Black King Takes White Knight
Rating: Teen (for safety)
Word count: ~ 3,000
Warnings: Angst. Fluff. Slight slash (of the Eliot/Nate persuasion). English from a non-native. You know, the usual.
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of their respective owners. I am in no way associated with the creators, and no copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: I'm finally doing it. I'm expanding my writing fandoms. It’s rather exciting. This is a bit of a character study that I wrote right after watching The San Lorenzo Job, so it’s mildly AU. The first time I've written Leverage fic, so let me know if the characterizations are grossly off. Also, in my mind, the chemistry between Timothy Hutton and Gina Bellman isn’t all that great (it seems slightly forced), so I tend to not acknowledge that aspect of the show. While I like canon pairings as much as the next person, they have to sell me. This one…didn’t.
Black King Takes White Knight
It’s the deepest con he’s ever run.
He’s an honest man-it’s the reason they listen to him, follow his lead. It’s the reason Victor Dubenich chose him to make the plans. But that’s not all Nathan Ford is.
Nate has been a conman for a long time, and this is just one more con in a long line. It isn’t the first time he’s convinced someone that he was honest, but it is the first time it’s worked quite this well, and on a bunch of thieves. Thieves who really should know better. There's no such thing as a truly honest man, and whatever part of Nate was that way, it died with his son.
This fall has been a long time coming, and really, he should have expected it.
The white knight falls, and the black king takes his place.
Nate likes the title much better than his old one. White knights are a dime a dozen, cheap and easily found, just as easily tarnished and cast aside. But this one-he’s not just let it tarnish, he’s actively letting the tarnish darken until only the very deepest core remains untouched. That core is the real Nathan Ford, the one nobody has ever seen. Oh, Sophie thinks she knows it, thinks that she has him pegged, but she doesn’t. Not even close.
Never con a conman, Nate thinks, and smiles to himself. It’s the most thrilling game of all.
He hates himself for it. For the lies, the masks, for devoting his life to scumbags like Ian Blackpoole, who would let an innocent child die for the sake of money. For taking up with the very people he used to hunt down and jail, and for liking what they do. Nate never particularly thought it was dangerous, what he did-not in terms of going over to the dark side.
But here he is anyway. The white knight has become the darkest of all, and gained a crown in the process.
Sam used to love to play like he was king of thieves, like he was Robin Hood. Secretly, so deep down that half the time he doesn’t even acknowledge it himself, Nate thinks that Sam would most definitely approve of this new line of work.
He keeps it affable, even as he drowns in contradictions. The team suspects something, and they put his drinking down to grief and anger and becoming a thief. They're not entirely wrong-they wouldn’t be as good as they are if they missed all the hints he’s left-but they don’t understand the depth of his self-loathing. Nate has never managed to fit into the boxes made for him, has always been a little too smart, a little too crafty, a little too wild for the conventional life he’d idealized growing up a numbers runner’s son.
Once upon a time, Nate was going to become a priest. He was going to serve God and be happy with that for the rest of his life. Then he met Maggie, and the idea of serving God was discarded as easily as a worn coat. Then Sam died and his marriage fell apart, and he moved on to other things to get away from the grief. Then he met Dubenich, and it was like being thrown headlong into a place where he fit, where the way he was, the smarts and cunning and wildness, it was exactly what they wanted. There were no boxes, no straight lines that he couldn’t step out of. Just the crew and the con and the thrill of something finally going right.
It hurts, that marriage and fatherhood never felt quite as good as this does.
Nate had loved being a father, of course. Loved Sam with every breath in his body and even a few breaths he couldn’t spare. There had been baseball on the weekends and parent-teacher conferences and movie nights, father and son and mother making the perfect picture of the perfect American home. But he left, too, let work take him away and keep him in distant countries for as long as it took to crack a case. Nate can't help but think that if he had loved the thrill a little less, loved his family a little more, he could have gotten a different job closer to home, and maybe they would have saved his son.
But he couldn’t give it up, the drug of beating someone else, being smarter and always one step ahead, turning a con on the conman and walking away with the prize. He’s still addicted, even now, when he’s cut down on the alcohol and is living-more or less-like the proverbial priest. Not exactly, and Paul would definitely argue, but he’s as clean as a thief who hasn’t gotten laid in a while can be.
And it feels good. The white knight’s tarnish is still most definitely intact, but the black king is holding his place on the chessboard without fear of attack, and his most loyal subjects are arrayed around him.
Sophie’s the black queen, ever adapting to changing circumstance, Nate thinks with faint amusement, looking over the board he has set up on his coffee table. Parker is the black knight, moving unpredictably across the board and never quite where one expects her to be. Hardison has to be the bishop, sliding around obstacles that would block someone moving in straight lines.
And Eliot…
Nate smiles a little to himself, picking up the second black knight and the black castle. Eliot is a mix of the two, strong and solid like the rook but also unpredictable, steadfast and loyal with an undercurrent of anger to his charm. Dangerous. Together, a knight and castle can probably take the whole board.
There's a sudden rattle as someone picks the lock on his door, and Nate rolls his eyes as he looks up. He doesn’t know why he even bothers to lock it anymore, what with the way the crew is in and out constantly and without any regards to decorum or privacy. Like now. It’s four in the morning and anyone sane wouldn’t even be up for a while longer. Sometimes, Nate misses the freedom of being able to walk around his apartment on a Sunday morning in nothing but his boxers, without having to listen to Parker crunch cereal as she stares at him or to Sophie’s complaints about her latest date or Hardison’s gush about some new invention or newly acquired piece of tech, or having to watch Eliot putter around the kitchen making flirty comments that Nate can never quite be certain are serious.
“There's a doorbell, you know,” he says, just as it swings open.
Hardison has the grace to look abashed, but then, he’s always been one of the saner ones. “Sorry, thought you might be asleep.”
Nate checks the clock and looks back at him, raising an eyebrow. Ten after four. “Shouldn’t you be?”
Hardison slouches in, somehow managing to make his six-foot-plus frame look inconsequential. The hacker likes to pretend that he’s never done anything physical in his life, that he’s the computer guy and no more, but he sells himself short. He looks exhausted right now, though, eyes half-lidded and face having taken on the slightly dazed expression that he gets when he’s been up for two days straight working on a con or playing computer games. Nate sighs and shifts over on the couch, making room, and Hardison collapses into the cleared space gratefully. He doesn’t answer the question, and Nate doesn’t ask again. They're all still coming off the high of catching Damien Moreau, even though it’s been a few weeks, and Nate doubts any of them have been getting regular sleep since their return from San Lorenzo.
“Coffee?” Nate asks instead, because that’s always a safe thing to say.
With a sleepy nod, Hardison folds forward, studying the chessboard. Nate replaces the rook and knight and heads for the coffeemaker, where a fresh pot has just finished brewing. He pours two cups, doctors them both with cream and a little sugar, and returns to the couch. Hardison has already woken up a bit from the smell, and takes the cup that Nate offers eagerly. He hums in contentment at the first sip, and Nate can't help but smile as he takes his seat again.
“Thanks, man.” Hardison’s eyes are a little more open, and alertness is returning. It’s a bad idea to give him too much caffeine, Nate knows, but it’s early on a Sunday and nothing is better at times like this than a cup of very good French Roast.
They sit in silence for a few moments, Nate waiting for whatever Hardison has come to say. It’s something, he knows, because otherwise the younger man wouldn’t have pried himself away from his computer long enough to slog all the way here in the cold and wind. Nate’s not an impatient man-can't be, as a criminal mastermind-and, for all his bluster, Hardison isn’t either. In the meantime, the loft is warm and the wind whistles outside, and the coffee is good. Nate takes a sip and holds it on his tongue for a moment, savoring the bitterness.
At length, Hardison shifts, sprawling back against the cushions, and suddenly every inch of his lanky frame is obvious, all limbs and elbows and knees, dark eyes a little wary as he regards Nate. “Which one am I?” he asks abruptly, flicking a nod at the board. “Pawn?”
It’s surprisingly confrontational, angry, and Nate can't quite understand what he’s done to inspire it. There's always something, though. He’s still a good con playing a bad game, conning his crew into thinking he’s something he’s not. They’ll notice someday that he was never quite the white knight they saw him as, a little too far onto their side to remain unstained.
The question is easily answered, though. Nate swipes the bishop and tosses it to Hardison with a half-smile.
“Not quite.”
Hardison looks hard at Nate, and then at the bishop, and finally he smiles a little bit. “Bishop? Right next to the king?”
“Yeah,” Nate agrees, taking another slow sip of coffee. The air shifts, just a little bit, something he would never have noticed before, and he scoops up one of the black knights and tosses it behind him. “That one’s you, Parker.”
A giggle, and the blond thief slides over the back of the couch with the piece in her hand, settling between him and Hardison. “You're up! We should go wake Eliot and Sophie up and make it a party!”
Nate just looks at her, and she rolls her eyes at him. “Don’t be stupid; I didn’t break anything, and I locked the window after me.”
With a sigh, Nate rubs the bridge of his nose, half-wondering why he bothers. “The concept of a bell really is foreign to you guys, isn’t it?”
Parker doesn’t hug him-she hasn’t gotten that comfortable with human contact yet-but she beams like she wants to, turning the knight over in deft fingers. “Aw, did you miss us, Nate?”
She’s irrepressible, and Nate loves that about her. For all that they're not blood and are the very definition of dysfunctional, Parker and Hardison are family-occasionally maddening, often inspiring him to thoughts of homicide, and an integral part of his life that he’s not sure he’d want to do without. So Nate just sighs and gives in with a nod and a muttered, “I saw you all on Thursday. What’s there to miss?”
It’s a con, it’s all a con, the little voice inside his head taunts. They like you because they think you're an honest man who became a thief. That’s why they're here.
But it’s not the only reason. Even at his most bitter, Nate recognizes that. Sophie keeping him from drinking, Hardison wandering by to check up on him with some transparent excuse, Parker appearing at all hours of the day and night to ask him odd little questions, and Eliot bringing food and company even when Nate insists he wants to be alone-that’s care for more than just the image he shows them. Just like during the first job after their reunion, they’ve inserted themselves so thoroughly into his life that he couldn’t pry them out with a crowbar and a ten-pound sledge.
The door opens again, carrying with it a burst of colder air, the smell of a brewing rainstorm, and Eliot with three bags of groceries. He doesn’t seem at all surprised to see Hardison and Parker, and Nate has to wonder if this is some sort of conspiracy. He wouldn’t put it past them, either.
“Eliot!” Parker is up off the sofa and across the room before Nate can blink, showing the hitter her black knight. “Look! Nate is picking out chess pieces for us.”
Eliot looks at the carved horse head, then at Hardison-who holds up his bishop-and then at Nate, who shrugs. “They asked,” was all he says.
It’s seemingly enough for Eliot, who nods and raises an eyebrow in question. “Me? And if you so much as look at the queen I’ll kill you slowly.”
Nate smiles, because he’s supposed to and because Eliot looks so deadly serious about such a little thing. But, as he tosses the two pieces he had selected over to the hitter, he realizes that maybe it’s not such a small thing after all. The crew has always been a little wary of him. They're loyal, always, but they don’t trust Nate with themselves. It’s only fair, probably, as he’s never trusted them with his real self, either, but perhaps this can be a step in the right direction.
“Sorry,” he apologizes when Eliot looks at the two pieces askance. “It’s either that or the queen.”
Eliot smiles a little, too, slipping both into his pocket before he starts to put the food away. “How about crepes for breakfast? That good with you?”
Nate makes to protest, tries to say that he can feed himself, but he’s drowned out by an enthusiastic chorus from either side. Parker and Hardison grin at each other, as excited as little kids on Easter morning, and Nate just shakes his head and meanders over to get more coffee. Eliot graces him with a sly smile as he ties his hair back, and Nate takes a moment to admire the strong bones of his face. He looks away before Eliot can catch him-Eliot might be much smarter than he lets on, and a much better grifter, but Nate’s had years of experience in conning those who know him. It’s been his job for years, since long before Dubenich found him.
“Don’t you guys have anything better to do?” he asks, and while he was aiming for sour, he suspects it comes off more as fondly exasperated.
“Nah.” Hardison grins at him, still a little sleepy. “We’re all getting bored. Need to take another job soon.”
That’s true. More than a week without something going on and all of them-Nate included-get a little twitchy. He looks up from his contemplation of his coffee to find them all looking at him expectantly, and nods. “All right. We’ll go over clients tomorrow.”
Parker claps her hands delightedly, and Eliot smiles at Nate, giving him a look that says he can see right through the impatient act. He’s always been able to, right from the very first, when they were playing pool and he saw exactly what Nate didn’t want him to. It’s a connection, a shared sort of understanding, and as Sophie comes breezing in with a story about the boyfriend of the month, as Eliot slides the first plate across the counter, Nate smiles back.
There's only so long a con can run before it becomes real, before the white knight truly becomes the black king.
Nate’s fairly certain he passed that point with the job against Blackpoole. He could have left the game, revenge taken and justice served, but he’d kept on. He’s the black king now, fully and mostly happily. This is his family. His crew.
The con-honest man becomes a thief, becomes a modern Robin Hood and fools his crew into thinking that he hasn’t actually changed-has long since fallen by the wayside.
The black king has taken the white knight, and there's no going back.
~*~*~*~
He watches, over the course of the morning, as five black chess pieces find their homes in pockets or bags, and smiles to himself.
When they're gone, with promises to return for client interviews tomorrow, Nate sits down and picks up one of the remaining black chessmen. It’s the king, his piece.
He never does get those other pieces back.