(Leverage/SPN) The Stranger for oneiriad
Title: The Stranger
Author: fleurlb
Fandoms: Leverage/Supernatural
Characters: Nate Ford, Eliot Spencer, Alec Hardison, Parker; Gabriel
Pairings: none
Rating: G
Word count: approx 2,000
Spoilers: Set in the latter half of the second season of Leverage (no real spoilers after 2.11, “The Bottle Job”) and just before Supernatural 5.19 (“Hammer of the Gods”, minor spoilers)
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Leverage and Supernatural belong to their respective creators. I’m just having fun here.
Summary: When Nate discovers Gabriel on his couch, he wishes more than anything that it was just a drunken hallucination.
Nate stumbled into the apartment, pausing to clumsily latch the door behind him. His mouth already felt like sandpaper and a thousand tiny knives ran through his brain. It hardly seemed fair that a hangover was starting before he’d even stopped drinking for the evening. He lumbered toward the kitchen area, intent on a glass of water before returning to the whisky.
He hadn’t expected falling off the wagon would be so difficult. His body definitely wasn’t up to the abuse he was heaping on it, but he craved the silence in his mind, so he’d continued after that fateful first drink with Doyle in McRory’s pub.
A light cough from the couch disturbed Nate’s thoughts and he peered toward the darkened living/office area. A figure sat on the couch - too short to be Hardison and too lumpy to be Eliot. Nate rubbed a weary hand across his eyes and decided that it was a drunken hallucination.
Or it could’ve been a pissed off mark who wanted to kill him. Either way, Nate decided, he was going to carry on with his plans for the rest of the evening: a pint of water chased by as much whisky as he needed to achieve oblivion.
---//---
The next morning, Nate woke up with a million bees buzzing in his head. His mouth was a desert and his fingers were clumsy as he struggled to brush his teeth and then wash down a couple of aspirins. He took a shower, and although it wasn’t a magic cure, he did feel marginally more human after he got dressed.
At the top of the stairs, he remember the guy on the couch, the drunken hallucination. It must have been, since Nate was still alive. He crept down the stairs gingerly and peeked into the living room. The same shape was perched on the couch. The guy was tapping his fingers impatiently, looking like he was waiting for a dentist appointment.
Nate reversed up the stairs and phoned Eliot, explaining that it seemed that someone was in his apartment. Eliot hadn’t waited to hear more, had said that he’d be there in ten and then cut the call. Eight minutes later, Nate heard his apartment door open with a click and then nothing for several heart-pounding seconds.
Then Eliot’s annoyed voice: “Nate, there’s nobody here. No sign of anyone at all.”
Sheepishly, Nate came downstairs, not apologizing exactly but opting instead to thank Eliot for his help. The hitter eyed him skeptically and Nate knew that Eliot was biting his tongue not to ask how much Nate had to drink the night before. A small courtesy, but one that was much appreciated at this hour in the morning.
But then Nate glanced into the living area, where the man still sat on the couch, this time half turned to watch the conversation between Eliot and Nate. The man raised a hand in a mocking little wave, a half-smirk on his lips.
Nate put all his effort that morning into ignoring the annoying hallucination on the couch. It had to be some kind of messed up DTs. He supposed he should be grateful that at least this time, it was a silent stranger and not the annoying, self-important Sterling, as he’d hallucinated in that rehab place.
The day dragged on endlessly as Nate tried to ignore the hallucination during Hardison’s briefing. He also had to ignore the concern that creased Eliot’s face and, for the first time, he was heartily relieved that Sophie wasn’t there. No way he’d be able to hide a man-sized hallucination from Sophie.
Tara, though, didn’t act like anything was different. Hardison was too wrapped up in the briefing. And Parker, well, as Eliot would say, was Parker. Nate did have to stifle a laugh when the man ate out of Parker’s cereal bowl, stealing a favorite thing from the best thief in the world. Although, it freaked him out when Parker frowned at the bowl later and said something about not remembering eating so quickly.
After the briefing and some preliminary planning, the rest of the crew left except for Eliot. He lingered, probing without quizzing, trying to figure out what was going on with Nate without outright asking. Nate finally managed to push him out the door but half-expected that Eliot would lurk in the hallway all night, ever faithful and alert against threats, whether external or internal.
Nate went into the kitchen and grabbed the whisky and two glasses. He returned to the living area and sat down in the chair across from the man. He poured them each a glass and drained his own quickly. The man just watched him for several interminable minutes.
Then, the man snapped his fingers and a chess board appeared on the table in front of them. The man gave the corner of the board a push and it spun around in a fast circle, the pieces somehow staying in place. Nate moved his eyes to watch the man, trying to figure out his angle, his game. The board began to slow and Nate watched as the board stopped, the side with the white pieces in front him.
“White king, Nate, very fitting. Whenever you’re ready,” said the man, holding out a hand toward the board.
“Why are you here? What do you want?” asked Nate, keeping his eyes on the pieces as he considered his opening move.
“But not who I am. Interesting,” replied the man before he took a drink of the whisky.
The man shook his head and puffed out his cheeks. “I’ve never gotten used to the burn in that stuff. Something sweeter would be more my style.” Then he blinked his eyes and he was suddenly holding a giant frothy pink drink with a little umbrella and a skewer of fruit perched precariously on the side.
Nate half-shrugged and moved a chess piece into place. “Does it matter who you are?”
“I don’t suppose it does. I’m a little hurt though that you’re not even a little curious.” The man drained a quarter of his ridiculous drink using a twisty straw and Nate’s mind could barely process the absurdity of the entire scene. After considering the board for a few seconds, the man made a move.
Nate picked up his bishop and took the man’s rook, smiling when he winced. “I didn’t say I wasn’t curious. I just don’t think it makes a difference. You’re either a hallucination or you’re something else entirely and frankly, right now, I don’t know which would scare me more.”
The man played another move and then he and Nate played silently for several moves, Nate’s mind whirring as he tried to figure out what, exactly, he’d landed himself in this time.
“I’m Gabriel,” said the man suddenly and offered his hand. Nate accepted the shake, surprised when he felt a low voltage shock in his palm.
Gabriel dissolved into giggles. “Sorry, I can never resist that one.”
Nate was familiar with all manner of sleight of hand but was convinced he hadn’t seen the man hide a hand buzzer. And, of course, there was the whole business of the magically appearing and spinning chess set. Before Nate could manage to ask another question, Gabriel snapped his fingers.
“Nathan Ford,” said the man, in the style of Hardison giving a briefing. The screens lit up and Nate watched a brief history of his life followed by scenes from the jobs that the team had done in the last year and a half.
“This is my favorite one,” said Gabriel as Nate watched the team impersonate a medical team in a contagion crisis to catch the thieving investment banker.
After the “briefing”, Gabriel leaned forward and said, “I have to be honest with you, Nate, this isn’t my usual style.”
“What is your usual style, then?” asked Nate, confused.
“Usually? I pull a con of my own. And even with my considerable....abilities, I know you can’t con a conman. Can’t bullshit a bullshiter. Am I right?”
Nate played a move. “Check.”
Gabriel looked at the board and the figures started to move, playing out the exact gambit that Nate had planned.
“I could have devised an elaborate con and tricked you into doing what I need you to do, but frankly, I have more respect for you than that. But you will do what I need you to do, Nate. Make no mistake about that. You’re just lucky enough to get the option of doing it the easy way.”
Nate downed his whisky and poured another. “I’m listening.”
“Good. Some time in the future, I don’t know when, some guys are going to come to you. Sam and Dean Winchester. Might be one, might be both. The idiots might even use fake names, usually something based on old rock bands. Don’t let that fool you. Help them.”
“Help them how?” asked Nate.
“They’re going to need to locate and gain control over four rings. They might need the services of a good thief and a merry band of conmen, like yourselves.”
“And why would I want to do that? I mean, besides to get you off my couch.”
“Just a little thing called the apocalypse,” replied Gabriel as scenes of devastation lit up the video screens. Nate watched as forest fires raged and buildings collapsed. He watched a tidal wave wash away a school bus and a crazed man with eerie black eyes plunge a knife into a woman’s chest.
Nate closed his eyes and pressed his palms into them, willing away the incipient tension headache that he could feel forming. When he opened his eyes, Gabriel was gone. Nate downed the scotch, poured another and then slumped back onto the couch, the video screens still playing.
---//---
The next morning, Nate woke up on the couch, wearing the same clothes as the night before, a half-full glass in his hand. The video screens were blessedly black and his couch was finally empty. Nate pulled himself off the couch and staggered over to the stairs, determined to make himself at least half-way presentable before the team arrived.
Before he could even put a foot on a step, the door swung open and Hardison and Parker burst in, arguing too loudly over the existence of Santa.
“Hardison, get me everything you can on Sam and Dean Winchester.”
“Sure thing. They our next job?”
“No. They’re potential clients.”
“Since when do we investigate clients?” asked Parker.
“Since I said so,” replied Nate, sharper than he’d intended but Parker failed to notice his tone. He continued, a little less harshly. “And Gabriel. Get me everything you can on Gabriel.”
“Does this Gabriel have a last name?” asked Hardison.
Nate shook his head.
“Wha-?” asked Hardison but Nate cut him off.
“I’m gonna need you to think outside the box on this one,” said Nate, then rubbed a hand over his mouth, knowing he couldn’t say more than that without having the team commit him to a mental hospital.
“Think outside the box? What the hell does he mean by that?” Hardison asked Parker as Nate climbed the stairs. “I’m good, but who the hell can come up with intel without a last name? Inside the box, outside the box, on top of the damn box, you need at least a last name, mother’s maiden name, you know what I’m talking about.”
Nate knew it didn’t matter how good Hardison was or how far outside the box he thought, it was likely that no one could come up with intel on this mysterious Gabriel. But Nate didn’t doubt the stranger. Trouble, in the form of Sam and Dean Winchester, would arrive at the front door someday soon, and Nate wanted to be as prepared as possible.
-END-
Prompt:
Leverage/Supernatural: Gabriel, guardian angel of tricksters specializing in just desserts. Now, if only Nate could get him off his couch…
Author: fleurlb
Fandoms: Leverage/Supernatural
Characters: Nate Ford, Eliot Spencer, Alec Hardison, Parker; Gabriel
Pairings: none
Rating: G
Word count: approx 2,000
Spoilers: Set in the latter half of the second season of Leverage (no real spoilers after 2.11, “The Bottle Job”) and just before Supernatural 5.19 (“Hammer of the Gods”, minor spoilers)
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Leverage and Supernatural belong to their respective creators. I’m just having fun here.
Summary: When Nate discovers Gabriel on his couch, he wishes more than anything that it was just a drunken hallucination.
Nate stumbled into the apartment, pausing to clumsily latch the door behind him. His mouth already felt like sandpaper and a thousand tiny knives ran through his brain. It hardly seemed fair that a hangover was starting before he’d even stopped drinking for the evening. He lumbered toward the kitchen area, intent on a glass of water before returning to the whisky.
He hadn’t expected falling off the wagon would be so difficult. His body definitely wasn’t up to the abuse he was heaping on it, but he craved the silence in his mind, so he’d continued after that fateful first drink with Doyle in McRory’s pub.
A light cough from the couch disturbed Nate’s thoughts and he peered toward the darkened living/office area. A figure sat on the couch - too short to be Hardison and too lumpy to be Eliot. Nate rubbed a weary hand across his eyes and decided that it was a drunken hallucination.
Or it could’ve been a pissed off mark who wanted to kill him. Either way, Nate decided, he was going to carry on with his plans for the rest of the evening: a pint of water chased by as much whisky as he needed to achieve oblivion.
---//---
The next morning, Nate woke up with a million bees buzzing in his head. His mouth was a desert and his fingers were clumsy as he struggled to brush his teeth and then wash down a couple of aspirins. He took a shower, and although it wasn’t a magic cure, he did feel marginally more human after he got dressed.
At the top of the stairs, he remember the guy on the couch, the drunken hallucination. It must have been, since Nate was still alive. He crept down the stairs gingerly and peeked into the living room. The same shape was perched on the couch. The guy was tapping his fingers impatiently, looking like he was waiting for a dentist appointment.
Nate reversed up the stairs and phoned Eliot, explaining that it seemed that someone was in his apartment. Eliot hadn’t waited to hear more, had said that he’d be there in ten and then cut the call. Eight minutes later, Nate heard his apartment door open with a click and then nothing for several heart-pounding seconds.
Then Eliot’s annoyed voice: “Nate, there’s nobody here. No sign of anyone at all.”
Sheepishly, Nate came downstairs, not apologizing exactly but opting instead to thank Eliot for his help. The hitter eyed him skeptically and Nate knew that Eliot was biting his tongue not to ask how much Nate had to drink the night before. A small courtesy, but one that was much appreciated at this hour in the morning.
But then Nate glanced into the living area, where the man still sat on the couch, this time half turned to watch the conversation between Eliot and Nate. The man raised a hand in a mocking little wave, a half-smirk on his lips.
Nate put all his effort that morning into ignoring the annoying hallucination on the couch. It had to be some kind of messed up DTs. He supposed he should be grateful that at least this time, it was a silent stranger and not the annoying, self-important Sterling, as he’d hallucinated in that rehab place.
The day dragged on endlessly as Nate tried to ignore the hallucination during Hardison’s briefing. He also had to ignore the concern that creased Eliot’s face and, for the first time, he was heartily relieved that Sophie wasn’t there. No way he’d be able to hide a man-sized hallucination from Sophie.
Tara, though, didn’t act like anything was different. Hardison was too wrapped up in the briefing. And Parker, well, as Eliot would say, was Parker. Nate did have to stifle a laugh when the man ate out of Parker’s cereal bowl, stealing a favorite thing from the best thief in the world. Although, it freaked him out when Parker frowned at the bowl later and said something about not remembering eating so quickly.
After the briefing and some preliminary planning, the rest of the crew left except for Eliot. He lingered, probing without quizzing, trying to figure out what was going on with Nate without outright asking. Nate finally managed to push him out the door but half-expected that Eliot would lurk in the hallway all night, ever faithful and alert against threats, whether external or internal.
Nate went into the kitchen and grabbed the whisky and two glasses. He returned to the living area and sat down in the chair across from the man. He poured them each a glass and drained his own quickly. The man just watched him for several interminable minutes.
Then, the man snapped his fingers and a chess board appeared on the table in front of them. The man gave the corner of the board a push and it spun around in a fast circle, the pieces somehow staying in place. Nate moved his eyes to watch the man, trying to figure out his angle, his game. The board began to slow and Nate watched as the board stopped, the side with the white pieces in front him.
“White king, Nate, very fitting. Whenever you’re ready,” said the man, holding out a hand toward the board.
“Why are you here? What do you want?” asked Nate, keeping his eyes on the pieces as he considered his opening move.
“But not who I am. Interesting,” replied the man before he took a drink of the whisky.
The man shook his head and puffed out his cheeks. “I’ve never gotten used to the burn in that stuff. Something sweeter would be more my style.” Then he blinked his eyes and he was suddenly holding a giant frothy pink drink with a little umbrella and a skewer of fruit perched precariously on the side.
Nate half-shrugged and moved a chess piece into place. “Does it matter who you are?”
“I don’t suppose it does. I’m a little hurt though that you’re not even a little curious.” The man drained a quarter of his ridiculous drink using a twisty straw and Nate’s mind could barely process the absurdity of the entire scene. After considering the board for a few seconds, the man made a move.
Nate picked up his bishop and took the man’s rook, smiling when he winced. “I didn’t say I wasn’t curious. I just don’t think it makes a difference. You’re either a hallucination or you’re something else entirely and frankly, right now, I don’t know which would scare me more.”
The man played another move and then he and Nate played silently for several moves, Nate’s mind whirring as he tried to figure out what, exactly, he’d landed himself in this time.
“I’m Gabriel,” said the man suddenly and offered his hand. Nate accepted the shake, surprised when he felt a low voltage shock in his palm.
Gabriel dissolved into giggles. “Sorry, I can never resist that one.”
Nate was familiar with all manner of sleight of hand but was convinced he hadn’t seen the man hide a hand buzzer. And, of course, there was the whole business of the magically appearing and spinning chess set. Before Nate could manage to ask another question, Gabriel snapped his fingers.
“Nathan Ford,” said the man, in the style of Hardison giving a briefing. The screens lit up and Nate watched a brief history of his life followed by scenes from the jobs that the team had done in the last year and a half.
“This is my favorite one,” said Gabriel as Nate watched the team impersonate a medical team in a contagion crisis to catch the thieving investment banker.
After the “briefing”, Gabriel leaned forward and said, “I have to be honest with you, Nate, this isn’t my usual style.”
“What is your usual style, then?” asked Nate, confused.
“Usually? I pull a con of my own. And even with my considerable....abilities, I know you can’t con a conman. Can’t bullshit a bullshiter. Am I right?”
Nate played a move. “Check.”
Gabriel looked at the board and the figures started to move, playing out the exact gambit that Nate had planned.
“I could have devised an elaborate con and tricked you into doing what I need you to do, but frankly, I have more respect for you than that. But you will do what I need you to do, Nate. Make no mistake about that. You’re just lucky enough to get the option of doing it the easy way.”
Nate downed his whisky and poured another. “I’m listening.”
“Good. Some time in the future, I don’t know when, some guys are going to come to you. Sam and Dean Winchester. Might be one, might be both. The idiots might even use fake names, usually something based on old rock bands. Don’t let that fool you. Help them.”
“Help them how?” asked Nate.
“They’re going to need to locate and gain control over four rings. They might need the services of a good thief and a merry band of conmen, like yourselves.”
“And why would I want to do that? I mean, besides to get you off my couch.”
“Just a little thing called the apocalypse,” replied Gabriel as scenes of devastation lit up the video screens. Nate watched as forest fires raged and buildings collapsed. He watched a tidal wave wash away a school bus and a crazed man with eerie black eyes plunge a knife into a woman’s chest.
Nate closed his eyes and pressed his palms into them, willing away the incipient tension headache that he could feel forming. When he opened his eyes, Gabriel was gone. Nate downed the scotch, poured another and then slumped back onto the couch, the video screens still playing.
---//---
The next morning, Nate woke up on the couch, wearing the same clothes as the night before, a half-full glass in his hand. The video screens were blessedly black and his couch was finally empty. Nate pulled himself off the couch and staggered over to the stairs, determined to make himself at least half-way presentable before the team arrived.
Before he could even put a foot on a step, the door swung open and Hardison and Parker burst in, arguing too loudly over the existence of Santa.
“Hardison, get me everything you can on Sam and Dean Winchester.”
“Sure thing. They our next job?”
“No. They’re potential clients.”
“Since when do we investigate clients?” asked Parker.
“Since I said so,” replied Nate, sharper than he’d intended but Parker failed to notice his tone. He continued, a little less harshly. “And Gabriel. Get me everything you can on Gabriel.”
“Does this Gabriel have a last name?” asked Hardison.
Nate shook his head.
“Wha-?” asked Hardison but Nate cut him off.
“I’m gonna need you to think outside the box on this one,” said Nate, then rubbed a hand over his mouth, knowing he couldn’t say more than that without having the team commit him to a mental hospital.
“Think outside the box? What the hell does he mean by that?” Hardison asked Parker as Nate climbed the stairs. “I’m good, but who the hell can come up with intel without a last name? Inside the box, outside the box, on top of the damn box, you need at least a last name, mother’s maiden name, you know what I’m talking about.”
Nate knew it didn’t matter how good Hardison was or how far outside the box he thought, it was likely that no one could come up with intel on this mysterious Gabriel. But Nate didn’t doubt the stranger. Trouble, in the form of Sam and Dean Winchester, would arrive at the front door someday soon, and Nate wanted to be as prepared as possible.
-END-
Prompt:
Leverage/Supernatural: Gabriel, guardian angel of tricksters specializing in just desserts. Now, if only Nate could get him off his couch…