Disclaimer: I do not own Leverage, or any of the characters, places, or events contained therein. Which, frankly, is a very good thing.
"Flashbacks": One of my favorite elements of the Leverage series is the rather brilliant use of flashbacks. I intend for this to be a series of flashbacks—in this case, moments where our beloved characters recall how they first met one another (perhaps moving on to similarly intriguing fictional encounters that might be memorable). Of course, a proper Leverage-style flashback requires a situation that triggers it. I'm presently basing these flashbacks on imaginary 'deleted scenes' from The First David Job. This is partly arbitrary, and partly because I really like that episode.
Note: Curiously, I am the only Leverage fan in my acquaintance. In addition, I've never written Leverage fanfiction, though I've enjoyed reading more than my fair share of it. That being the case, I don't really know if this is the sort of writing that piques anyone's interest. I suppose that can be judged by reviews, yes? So if you'd like to read more, drop me a line. Dozo yoroshiku onegaishimasu!
Flashback 1: "Fine"
"I'll come alone, I promise," came Sterling's snide voice. There was an unpleasant 'snap' followed by silence.
Nate made a sharp u-turn and increased speed as he homed in on his new destination.
"And where will that put us?" asked Sophie, eyes sharp and unreadable.
"The roof of my old office building," answered Nate through clenched teeth. Sophie put a comforting hand on his shoulder, which he completely ignored. He reached into his pocket for his cell phone and then hit one of the speed-dial buttons and switched to speaker-phone. A fleeting look of relief crossed his face when he heard the raspy voice of Eliot on the other end.
"Nate?"
"Coms out?" Nate asked first.
"Way ahead of you." The hitter's voice never quite betrayed pain, but he could not disguise the fact that he was having some trouble breathing.
Nate grimaced slightly. "Eliot, where are you?" He asked.
"Bathroom in the hangar. Gettin' cleaned up."
"Hm," Nate nodded, "And how are you?"
Eliot grunted noncommittally. "I'm fine."
(Nate: Flashback)
"Eliot Spencer," said a much younger Nathan Ford. "Put down the Monet." He had a gun trained on the back of the young retrieval specialist who had just staggered out of the back entrance of the warehouse, lugging the tall flat crate that contained the priceless work of art.
Spencer stopped, swaying on his feet, and slowly turned to face this latest in what appeared to have been a long string of obstacles.
Nate's eyes widened.
The young man looked like he had just gone ten rounds with a grizzly. Blood-matted brown hair hung limply into angry blue eyes, one of which was swollen nearly shut. The arm not holding the painting was clutched tightly to the boy's chest, whether to stem the bleeding from the several wounds on his torso, or simply because the arm was broken and of limited use, Nate couldn't be sure.
The youth frowned at him furiously. "Ford," he rasped, "Insurance guy, right?" His gaze narrowed on the gun pointed at him and his glare became, if possible, even more hateful. Nate caught the shift, but didn't quite understand the significance.
"That's right," he said. "Now put down the painting, son, and back away. I don't want to have to use this." He gestured slightly with the gun.
Spencer seemed to be taking stock off his options, weighing his physical condition against the distance to be closed between him and this irritant. To Nate's relief, he gently lowered the crate to the ground and took several halting steps backward, free hand in the air in surrender.
Nate matched his pace, advancing until he had reached the box. "Alright, now just get out of here before the cops start sniffing around," he said, lowering the gun a little.
The young man raised a skeptical eyebrow while still managing to glower angrily. But he raised no objection and made to turn and leave. He had only taken a few steps before Nate saw one of his footfalls land at an odd angle and the young man swiftly fell to his knees with a hiss of pain.
Nate took a hesitant step towards the boy, unsure of what to do. Did proximity make him responsible for aiding this person? It was a situation he had not encountered in his still-brief career. "Are you alright kid?" he hazarded, taking another step.
"Fine," Spencer choked out. "I'm fine." The youth appeared to make an attempt to rise, but then collapsed forward in a fit of coughs that produced an alarming amount of blood.
That was the last straw for Nate's conscience. He closed the distance between them with a few quick strides and reached to lay a hand on Spencer's shoulder…when the young man struck like lightning.
Nate stood no chance. In less than a second Nate's gun had been wrested from his grip and removed of its rounds. In perhaps a second and a half, Nate had taken the elbow of a broken arm hard in the gut, a fast upper cut to the jaw, and a sound pistol whipping down from the temple with his own weapon. At about two seconds he hit the ground—hard— his bullets and a pair of bloody boots suddenly the only things occupying his wavering field of vision. The boots moved, and with the last of his strength Nate rotated to look up at his unlikely vanquisher.
The youth limped over to the crate and hefted it again with audible effort, then proceeded along his previous course. As Eliot passed Nate's prone form he saw the insurance man's roving eyes settle on him, fighting a losing battle to retain consciousness. Eliot let out a low, mean chuckle as a wicked grin came across his features. "Toldja I was fine."
(Back to the present)
Nate couldn't suppress a wry smile at the memory as Sophie said, "Eliot, you don't sound fine. Were you injured fighting Sterling's men?"
Eliot only responded with a growl, not interested in explaining.
"Soph," interjected Nate, "let's take the man at his word, alright?"
Sophie found that quite unsatisfactory, and was about to object but Nate cut her off again. "Trust me," he gave her a knowing look and she frowned but kept quiet.
"So what's next, boss?" asked the retrieval specialist. "You want I should back you up when you meet Sterling?" he asked, "Or should I go after Hardison and Parker?"
"Well," said Nate with a pause, "Sterling's next play isn't going to involve force. At this stage it's time for demands, and I believe him when he says he wants to deliver them personally; that's his style. Yeah, Sophie and I should be safe." He took a moment to consider. "And I don't want you going after the other two until we know exactly what we're dealing with. We need to find out Sterling's play before we can play him."
Eliot grunted his confirmation.
"Tell you what; you know the number three safe-house?"
There was a long moment's pause; Eliot was thinking. "You mean that little dive with the—"
"Yeah, that's the one," said Nate. "Just make it there and take it easy 'till we contact you again."
There was another growl on the other end—apparently Eliot did not appreciate being told to take it easy. But the forthcoming objection was interrupted by a grunt of pain, a barely audible "Where to, mister?" and the sound of Eliot giving directions to someone.
Sophie and Nate looked at each other incredulously.
"Eliot…" Nate began.
"Are you in a taxi?" Sophie finished.
"What!" came Eliot's voice, even more annoyed than before. "Y'all seriously think I don't know better than to drive with a concussion?!"
The pair tried to begin an apology, but with a dismissive 'hmph' Eliot muttered, "Idiots!" and promptly hung up.
Sophie arched an eyebrow at Nate, who simply said, "Yeah, I think he'll be fine."