randomcat: (eliotrealitysend)
Fic prompt at leverage flashfic; Self-defense by Eliot Spencer

Title; Self-defense by Eliot Spencer
Characters; Team
Category; Gen
Disclaimer; yes.

Nate drinks. He lets the world come at him full speed, knowing when it hits that soft fog the booze builds between him and everything else it’ll slow down enough he’ll have plenty of time to look it over and figure out how to spin it, because he’s Nathan Fucking Ford. And if the shit gets through, well, that’s manageable, too. One more drink and Nathan Ford won’t care how the world spins. He keeps the shit under control that way.

Sophie says when life hands Sophie Devereux lemons, she just loosens another button on her shirt and convinces life to buy her a shandy instead. Sophie’s a liar. And you believe her , because Sophie’s never more convincing than when she’s lying. Sophie doesn’t defend herself because Sophie doesn’t exist, she doesn’t even have a name. No self to defend, and that makes her strong. When the shit comes down, Sophie wriggles out of that skin and leaves it behind, some other Sophie walks away unstained.
Sophie doesn’t give a damn about the shit she leaves behind. She was never there, never saw shit, didn’t smell it, step in it or wear it. Sophie Devereaux doesn’t have a damn to give, just a lot of shiny old stuff she keeps hidden away and a shiny new self she brings out every day.

Parker well,she’s never all there even when she is, because Parker's a sneak and she hides. She’s a face in the window, a shadow on the wall, a noise on the roof. She’s the ghost you wouldn’t tell your best friend about, (if you had one) because she's not all there and most people are don't know when she’s there at all.
Dropping through the ceiling, sleeping in the vents, walking between the walls. You’ve never really seen Parker, just her big laugh and the loud comments that never quite fit, poking at all the wrong places, curling up comfortable where nobody normal would ever want to be. She’ll cartwheel through a window and disappear with anything she wants and you’ll never see her, never know, because she's a great sneak and she hides. When the shit hits the fan she just flies away, and there’s never enough of her there to hit anyway.

Hardison, Hardison ought to be dead a hundred times over. Loud, graceless, with an ego the size of his flatscreen. For no reason you can see. No sense of self-preservation, no sense at all. If annoying was an Olympic sport Hardison would be wearing so many gold medals he’d fall flat on his face. Again.
You think you see him, you know you hear him, and you try to get away from him because Hardison gets in your face to brag, he's loud, obnoxious, stinks of orange soda, and he never shuts up.
But after weeks not listening, trying to ignore him, you figured out he doesn’t say a damn thing, and has no more face of his own than the alien on that space opera he’s so fond of. Hardison, the most paranoid geek who ever smeared cheeto powder on a keyboard, owns every electronic doodad ever made and made a few himself, but never had an answering machine because They could use that to listen to him when he’s all alone, and nobody’s ever gonna stick shit to Hardison that way.
When the shit hits the fan Hardison makes his own doors, walks through the walls and wipes his tracks as he goes,not a whisper or a wisp of orange scent left behind, and even though you wish you didn’t remember him, when you check he was never there.

And then there’s you. You can punch through walls high and wide, you used to leave your signature behind but you don’t do that anymore because everybody knows. They know what you’ll do, and that’s whatever it takes. You’ve left enough skin behind to fill Sophie’s closet with handbags and shoes, but you always walked out the same man, just carrying a little more shit. After all these years you’re bigger than life.
You used a hundred names, but you’ve only ever had one, very distinctive style. You’ve become a Name. You can fly on it, open doors with it, or even hide behind it, because your Name’s bigger than you. You’re not paranoid, because it’s not paranoia when it’s real.
You don’t sleep much and you drink a lot, but you don’t drink like Nate does. The world never softens when you do, and you’d like to spin it all away too but that’s not how it goes. What you do, you watch better, you think more, you spin faster and hit harder than anybody expects. And when the shit hits, Eliot Spencer becomes the fan.
randomcat: (Default)
For wallwalker‘s prompt over at fic_promptly on dreamwidth,
@ 2011-02-20

The Sting, Johnny Hooker, fleeing
obviously, not mine.
Warnings; just don't let the music get stuck in your head.

Everything changed once Hooker hit the big time. He'd hit the ground running, and now Hooker could write his own ticket. Not that he did, he paid minor grifters to do that for him these days. He had his own reputation , ran his own big cons, wore his own hundred-dollar suits these days.
Maitre d's sat him at the best tables everywhere he went, tables big enough for the showgirls who flocked there between numbers to drink his expensive booze and leave keys to their dressing rooms under their glasses.

He'd squirreled away more money than he and Luther ever dreamed of, in schemes that checked out legit, more solid than any schemes he would ever come up with. He even had a legit home- a penthouse in The Big Apple, even if it was just a set-piece for stings, and a hotel in Atlantic City that Luther's family managed for him. Hooker used the hotel mostly for parties, he got a cut from the games they ran there without lifting a finger.

There'd even been a couple hungry-eyed wannabes he called "kid", and laughed to himself every time he said it.

He didn't have to play it close to the wire anymore, but sometime he missed the thrill. Sometimes he let those hungry-eyed comers set him up, because the grapevine needed to know Hooker hadn't lost his edge.

When the mark yelled cheat and pulled a gun, Hooker ignored the startled gasps around him. He leaned back looking down his nose at the angry mobster, ignoring his shiny little gun, and shook his head.
"You know, I don't care for that kind of talk. It's bad for business and it hurts my feelings." He scooped up the stack of money on the table and waggled it.
"So I'm tempted to make you eat this right now. But since you've obviously had too much to drink, we'll play one more round with a fresh deck and then you will apologize for being such a sore loser."

He stood up from the table, waving for a passing cigarette girl's attention. She nodded, and Hooker brought his hand down hard in the bodyguard's gut.

The mook folded easy as pie, Hooker stepped through the space he'd cleared, right past the gun. Step-dodged around two crowded tables and a kissing couple, to the balcony and over the rail.

He hit the ground running, nothing behind him but angry shouts. At the corner he looked over his shoulder, grinning, and gave the mark a lazy wave with the hand still holding the money.

Luckily, not quite everything had changed since Hooker hit the big time. Success hadn't slowed him down any.


Jul. 7th, 2011 11:02 am
randomcat: (eliotrealitysend)
Comment fic written for James' prompt at fic-promptly.dreamwidth.org
Leverage, Parker

Old pond,
frog jumps in--

Only the words are mine. Parker belongs to her creators. The gems? who knows...

The slapslap of water on the dock and the sweetsalt rotting scent of the Thames rose in the night to a shadow on the Tower. Old old stonework pressed cold and gritty under her cheek while she waited for the guard to walk around the wall.
One of the raven sentinels shrieked and took flight as she zipped past, and the guard doubled back, but he looked up at the scolding bird, never back at the window where she hung, working breathless and quiet as the shadows inside.

Next morning, the world's most secure display case displayed dismaying gaps. News of a daring, impossible theft swept round the world as the sun rose on the remnants of Empire.

An hour later, frantic curators found the missing Sovereign's Sceptre tilted casually against the empty pauldron of a suit of armor on another floor, black gauntlet closed carefully around the scepter's shaft. The Great Star of Africa winked at them from the tip of it in the morning light.
Whole countries sighed with relief.

The Lesser Star of Africa never resurfaced.


randomcat: (Default)

April 2013

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