Is Wayne Brady Gonna Have To Choke A Bitch? (1/?)
Fandom: Leverage
Pairing: (none)
Rating: PG-ish
A/N: So Nate is pretty fuckin' OOC in this. Actually, everyone is pretty fuckin' OOC in everything I write. Take note for future reference.
The clients had just left. Nate stood to get another drink.
“The Deep South,” said Parker, before making a popping sound with her mouth.
“In July,” Hardison slammed his head on the table, “I have a policy about going past the Mason-Dixon line after June.”
“What’s the policy?” asked Parker.
“I don’t.”
“We need to help these guys,” Nate said, “They’ve lost everything.”
Eliot scoffed.
“What?”
“They didn’t lose that much. They still have a tour! You just want that show back on the air.”
Nate slammed his glass on the dark wood table.
“I would never take a case out of my own selfish desires and, frankly, I’m offended that you’d imply such a thing!”
“You’re drunk.”
“So?”
Eliot stammered.
“You make…bad decisions…when you’re drunk?”
“As we all remember, I made worse decisions when I was sober.”
“Point,” Hardison said, muffled by the table.
“Anyway,” Nate said, “Let’s steal us Wayne Brady.”
****
“We’re going undercover as a country band.” Nate said, “Eliot, seeing as you’re clearly the least qualified of all of us to be a country musician, you’ll be in the audience, keeping an eye on things.”
“Uh, do you not remember that job in Memphis? I was kind of amazing.”
“Eh. You were fine, don’t get me wrong, but this job is gonna require more finesse.”
Eliot opened his mouth to speak, but thought the better of it.
“Hardison, you’ll be on the guitar.”
“I don’t play guitar.”
“You play violin. Just turn it to the side, cello, you’ve got a bass!”
“But I don’t play cello. And this isn’t a bass. And that’s from School of Rock.”
“Parker, you’re on drums.” Nate continued, unfazed.
“Got it,” Parker said. She poked the side of a drum with the stick. “I think it’s broken.”
“Sophie, you’re on that electric piano thing that The Doors used! It’s great for those long solos so the listeners can take a hit off their bong in my mom’s basement before prom without missing any lyrics!”
“And finally,” Nate said, before spinning around to face Eliot, “I’m going to be on the tambourine! I just need to find my old Cher wig and I’ll be ready!” He shook the tambourine to reiterate the point.
“Cher is not a country artist!”
“Yeah-huh! Didn’t you ever see the video for Half Breed?”
“Dressing like an Indian doesn’t make you country!”
“You're a fine one to talk, Spirit Boy. You’re going to be our manager. Wayne Brady will be at the bar when we perform, and you’re going to approach him to be our replacement lead singer, since the current one - me - came out of the closet and that wouldn’t be well-received by the country music community.”
“Because Wayne Brady would be so much better,”
“Exactly!”
Eliot said nothing. He just stared at Nate.
“Understand?”
“No, I get it, I think I just had a stroke.”
“Half breed,” Nate sang under his breath, downing the rest of his scotch and wandering away, "How I learned to hate the word.”
****
“It’s a wonderful day for a hate crime.” Hardison sighed as their van crossed into Alabama, glancing at Nate, who was combing through his Cher wig with his fingers.
“Eliot, do you have any eyeshadow?” Nate asked, opening the vanity mirror.
“Why would I have eyeshadow?”
“Is that a no?” Nate had begun gluing a set of fake lashes on his upper lid.
“Oh, no, it wasn’t a stroke, it was a brain hemorrhage. Fantastic.”
“I guess I’ll just have to buy some in Montgomery.”
“You know they’ll arrest you for buying makeup as a man there?” Hardison said, “I’m pretty sure it’s actually against the law.”
“I’ll get Sophie to do it.”
“What?” Sophie asked, lifting her head from against the window and rubbing her eyes.
“Nate wants you to buy him makeup.”
“Sure.” She said, and resumed her nap.
“I can’t tell if she’s tired or if she dipped into one of Nate’s handles of Jim Beam.”
“If she did I’ll pop a cap in her ass.”
There was a long pause.
“Hardison, stop letting Nate watch Def Comedy Jam.”
Pairing: (none)
Rating: PG-ish
A/N: So Nate is pretty fuckin' OOC in this. Actually, everyone is pretty fuckin' OOC in everything I write. Take note for future reference.
The clients had just left. Nate stood to get another drink.
“The Deep South,” said Parker, before making a popping sound with her mouth.
“In July,” Hardison slammed his head on the table, “I have a policy about going past the Mason-Dixon line after June.”
“What’s the policy?” asked Parker.
“I don’t.”
“We need to help these guys,” Nate said, “They’ve lost everything.”
Eliot scoffed.
“What?”
“They didn’t lose that much. They still have a tour! You just want that show back on the air.”
Nate slammed his glass on the dark wood table.
“I would never take a case out of my own selfish desires and, frankly, I’m offended that you’d imply such a thing!”
“You’re drunk.”
“So?”
Eliot stammered.
“You make…bad decisions…when you’re drunk?”
“As we all remember, I made worse decisions when I was sober.”
“Point,” Hardison said, muffled by the table.
“Anyway,” Nate said, “Let’s steal us Wayne Brady.”
****
“We’re going undercover as a country band.” Nate said, “Eliot, seeing as you’re clearly the least qualified of all of us to be a country musician, you’ll be in the audience, keeping an eye on things.”
“Uh, do you not remember that job in Memphis? I was kind of amazing.”
“Eh. You were fine, don’t get me wrong, but this job is gonna require more finesse.”
Eliot opened his mouth to speak, but thought the better of it.
“Hardison, you’ll be on the guitar.”
“I don’t play guitar.”
“You play violin. Just turn it to the side, cello, you’ve got a bass!”
“But I don’t play cello. And this isn’t a bass. And that’s from School of Rock.”
“Parker, you’re on drums.” Nate continued, unfazed.
“Got it,” Parker said. She poked the side of a drum with the stick. “I think it’s broken.”
“Sophie, you’re on that electric piano thing that The Doors used! It’s great for those long solos so the listeners can take a hit off their bong in my mom’s basement before prom without missing any lyrics!”
“And finally,” Nate said, before spinning around to face Eliot, “I’m going to be on the tambourine! I just need to find my old Cher wig and I’ll be ready!” He shook the tambourine to reiterate the point.
“Cher is not a country artist!”
“Yeah-huh! Didn’t you ever see the video for Half Breed?”
“Dressing like an Indian doesn’t make you country!”
“You're a fine one to talk, Spirit Boy. You’re going to be our manager. Wayne Brady will be at the bar when we perform, and you’re going to approach him to be our replacement lead singer, since the current one - me - came out of the closet and that wouldn’t be well-received by the country music community.”
“Because Wayne Brady would be so much better,”
“Exactly!”
Eliot said nothing. He just stared at Nate.
“Understand?”
“No, I get it, I think I just had a stroke.”
“Half breed,” Nate sang under his breath, downing the rest of his scotch and wandering away, "How I learned to hate the word.”
****
“It’s a wonderful day for a hate crime.” Hardison sighed as their van crossed into Alabama, glancing at Nate, who was combing through his Cher wig with his fingers.
“Eliot, do you have any eyeshadow?” Nate asked, opening the vanity mirror.
“Why would I have eyeshadow?”
“Is that a no?” Nate had begun gluing a set of fake lashes on his upper lid.
“Oh, no, it wasn’t a stroke, it was a brain hemorrhage. Fantastic.”
“I guess I’ll just have to buy some in Montgomery.”
“You know they’ll arrest you for buying makeup as a man there?” Hardison said, “I’m pretty sure it’s actually against the law.”
“I’ll get Sophie to do it.”
“What?” Sophie asked, lifting her head from against the window and rubbing her eyes.
“Nate wants you to buy him makeup.”
“Sure.” She said, and resumed her nap.
“I can’t tell if she’s tired or if she dipped into one of Nate’s handles of Jim Beam.”
“If she did I’ll pop a cap in her ass.”
There was a long pause.
“Hardison, stop letting Nate watch Def Comedy Jam.”