leverage fic: ill-gotten gains (nate/sophie)
Oh my god, this fic has been giving me an absolute conniption fit. *washes hands of it*
Title: Ill-Gotten Gains
Pairing: Sophie/Nate
Rating: adult
Notes: Episode addition for 'The First David Job', so, right after the team splits up for the first time. Prompted at nsficathon, for which this is really really late. 2700 words.
Nate Ford is not in any kind of hurry. Sure, the job went to hell and they all had a narrow escape, and yes the offices they've called home have been blown up fairly conclusively, but as far as the requisite law enforcement agencies are concerned - and unlike the four members of his team - he isn't a criminal. Not officially. Not convicted, anyway. (Yet.)
So he takes his time.
First, he goes home and he throws some stuff in a bag, and absolutely no one bursts in on him with flak jackets and handcuffs, so then he makes himself a sandwich. A sandwich, and a really large gin and tonic.
He calls Maggie. No, he doesn't really want to, but does want to make sure she's okay and to let her know that the brief reunion by way of business dealings is well and truly over for the time being. Yes, it's awkward. The gin and tonic helps a little, though.
(No, it doesn't.)
It's early evening by the time he gets out of there. His first stop is, predictably, a liquor store.
*
What happens is this:
He stands there in the park and thinks about the way they all caught up with him, when they first tried to walk away all those months ago after their very first job together. That time, they had caught up with him and they talked him into doing this, and yeah, it's been fun, and yeah, turns out he's really pretty good at it.
Scatter for six months, that's the plan. He looks around at the four of them, and these are not defeated people he sees. But six months is a long time for people like them, his strange little band of criminals. It's entirely possible that, whatever the plan, he might never see any of them again.
And so, inevitably, he starts to think about her. Sophie. Whom it would be very easy to blame for all this, especially with Hardison nursing a head injury and Eliot barely on his feet, and Parker sporting a slightly more manic look in her eye than usual which, if he'd been in Sterling's custody all day, he probably would, too. But actually, he doesn't entirely blame her, Sophie. No, there's more than enough guilt to pass around and it is pretty much what he does these days, so there's that. Sure, he'll take his share.
(He's still pretty pissed, though.)
Fact is, the day has been won, and not by them, and no amount of thinking or guilt-tripping is going to change that.
One last look around at them all, meeting their eyes one after the other. Then he turns and walks away, knowing that behind him they're doing the same thing.
At this point, for a moment, he thinks about doubling back and following her. But the fact is he doesn't need to, not this time.
*
It's getting late, night has fallen by the time he arrives at the secure self-storage yard, because after hitting the liquor store he had to spend a little time sitting in his car, thinking. (Drinking. Which helps him think. No, really.) But, eventually, he makes it to the place and he parks, caps the bottle, and leaves it on the passenger seat, and he figures his timing is about right, anyway.
Sophie did always used to say he had good timing. (Sometimes while cursing at him for interrupting her in the midst of some illegal activity or other.)
See, he once did this for a living after all and it is all still there in the back of his head. And this time it's telling him she would have waited till dark.
"Hi," he says, once he's inside.
There's no reaction, but she would have heard him at the door, of course, had time to prepare. Her back is to him, she's going through the contents of a folder which she sets aside along with a thick roll of currency that might be yen, though he can really only identify it from across the room as 'definitely not American'.
She turns then and she smiles, that slight twist of her lips. "Falling back on old habits."
"Well yeah, I am pretty drunk."
She shakes her head a little. "Mm, not that one. Think older, more fun. You used to get paid an honest day's wage for it."
Chasing down thieves; he looks around him, valuable things stacked floor to ceiling and he can't help wondering how many of them his former employers had to shell out a great big pile of cash for. A lot of them, he hopes.
"You remember, you used to like me this way," Sophie says next, her eyes never leaving his face as his own continue to wander, "back when you were following me across Europe. All of that, it wasn't because I was a law-abiding citizen. That wasn't what kept you coming back for more."
"Well no, it was because you kept stealing things."
"A fact that never used to come as much of a surprise to you," she says, this time a little more sharply. But just as quickly she sighs as if she regrets it. "Nate, what are you doing here? We said we -"
"Well," he begins, cutting her off. Well. See, he had wanted revenge, and instead he got his ass handed to him. He has a feeling, just a hunch really, that the drinking just isn't going to cut it this time, that he needs something else, something more.
And even though it's been a good month or two since she stopped looking at him in that way that makes his chest hurt enough to wonder if there's something left alive in there after all, and even though more recently she's been looking at him with frustration or disgust or weary resignation depending on the day, it's never occurred to him that she isn't at least a little bit still in love with him. He is pretty damn sure of that about her if nothing else.
"I wanted to see you," he says. "I wanted - well you know, back there we didn't really get a chance to say goodbye."
He feels every ounce of the giant asshole he is when that look he hasn't seen in months steals back into her eyes for a brief moment, before she looks away, past him. Her breath catches a little as she formulates her response, and he figures that's pure artistry. (Probably). But then, since she probably knows he's trying to play her, far be it for him not to expect to get played in return.
And yeah, okay, he hates himself for this. But it works out only slightly more than usual, and the sentiment doesn't stop him from taking a step forward, then another, closing the distance between them to just a few feet. He almost reaches for her hand but finds he's not quite there yet.
(It's always been difficult to touch her. There were too many times when he did, by accident or design, fleeting touches, lingering touches, only to return home to Maggie, aching with unfulfilled want and guilt.) (Too much of one, far too little of the other.)
Sophie leans back, away from him, against a crate. She rolls her eyes a little and says simply, "Well?"
"So do you miss it yet?" he says, waiting a beat to clarify. "The David. That thing was the pride of your collection, right?"
Her eyes narrow a little. "It's a big collection."
"Yeah." He let's out a laugh.
"And what about you, Nate? Miss having people to act out your little revenge fantasies yet?"
"Yeah, gonna have to find some new ways to spend time. Any ideas?"
"Just a couple," she tosses at him, scornful, starting to turn away.
He touches her arm, stilling her, and they both look down at his fingers on her skin. He decides it's not so bad.
"You know Sterling, he - he saw us coming from a mile away. He saw you, and I keep asking myself, what'd I miss? Why didn't I see it." He tries it again, this time lifting his hand to her cheek. Her hair falls over his wrist as she leans into the touch. "You, no, you're not my only blind spot, Sophie, but you're a pretty big one."
Her voice is rough as she answers. "I know, I counted on it."
He kisses her, and finds her mouth soft and inviting, like he could almost believe she really has been waiting for him all this time. Her hands are pressed to his stomach, splayed, and he's so out of practice he doesn't recognise the move for what it is until she's pushing him away, inching back herself.
"Just how drunk are you right now?" she asks with her eyes still firmly closed.
"Comparatively, not that drunk, all things considered." He runs a hand back over his hair. "Objectively? Not too drunk for this. I'm pretty sure. I mean, you never know -"
"Oh god will you stop talking."
When her eyes blink open he sees the uncertainty there, but then she blinks again and it's gone, and she's pulling at him, dragging him into another kiss. He goes willingly, pulling at her lips, drinking her down.
(And he doesn't feel guilty at all. No, really.)
*
What he knows is this:
They aren't finished. Not the team, not the job, and as for him and what can safely be classified as his seriously old-school vendetta against Ian Blackpoole - not even close.
When Sophie said, "I'm a thief," what he heard was "and so are you." And the fact is he's more okay with that than she gives him credit for. Because for now, at least, it's a means to an end.
Someway, somehow, he is going to finish it.
*
He's about to go down on her in amongst the spoils of a lifetime of crime.
In theory, he disapproves of the setting, if not the action itself. In practice, it shouldn't be such a turn-on, but it is.
(Hey, he's a complicated guy, and it's about time that started working out for him.)
"So what's in here?" He gives the crate under her hips a firm shake, testing for stability. They're going to need it later.
"Ming -" His hand moves back between her legs. "Ming vase. I think - ah -" That's his thumb on her clitoris. "Nate..." His mouth dragging down her throat, to the vee of her top, on his way to his knees.
He pushes her thighs wider, her skirt bunching at her hips. "I could be wrong," she adds, rallying, her fingers twisting in his hair as his face drags along her inner-thigh. "Could be that bloody clock."
"Louis the fifteenth?" he murmurs into the crease of her hip, pretty sure he gets the reference - why else would she mention it. The smell of her is heady this close, he can already taste her. And then he does, edging her panties aside and delving deep with his tongue. Her fingers find a snarl at the back of his head and a sharp tug is his only answer.
"You still have it?" This time when he speaks the curls of her pubic hair tickle his lips. He hasn't been with a woman in years, and no one but Maggie since his twenties. None of this is new, and everything is.
"Still have it? Well I couldn't get rid of the thing, you made sure of that. Barely got it out of the country - barely got myself out of the country that time, thank you very much."
She's scolding him while her thighs are around his ears.
Only Sophie. Sophie Devereaux, if that is your real name, he thinks, and is briefly thankful he stopped at that liquor store on the way or it wouldn't be nearly as funny. He presses his thumb to her, sliding from her opening to her clit and back again, making long lazy figure eights while he just looks up at her, fallen recently silent, her eyes heavy lidded, breathing shallow as she watches him right back.
"Stand up," she says, in a voice he's never heard before. Sophie, this Sophie, is a revelation.
Hands grasp at his shoulders, urging him to stand.
He resists her pull, tells her, "Not yet."
*
A few things he's learned:
Parker likes food that crunches. She likes other kinds of food, too, but the sound of pretzels or breakfast cereal or whatever - she finds it reassuring.
This is not something he ever wanted to know, but know it, he does.
He also knows that recently Eliot Spencer has worn fifty-plus sunscreen whenever there has been so much of a hint of anyone going outdoors. This has been going on ever since Hardison had one day pointed at a mole on Eliot's arm and declared it 'suspicious lookin''.
He knows, too, that the sunscreen thing has less to do with the mole, which was in fact a freckle, than it does to the dermatologist Eliot wound up dating for a few weeks, who apparently showed him pictures.
Alec Hardison, meanwhile, can hack the Department of Defence, but often has trouble microwaving a burrito without it exploding everywhere. Which is something Nate actually finds kind of reassuring, all things being equal.
And Sophie, Sophie bites her lip when she's close to coming.
There's a flat-pack standing upright between the crate Sophie's perched on and a tall stack of other crates behind it, and he's bracing his hand against it, some priceless canvas or other rattling in its packing with every movement of his hips as he pushes into her deep and hard. But no, nothing is priceless, he reminds himself of this when he hears something snap and splinter over the sound of Sophie's gasps in his ear.
*
It doesn't take long before they're presentable again. They hadn't managed to get more than half-undressed anyway; just as well or at least one of them would have ended up with splinters.
"Six months," she says in a careful, deliberate way. "A hell of a send-off."
He silently agrees, and kisses her cheek, lingering, breathing her in but not in too obvious a way because that is a little more pathetic than he's aiming for just now.
"We'll get it done," he tells her, smiles, "eventually."
"Delayed gratification. Not really you."
"Yeah, I hate that." She's laughing, hands coming up to frame his face, as he goes on, "You know even if we get them back, steal them back, both of them, just like you wanted - you know I won't let you keep them."
The protest is automatic. The hands drop away. "At least one of them was mine for over a decade!"
"Stolen property. Stolen."
The look she gives him then is heavily weighted. "And the things you value in life, Nathan Ford, how many of them have you come by honestly?"
Just one. And no amount of crime, lies, deception, will ever get it back. (It's not like that isn't something he knows, really, seriously well.)
"I walked right in here," he says, and says it flippantly.
She pulls back all the way, putting distance between them once more, smoothing her hair and clothes. "You knew I'd come back here."
"And you didn't change the security code." And she let him watch her punch it in when she brought him here in the first place. It had been as good an invitation as he was ever going to get.
"Was going to on my way out."
"Worried all this stuff might disappear as soon as you turn your back?"
She gives a little shrug. "Just standard practice. You're the only one who knows it, and you're not a thief, remember?"
"No, that's right, I'm the good guy."
He smiles at her. And then he leaves her there. He can feel her gaze between his shoulder blades as he walks away, her voice reaching his ears just as he reaches the door.
"Well, so I keep saying."
(Sometimes when she does, he really wants to believe it.)