IX – http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/688747.html
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