A/N:

Hi everyone! I literally cannot stress enough how honored I am that you're taking the time to read this! THANK YOU.

I love Leverage almost as much as I love Marvel (and that is saying something), so here is my first foray into the wide world of Leverage fanfiction.

I feel like I'm in the majority with my favorite character being Eliot, but hey. I can't help it.

This fic came about after I saw "The Low, Low Price Job" and immediately wondered, as probably everyone did, what if Eliot could be reunited with his family? It evolved since then, of course, and now we have this! It could maybe stand alone as a one-shot, but I might plan on expanding it.

Anyway, enjoy!

Eliot took a deep breath. He didn't usually get nervous. He could usually calm himself, rationalize his situation, and breathe his fears away. But it didn't work this time.

He reached in through the truck's open window and grabbed the six-pack of beer he'd bought, mostly as a peace offering. His feet seemed to navigate the familiar sidewalk on their own, opening the gate and hearing his mom's voice, reminding him to close it behind himself. He wouldn't have been able to count the many times he'd fallen off a bike, or ran at breakneck speed to the car, or tripped, then pleaded a Band-Aid from his mother, on this sidewalk.

A strange, cold dread crept up his chest as he raised his hand to knock on the door. It was the same old door he would burst through after a successful football game, laughing as his dad slapped his back in celebration. And it was the same door he stormed out through eighteen years ago after the fight with his father . . . He often looked back on that fight, wondering what he could have done differently. He was older now, and was no longer blinded by a dream to leave his parents and join the army. He wished he could go back in time and grip the shoulders of his younger self as he packed his bags furiously and tell him to go face his father like a man and admit where he was wrong and maybe listen to his dad who loved him. He would tell younger Eliot that one fight wasn't worth all the pain the next eighteen years would bring.

Eliot shook his head and cleared his mind. Then, raising his fist . . . he hesitated. What if they didn't want to see him? All his fears came rushing back. What if they hated him? What if they'd moved? He took a deep breath and knocked twice. "Dad?" he called.

No one answered. He scanned the doorway, spotting a tiny, round, white button. A doorbell. Of course. Eliot chuckled to himself, berating his own stupidity. With a tremendous amount of courage, he pushed the button. There was a buzzing ring inside the house. Ten seconds later, the doorknob began to turn.

Time slowed down as the door opened wider and wider. Finally it was open all the way and Eliot was left staring down at a five-year-old boy. The boy studied his visitor, then he smiled, laughing delightedly. "Uncle Eliot!" he exclaimed.

All the nervousness seemed to melt away from Eliot's chest, and he grinned widely. "Hey, Andrew."

The boy bounced up and down in excitement, then ran back into the house, yelling "Gramma! Grandpa! Uncle Eliot's here!"

He heard chairs scraping against linoleum, then pounding footsteps through the hallway, then two figures appeared in front of him. Eliot stepped into the entryway, then, without knowing what else to do, he held the pack of beer in front of him, not meeting his parents' eyes. "I, uh . . . I bought this for you, Dad."

The cardboard disappeared from his hand, rested on the ground, then two familiar arms encircled him and Eliot was left leaning against his father.

Charles Spencer released his son, holding his shoulders at arm's length. "Where've you been?" he demanded, voice cracking. "Eighteen years, without a letter, a call, or anything—you could've died for all we knew . . . Where've you been, son?"

Eliot stepped backward and crossed his arms. "I joined the army." He stared at the ground for a minute, then met his father's eyes. "It's good to see you, Dad."

Charles didn't reply, save for a slight nod. Eliot turned to his mother. "Hey, Mom."

Lynn's cheeks were tearstained and her eyes were bright red. She rushed forward, and would have knocked her son off his feet if he wasn't prepared.

"I missed you, Mom," Eliot said gruffly, emotions he'd kept down for so long beginning to surface. "Sorry I left."

"It's alright, Eliot. You were old enough to make your own decisions . . . I don't hold it against you." She released him and smiled carefully. "You could have at least called, though."

Eliot looked uncharacteristically sheepish. "Yeah . . ."

Little arms wrapped themselves around Eliot's legs. He reached down and swung Andrew up into his arms. He pretended to collapse from the weight. "Woah, you're heavy!"

Andy giggled. "I'm almost six!"

"Yeah, I know." Eliot grinned.

Charles looked at the pair quizzically. "So you kept in contact with Hannah?" He referred to Andy's mother; Eliot's sister.

"Not exactly. She ran into me a couple of years ago."

"In Walmart!" Andrew offered.

Eliot chuckled. "You've got a good memory, little man. Yeah, she ran into me in Walmart with this little guy. She sort of stole my phone and got the number, then called me every day until I agreed to meet her again."

"Mommy's smart," Andy commented.

Lynn smiled. "Apparently." Then she reached down to pick up the pack of beer that was still on the floor. "Come on, boys. We've got talking to do." She disappeared into the kitchen. Charles and Eliot exchanged a grin.

"Eliot!" his mother called. "Take off your shoes before you walk on the carpet!"

The visitor muttered something about being thirty-six and able to make his own decisions, but laughed, set his nephew down, and did as his mom ordered.

"So what'd you do with the store?" Eliot asked, setting down his beer. "After I left, I mean."

Charles reminded Eliot a bit of Nate when he shifted in his chair and tilted his head. "Sold it."

Eliot raised his eyebrows. "Sold it?"

"Yeah, that's what I said. I sold it to this guy who needed a space for a bar or something. I'm retired now. You left, I couldn't find a guy to keep it running."

The younger man considered his father for a moment. Quietly, he commented, "You loved that store."

Charles cleared his throat. "Uh, yeah. I did. But I realized . . . Well, I thought it was time to move on. Times are changing, and an old hardware store isn't worth fighting about."

Eliot's eyebrows furrowed. This was a side of his dad he'd never seen before. "Just wish you'd said that eighteen years ago."

The fight the night before he left had changed Eliot for the worst. He'd left believing his father hated him, or, at best, was severely disappointed in him. Three years later, he'd come to terms with it and was able to push it away; to ignore it. But the fears and doubts resurfaced those few days ago, when he talked with a client from a small town that reminded him so much of home, it was almost painful. Then he met Martin. Eliot didn't feel like he could talk with Martin and be friends with him without facing his past . . . and accepting it.

"So what're you doing now?"

Eliot looked down, pursing his lips. "I, uh . . . I help people."

Raising his eyebrows, Charles waited for more information.

"I'm with this group in Portland . . . We help people when no one else can. We sort of pick up where the law leaves off and . . . well, we get people's money back, and we take down big, corrupt agencies." He grinned. "Also, I cook for this brew pub my friend bought."

Lynn poked her head around the kitchen door, smiling. "You cook?"

Alec Hardison woke to the sound of his phone ringing. He checked the time groggily, peeling his sweaty hands off his desk. The clock read "5:34am."

He groaned and picked up his phone. "Hello?"

"Hey, Hardison. I know we just finished a job, but I got another client . . . and this one's a bit personal, so could you—"

"Whoa, slow down." Alec yawned, stood, and wandered to the fridge. "A bit slower this time. You got a what now?"

"Another client, man! Listen the first time I tell you something."

"Hey, I just woke up. Now let me eat some breakfast, then I'm all ears."

"Dammit, Hardison!"

"Well, you can't expect me to be up and bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at five-freaking-thirty in the morning, now can you? Mm, I didn't think so. So I'mma just grab some soda and a bite of something, then you can tell me."

"You know, maybe I'll just call Nate."

"Hmm?"

"See ya." Eliot hung up.

"Wait," Hardison began, but stopped, then set down his phone. "Oh, fine, no one appreciates ol' Alec anyway, huh? Nope . . ."

Eliot dialed Nate quickly, feeling not a single drop of remorse for hanging up on Hardison. The guy deserved a good kick to his ego every once in a while.

Nate Ford picked up after a few rings.

"Hey, Nate."

The older man sounded surprised. "Eliot. I thought you were going to leave for a while."

"Yeah, me too. Hey, could you do me a favor?"

"Sure, what's that?"

Eliot took a breath. "I have a client here . . . and I thought we could help her."

"Her? Old girlfriend of yours?" Nate was nosy as ever.

"No, my sister."

The line was silent for a good ten seconds. Eliot almost thought Nate had hung up, when his voice sounded:

"Sister, huh? Okay. Yeah, sure, we'll be there. Just call the others, give me your address, you know. Unless she'd want to come up here . . ."

"No, it's fine, I think we'll have to work here anyway."

"Okay, yeah. Text me the address and call the others. You're in Oklahoma, right?"

"Yeah."

"Great, we'll be there by tomorrow."

Nate hung up, and Eliot was left staring at the screen of his phone.

He then called Sophie, Parker, and Hardison (who wasn't too pleased, given the previous conversation), and gave them all the information. Then he stowed away his phone, kicked his feet up, and smiled at Hannah. "There," he announced. "They'll be here by tomorrow."

His sister returned the smile, albeit hesitantly. "You're sure they can help?"

"Absolutely."

"How do you know?"

Eliot set his jaw. "Because . . . This is what we do."

Well, there's that! PLEASE tell me if you want me to continue!

And again, thank you so much for reading!

-Rennwood Phoenix