(Leverage/Warehouse 13) By Sound Alone for fleurlb
Title: By Sound Alone
Author: luc_darling
Fandoms: Leverage/Warehouse 13
Characters: Sophie Devereaux; Helena G Wells
Pairings: Gen
Rating: PG
Word count: 2,105
Spoilers: set after Leverage 2x01; between Warehouse 13 episodes 2x01 and 2x07
Warnings: Temporary loss of sight
Disclaimer: Leverage and Warehouse 13 belong to Dean Devlin and Jack Kenny respectively.
A/N: To my recipient, thank you for expanding my horizons by requesting something written in second person. My effusive thanks to tellshannon815 for the Brit-picking and monica_catch22 for the beta.
Summary: You (current alias: Sophie Devereaux) are taking a break from Boston and this job for J MacPherson doesn't sound so hard.
You step off the plane and the air is still recycled, but it smells like home regardless. It's been far too long since you've been back to your old stomping grounds, to borrow the American phrase. The Heathrow Airport is full of future characters that you take in eagerly as you sashay your hips to the waiting car. Annie Croix is back in London. (An extra thanks to the credit card of the businessman standing in line at a knock-off coffee express. You winked and he never knew what hit him.)
The team of thieves, okay, they're practically family now, are all fun to work with. But sometimes a girl's gotta step out on her own. And you're used to solo work, though having ready back-up does come in handy, you'll admit. This job shouldn't require any help from anyone else and it shouldn't take too terribly long though. You'll be back in Boston before Nate has time to miss Sophie Devereaux.
The taxicab drops you off at the only residence you pay taxes on. Nate was right when he said that's how the government catches their crooks - it's a sad truth. You walk up the short garden path, fetch the extra key from inside a hollow knot in the door frame and let yourself in.
Everything's a little dusty, but the clothes in the closet are still in style, perfect for casing the museum that currently has an exhibit about Louis Braille. You aren't sure what your employer wants with Braille's original copy of “Method of Writing Words, Music, and Plain Songs by Means of Dots, for Use by the Blind and Arranged for Them”, but it's not your place to ask. Macpherson paid a handsome sum in advance with the rest already arranged to be deposited in one of your Swiss accounts upon delivery. Annie Croix dealt with cleaning money, you told the Irish mob, but she also has some sticky fingers that will come in handy. For now, though, you take a luxurious bath in the marble tub you had installed years ago and sleep finds you quickly once you lay down.
The next two days pass in a blur. It is short work to run reconnaissance on the museum and learn that the book is not actually guarded by anything more than a young security guard at the front of the small building. You make contact with one of the children who are employed by a friend of a friend of friend; funny old-fashioned name but you don't deny his contact network is beyond excellent.
You wake on the day and choose an outfit of ankle boots, dark pants and a pink silk blouse. A very large handbag, just larger than Braille's book, is the finishing touch to curled hair and dark eyes. It's a short ride on the Tube and a longer walk to arrive at the museum in the middle of the day. You meet up with Jimmy a stone's throw away from the revolving door of the museum, giving him half his demanded payment and running over his part in the con. He's eager to please and the two of you soon enter. Jimmy heads toward the security guard as you make a direct line to the back left gallery.
Few people are in the room with you. There's only an elderly couple peering closely at some donated clothes and a woman a little younger than you in a cream shirt and dark vest with her back turned to the book. Your fingers take careful hold of the ancient item after looking around once more, smoothly replacing it with the forged copy that your contact made. They're identical in look but the real one is slightly heavier. You blink, open your eyes, and you can't see. Your first instinct is to shout for help, but that would mean explaining to security what you were doing with the original manuscript of Louis Braille in your purse. It's not worth it. You scan your memory, trying to remember how many steps you took from the wall to reach this case when a hand closes on your elbow. You jump in fright, head automatically whipping around to see - but everything is dark. It's like someone turned out the lights and snuffed out the sun.
“Easy now,” a woman's voice whispers in your ear. “You look like you were in a spot of trouble and I think I can help.” You feel a fine cotton something, handkerchief maybe, close around the spine of the book your fingers still hold. You don't let go.
“Is that East London I hear?” You cock your head, smile on your lips. You hope like mad you're facing her; the exhale of her breath tells you your position is a little too far shifted to the left but it's of no concern.
“Very good ear,” the stranger congratulates you wryly. “If you think you can handle this-”
“Oh, of course, there's no problem.” You respond in a normal tone, smiling brightly. You step backwards, weight shifting to your right foot. Another two steps back and the back of your knees hit the bench; you arrange your skirt by feel and take a seat. The woman sits next to you.
“Let me be blunt,” she says in a low voice. “You cannot possibly begin to understand what it is you hold in your hand. I know exactly what it is.”
“Oh, you happen to know how exactly a book from the 19th century made me blind?” You respond archly, tone as quiet as hers. That's certainly a bold approach. You wonder if she was also hired by MacPherson as a test or to eliminate you after your success.
The woman's tone is serious and calm. “Yes. I used to work for,” she pauses to take a deep breath. “The best people in the world equipped to handle these sort of situations. I can help.”
“Be careful,” you caution hurriedly as your benefactor simultaneously draws you closer to her body and plucks the book from you. “I-I don't know what happened, I was looking at it and then I blinked and I can't see.” You turn to the woman as the truth spills out, your hand landing on her thigh and clutching like a drowning man clings to a life preserver.
“It's all right-” the woman pauses and you know it's deliberate, it's the same trick you would use to discover someone's information but right now your brain isn't at full capacity.
“Annie Croix,” you respond, hoping the hysteria you feel bubbling up isn't present in the words.
“It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Annie,” the woman says smoothly. “You just have to stand up and it's fifteen steps forward to the doorway you came through. From there we'll be two friends who have met by happenstance in the exhibit and are on their way to a light tea. How does that sound?” Her voice is low, soothing and your legs tense, pushing you up from your seat almost before you realize it.
“So you changed your name again?” You say loudly as you step forward, facial muscles moving in the right combination to reflect curiosity. The woman laughs and steers you through the doorway, wrapping her right arm around your waist. She smells like dried parchment and a hint of apples.
“I just feel like Helena is more me,” she responds brightly. “How have you been?” The two of you chatter away in the polite conversation that is second nature to you, saying little despite the amount of words actually spoken.
“We've reached the steps, the railing is on your right just above your hip.” You descend hesitantly, heeled boots noisy on the marble floor. Helena coaxes you along, catching you when you stumble on the bottom-most step. “Security at our ten o'clock, he's currently engaged with a young boy.” You smile, because Jimmy is still doing a marvelous job of distraction. The lobby is full of different voices and Helena helps you navigate to the revolving door.
“Yes, that boy will continue distracting him for as long as necessary,” you tell her as Helena lets go of your arm. She makes a soft pleased sound, and you wonder what other context could draw that noise from her. You whistle loudly as your hands find the cool glass of the revolving door and push forward. You dig one-handed in your purse for the small envelope and pull it out, holding it against the bottom of your purse as you walk along in the small space. A few steps later, fresh air is on your face. You feel the heat of the sun on your skin and Helena's low voice reassures you quickly that she hasn't left you behind as the door goes around again behind you.
“You got what you needed?” Jimmy's young voice is behind and to the left of you. You twitch the envelope. His small hand brushes yours briefly and then the envelope of £250 is out of your hands. You assume he's run off soon after but congratulate him anyhow on a performance worthy of West End.
“Oh, you're good,” Helena murmurs, taking your arm again. “It's not far to my flat, really. A short taxi ride and I can get your eyesight back, I promise.” Her hand slides down your arm, nails scraping the palm of your hand delicately before clasping your hand in hers.
The car ride is silent, broken by the driver's mutterings to himself. Helena helps you out and up the steps. You stand next to her in the lift, close enough to feel her body heat. Keys jingle together and you hear the familiar sound of the key scraping the lock, the pins tumbling together as the door opens.
“Well, this is me,” Helena announces. “Oh, I suppose that doesn't much matter at the moment, does it? Sorry about that.” She lets go of your arm and you feel bereft. The woman moves around you quietly, opening drawers and rifling through their contents.
“There's a couch three steps behind you if you want to sit.” Helena says and you sink gratefully onto the cushions. “Are your eyes shut?”
“Does that really matter? I can't see regardless of the answer.” You respond. You wonder if this is going to hurt and if she can truly fix it. Helena chuckles.
“This shouldn't hurt.” Something plastic crinkles and you squeeze your eyes shut reflexively. Nothing touches you but there's a quiet explosion that reminds you of a crackling fire.
Helena's voice is satisfied when she says “Open your eyes.”
You hesitantly open them and the sunlight from the bay window brings tears to your eyes. It feels like days since you've been able to see, but a glance at your watch tells you it's only been an hour or so. You look up from your seated position to the woman standing in front of you. She's donned purple gloves, is holding a shiny metallic bag in one hand, and is gorgeous. Helena's full lips curve in a smile as you take in the dark vest with its gold buttons and the knee high leather boots. You look around the room as you stand, noticing there is a half-full bookcase against one wall and then back to the woman who restored your eyesight.
“Isn't there a way I could thank you?” you ask, eyes flicking rapidly to the small kitchen and taking in the antique-styled bureau and iron bed in the next room. It's certainly been a while since you've slept with another woman but Helena is not unattractive and there's all this energy inside of you, leftover adrenaline and success at being able to see again.
Helena seems amused as she steps closer to you, pulling you off the settee. “Perhaps another time, Annie.” She says but you know you won't see her again. “I'm afraid I'm on a bit of a deadline at the moment.” She guides you to the door, her hand warm on the small of your back. Helena leans in, pressing a quick chaste kiss to your lips before pulling away. “Thank you for all your help.” She says before she gently pushes you out of her flat and into the hallway. The door shuts in your face before you can ask what you helped her with.
-END-
Prompt: Sophie Devereaux as “Annie Croix”/HG Welles (gen or romantic); case fic; 2nd person
Author: luc_darling
Fandoms: Leverage/Warehouse 13
Characters: Sophie Devereaux; Helena G Wells
Pairings: Gen
Rating: PG
Word count: 2,105
Spoilers: set after Leverage 2x01; between Warehouse 13 episodes 2x01 and 2x07
Warnings: Temporary loss of sight
Disclaimer: Leverage and Warehouse 13 belong to Dean Devlin and Jack Kenny respectively.
A/N: To my recipient, thank you for expanding my horizons by requesting something written in second person. My effusive thanks to tellshannon815 for the Brit-picking and monica_catch22 for the beta.
Summary: You (current alias: Sophie Devereaux) are taking a break from Boston and this job for J MacPherson doesn't sound so hard.
You step off the plane and the air is still recycled, but it smells like home regardless. It's been far too long since you've been back to your old stomping grounds, to borrow the American phrase. The Heathrow Airport is full of future characters that you take in eagerly as you sashay your hips to the waiting car. Annie Croix is back in London. (An extra thanks to the credit card of the businessman standing in line at a knock-off coffee express. You winked and he never knew what hit him.)
The team of thieves, okay, they're practically family now, are all fun to work with. But sometimes a girl's gotta step out on her own. And you're used to solo work, though having ready back-up does come in handy, you'll admit. This job shouldn't require any help from anyone else and it shouldn't take too terribly long though. You'll be back in Boston before Nate has time to miss Sophie Devereaux.
The taxicab drops you off at the only residence you pay taxes on. Nate was right when he said that's how the government catches their crooks - it's a sad truth. You walk up the short garden path, fetch the extra key from inside a hollow knot in the door frame and let yourself in.
Everything's a little dusty, but the clothes in the closet are still in style, perfect for casing the museum that currently has an exhibit about Louis Braille. You aren't sure what your employer wants with Braille's original copy of “Method of Writing Words, Music, and Plain Songs by Means of Dots, for Use by the Blind and Arranged for Them”, but it's not your place to ask. Macpherson paid a handsome sum in advance with the rest already arranged to be deposited in one of your Swiss accounts upon delivery. Annie Croix dealt with cleaning money, you told the Irish mob, but she also has some sticky fingers that will come in handy. For now, though, you take a luxurious bath in the marble tub you had installed years ago and sleep finds you quickly once you lay down.
The next two days pass in a blur. It is short work to run reconnaissance on the museum and learn that the book is not actually guarded by anything more than a young security guard at the front of the small building. You make contact with one of the children who are employed by a friend of a friend of friend; funny old-fashioned name but you don't deny his contact network is beyond excellent.
You wake on the day and choose an outfit of ankle boots, dark pants and a pink silk blouse. A very large handbag, just larger than Braille's book, is the finishing touch to curled hair and dark eyes. It's a short ride on the Tube and a longer walk to arrive at the museum in the middle of the day. You meet up with Jimmy a stone's throw away from the revolving door of the museum, giving him half his demanded payment and running over his part in the con. He's eager to please and the two of you soon enter. Jimmy heads toward the security guard as you make a direct line to the back left gallery.
Few people are in the room with you. There's only an elderly couple peering closely at some donated clothes and a woman a little younger than you in a cream shirt and dark vest with her back turned to the book. Your fingers take careful hold of the ancient item after looking around once more, smoothly replacing it with the forged copy that your contact made. They're identical in look but the real one is slightly heavier. You blink, open your eyes, and you can't see. Your first instinct is to shout for help, but that would mean explaining to security what you were doing with the original manuscript of Louis Braille in your purse. It's not worth it. You scan your memory, trying to remember how many steps you took from the wall to reach this case when a hand closes on your elbow. You jump in fright, head automatically whipping around to see - but everything is dark. It's like someone turned out the lights and snuffed out the sun.
“Easy now,” a woman's voice whispers in your ear. “You look like you were in a spot of trouble and I think I can help.” You feel a fine cotton something, handkerchief maybe, close around the spine of the book your fingers still hold. You don't let go.
“Is that East London I hear?” You cock your head, smile on your lips. You hope like mad you're facing her; the exhale of her breath tells you your position is a little too far shifted to the left but it's of no concern.
“Very good ear,” the stranger congratulates you wryly. “If you think you can handle this-”
“Oh, of course, there's no problem.” You respond in a normal tone, smiling brightly. You step backwards, weight shifting to your right foot. Another two steps back and the back of your knees hit the bench; you arrange your skirt by feel and take a seat. The woman sits next to you.
“Let me be blunt,” she says in a low voice. “You cannot possibly begin to understand what it is you hold in your hand. I know exactly what it is.”
“Oh, you happen to know how exactly a book from the 19th century made me blind?” You respond archly, tone as quiet as hers. That's certainly a bold approach. You wonder if she was also hired by MacPherson as a test or to eliminate you after your success.
The woman's tone is serious and calm. “Yes. I used to work for,” she pauses to take a deep breath. “The best people in the world equipped to handle these sort of situations. I can help.”
“Be careful,” you caution hurriedly as your benefactor simultaneously draws you closer to her body and plucks the book from you. “I-I don't know what happened, I was looking at it and then I blinked and I can't see.” You turn to the woman as the truth spills out, your hand landing on her thigh and clutching like a drowning man clings to a life preserver.
“It's all right-” the woman pauses and you know it's deliberate, it's the same trick you would use to discover someone's information but right now your brain isn't at full capacity.
“Annie Croix,” you respond, hoping the hysteria you feel bubbling up isn't present in the words.
“It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Annie,” the woman says smoothly. “You just have to stand up and it's fifteen steps forward to the doorway you came through. From there we'll be two friends who have met by happenstance in the exhibit and are on their way to a light tea. How does that sound?” Her voice is low, soothing and your legs tense, pushing you up from your seat almost before you realize it.
“So you changed your name again?” You say loudly as you step forward, facial muscles moving in the right combination to reflect curiosity. The woman laughs and steers you through the doorway, wrapping her right arm around your waist. She smells like dried parchment and a hint of apples.
“I just feel like Helena is more me,” she responds brightly. “How have you been?” The two of you chatter away in the polite conversation that is second nature to you, saying little despite the amount of words actually spoken.
“We've reached the steps, the railing is on your right just above your hip.” You descend hesitantly, heeled boots noisy on the marble floor. Helena coaxes you along, catching you when you stumble on the bottom-most step. “Security at our ten o'clock, he's currently engaged with a young boy.” You smile, because Jimmy is still doing a marvelous job of distraction. The lobby is full of different voices and Helena helps you navigate to the revolving door.
“Yes, that boy will continue distracting him for as long as necessary,” you tell her as Helena lets go of your arm. She makes a soft pleased sound, and you wonder what other context could draw that noise from her. You whistle loudly as your hands find the cool glass of the revolving door and push forward. You dig one-handed in your purse for the small envelope and pull it out, holding it against the bottom of your purse as you walk along in the small space. A few steps later, fresh air is on your face. You feel the heat of the sun on your skin and Helena's low voice reassures you quickly that she hasn't left you behind as the door goes around again behind you.
“You got what you needed?” Jimmy's young voice is behind and to the left of you. You twitch the envelope. His small hand brushes yours briefly and then the envelope of £250 is out of your hands. You assume he's run off soon after but congratulate him anyhow on a performance worthy of West End.
“Oh, you're good,” Helena murmurs, taking your arm again. “It's not far to my flat, really. A short taxi ride and I can get your eyesight back, I promise.” Her hand slides down your arm, nails scraping the palm of your hand delicately before clasping your hand in hers.
The car ride is silent, broken by the driver's mutterings to himself. Helena helps you out and up the steps. You stand next to her in the lift, close enough to feel her body heat. Keys jingle together and you hear the familiar sound of the key scraping the lock, the pins tumbling together as the door opens.
“Well, this is me,” Helena announces. “Oh, I suppose that doesn't much matter at the moment, does it? Sorry about that.” She lets go of your arm and you feel bereft. The woman moves around you quietly, opening drawers and rifling through their contents.
“There's a couch three steps behind you if you want to sit.” Helena says and you sink gratefully onto the cushions. “Are your eyes shut?”
“Does that really matter? I can't see regardless of the answer.” You respond. You wonder if this is going to hurt and if she can truly fix it. Helena chuckles.
“This shouldn't hurt.” Something plastic crinkles and you squeeze your eyes shut reflexively. Nothing touches you but there's a quiet explosion that reminds you of a crackling fire.
Helena's voice is satisfied when she says “Open your eyes.”
You hesitantly open them and the sunlight from the bay window brings tears to your eyes. It feels like days since you've been able to see, but a glance at your watch tells you it's only been an hour or so. You look up from your seated position to the woman standing in front of you. She's donned purple gloves, is holding a shiny metallic bag in one hand, and is gorgeous. Helena's full lips curve in a smile as you take in the dark vest with its gold buttons and the knee high leather boots. You look around the room as you stand, noticing there is a half-full bookcase against one wall and then back to the woman who restored your eyesight.
“Isn't there a way I could thank you?” you ask, eyes flicking rapidly to the small kitchen and taking in the antique-styled bureau and iron bed in the next room. It's certainly been a while since you've slept with another woman but Helena is not unattractive and there's all this energy inside of you, leftover adrenaline and success at being able to see again.
Helena seems amused as she steps closer to you, pulling you off the settee. “Perhaps another time, Annie.” She says but you know you won't see her again. “I'm afraid I'm on a bit of a deadline at the moment.” She guides you to the door, her hand warm on the small of your back. Helena leans in, pressing a quick chaste kiss to your lips before pulling away. “Thank you for all your help.” She says before she gently pushes you out of her flat and into the hallway. The door shuts in your face before you can ask what you helped her with.
-END-
Prompt: Sophie Devereaux as “Annie Croix”/HG Welles (gen or romantic); case fic; 2nd person