A/N: This was meant to be a one-shot, and yet I have a feeling its going to need more. My beta certainly thinks so... Opinions please? As per the summary, this story is set in the future of the 'Sticky Little Fingers' 'verse, created by poestheblackcat. Don't blame me, blame her! :P
Disclaimer: All recognisable characters from Leverage belong to John Rogers, Chris Downey, Dean Devlin, and other folks that aren't me. All recognisable characters from 'Stick Little Fingers' 'verse belong to poestheblackcat, but she did give me permission to play with them ;)
Sixteen year old Irene Ford was her mother's daughter. You could tell by the fact the American accent she ought to have almost always contained a distinctly English lilt, most especially when she was being snotty or mad about something. She lost her mind over any little thing and made sure you knew it in the most theatrical way possible. It was why Michael wasn't overly surprised when he was forced to duck a plate she threw his way during their latest 'heated discussion'.
Thankfully, Michael Roberts-Spencer, age seventeen, was his father's son. This meant that whilst he had a tendency towards violence when riled, he would never, ever lay a hand on a woman that way. Of course, being Eliot's boy also meant he had a temper that worked like a pan of water on the stove. It started to warm, simmered fiercely under the lid, and would eventually blow if some other outlet for the white-hot anger could not be found...
"You are the most impossible, interfering, ridiculous young man I ever met!" Irene declared, tossing another piece of her father's crockery for good measure.
Michael bit his lip for fear of what he might say and dodged to the side, his lightning reflexes serving him well as the second plate shattered against the door like its twin.
"Damnit, Irene!" he cursed her because he just couldn't help it when he felt pieces of china ghost down his back - that had been too close. "What is your problem?" he asked her out-right as she flung herself around to face the opposite wall. "The guy is an asshole, so I hit him."
"He wasn't yours to hit," she declared, the argument they'd been having for the last ten minutes running full circle for at least the third time.
They'd always been like this really, heated debates and petty fights, punctuated by genuine acts of caring. He baked what she asked for more often than he didn't. She was first to help him out with homework when he couldn't quite bend his mind around it, or to fetch the Advil when he got in another fight. Over the years, things just got a little more twisted, Michael supposed. His Dad would mutter about 'hormones and high school' whenever he tried to explain why he and Irene fought so much. He didn't think much what her parents thought about it.
Fact of the matter was, there were no adults here right now, no kids either, just two teenagers with too many feelings and not enough good sense apparently. This was all going to end one of two ways, anybody with eyes could see it, but teens were as blind as the next person sometimes, no matter how smart they thought they were.
"Irene," Michael sighed tiredly, daring to approach Uncle Nate's kitchen area, now she seemed to be done pitching plates at his head. "Look, Joey Taylor is not a good guy. I know you thought he was and that you were so smart gettin' the quarterback to ask you to Homecoming and all..."
"He's a senior!" she wailed then, practically with the back of her hand to her forehead like a true tragic heroine in some play her mother would love. "I was the only Sophomore asked to attend by a Senior. I was setting a new social standard amongst my peers, and you! You ruined everything!" she said, turning to Michael with a glare no less than deadly.
Michael didn't flinch. He never did.
"I'm gonna say this again, real slow, so even you understand," he told her in a low voice, as up in her personal space as she was in his, despite the kitchen counter between them. "He didn't wanna date you. He was just trying to come off like your perfect dream date boyfriend type, Irene. He wanted to get you in the back of his car and... and use you," he told her, polite as he could, because Eliot had drilled into him that F words were not used in front of ladies, unless you were dying - Michael knew he meant literally too.
Irene didn't want to believe him, and Michael couldn't blame her for that, but it didn't make it any the less true. He heard it all in the locker room, and given Joey's reputation, he believed it too. There was no way in hell he was letting anybody mess with Irene, no way, no how. It was his job to protect her. So he had told that son of a bitch good and plain what he thought of him, by almost putting his fist clean through Joey's head.
Irene found out and pretty much hit the ceiling, followed by all four walls, one after the other. She drove out of school like a bat out of hell and Michael followed purely on instinct. He wanted to make sure she wasn't too upset. Moreover, he wanted to make sure she didn't do anything stupid. Right now, here in this moment, he wanted something else entirely and the shock of it stuck him to the spot the moment his eyes drifted to her lips and the thought ran unbidden through his head. 'What the...?'
"Michael," her voice had dropped an octave and she knew it, but even Irene couldn't have explained why. "You... you really did that for me? I mean... I know you care about me, but I didn't..."
It was as far as she got. The second brown eyes met sparkling blue, lips followed in a kiss that had been seven years in the making. Not that either of them realised it, of course. At nine and ten, they couldn't possibly have known this was where they were headed, and yet here they were, both scrambling to get closer and failing miserably with a kitchen counter in the way.
As inelegant as it was, Irene was all but clambering over the obstacle between them by now, and Michael was all too keen to help, pretty much lifting her up and over into his arms. They were oblivious to the world around them, lost in a passion that they hadn't ever known before. They could hate each other on any given day of the week, and yet kind of love each other at the same time. Maybe that was what this was, maybe it was just a rebound on her part, and anger finding a new outlet in his case. It didn't matter, at least not until the front door swung open and they realised they were no longer alone.
"What on Earth...?!"
Sophie's shocked voice had Michael and Irene leaping a mile apart inside of a second.
All mussed up hair and bruised lips after such a moment together, neither really had enough breath to speak, even if they had known what to say. They didn't.
"Soph?" Eliot called as he hurried down from upstairs.
Clearly both parents had been called when their kids' cars screeched out of the parking lot one behind the other a half hour earlier. Having checked their respective apartments, they had now found their offspring, though not in quite the condition they had expected.
"I can explain the plates, Mummy," said Irene, recovering first, as she moved towards her mother.
Eliot looked down, even though he had already recognised the very distinctive crunch underfoot. Sophie was still staring at her daughter and Michael, back and forth until she felt dizzy.
"Uh-huh," the hitter nodded, trying and failing to hide a smirk. "I think maybe me and my son need to have a conversation, somewhere else," he said then, gesturing for Michael to get his butt over to the door right about now.
The boy practically ran past Irene and Sophie, happy enough to escape. The grifter turned to watch him go and then looked to Eliot who still hovered in the doorway.
"C'mon. You didn't see this comin'?" he checked, shaking his head when Sophie continued to look completely bewildered. "Sophie, sweetheart, this has been on the cards a loooong time," he told her definitely.
"How did you even...?" she took a step out of the door when he moved away and she felt as if she were not done with him yet.
Eliot looked back at her from the hallway and shrugged his shoulders.
"Michael don't wear lipstick," he shook his head once again. "And Irene, she likes a very distinctive shade."
Sophie suddenly seemed to realise her mouth was hanging open as she glanced at herself in the mirror. She closed it fast and then turned to face her daughter. Irene shifted her feet amongst the broken crockery and raised a smile that was only visible when she had quite finished wiping off her remaining lipstick on the back of her hand.
For perhaps the first time in their lives, neither of the Ford women had a clue what to say.
To Be Continued ?