A/N: In three parts.

I don't own any of Leverage. The only thing that belongs to me are the OCs and the plot. Obviously, I'm not profiting.

There are very few spoilers in this. Maybe passing glances at Big Bang Job and the Bank Shot Job.

This is my first trip into the fandom. Normally my interests lay elsewhere but this one has been chewing on my brain like a piece of jerky. Many thanks to Roar526 for reading over this for me. Please feel free to read and review. Thanks!

Stairs were always the hardest part of any trip. Even if it was just the few steps down from the bustling Boston street into the relative dark of John McRory's Place, she could still hear the internal crunching and gnashing protestations of cartilage long overdue for an overhaul. She was thankful again for the cane the boys had gotten for her, tricked out with deep purple metallic paint and red flames. If she had to be a cripple, she could at least be stylish about it.

Em surveyed the room, cataloguing faces and dispositions, a holdover from her old job with implications for her current one. Making her way to the bar, she took a seat at the nearest corner, the one that afforded her the greatest view of the room as well as incoming and outgoing traffic. She had things to do, and getting ambushed around a bunch of civilians was not on the agenda for today. "Irish, neat." She added, "Please," as an afterthought. She was in 'mission mode' and as such, was short on niceties.

Digging through her satchel, she withdrew her journal and pen before draping the strap over the hook protruding from the bar just far enough to keep attracting her bad knee. She had things to do, lots of them, but for now, she simply had to wait for him, and she knew he'd come, so she'd write, work on the other job weighing on her mind heavily, the one that paid the bills. She sipped the whiskey, hoping the burn on her tongue and down her throat would help settle her nerves.

With an eye and an ear trained on the door, she worked through her scene, writing out longhand what would take her merely seconds on her laptop, but again, she had her reasons. Reasons like not needing the extra weight as she trekked all over Boston in search of a plan and a partner. Especially when she was out with her cane. It was a little too much to deal with, considering.

Though she didn't grudge having the cane, which afforded her a great deal of privacy in public. Most people saw it before they saw her, if they managed to see her at all. Physical disability was still something of a taboo and very few people took it upon themselves to approach her out in public as opposed to while she was at work.

Her disguise was firmly in place, though she'd had the look for so long, it hardly counted as a disguise anymore. The look was one of an eccentric artist, hair that had been long and proudly black was now short and spiky white tipped in purple, she wore glasses, funky and fashion forward even though she wore her contacts beneath them, and a small silver ring in her right nostril that connected to her ear via a delicate silver chain. Combine all that with her tight black shirt, expensively ripped jeans and steel-toed boots, all of which were holdovers from her old life, and she affected quite the air of 'eau de Fuck Off'.

"Excuse me."

She looked up to see a beautiful woman walking towards her. Dark hair with a hint of red that fell in waves to her shoulders, flawless olive skin, and a walk that should have brought the room to a screeching halt, the lady was fine. And English. Odd to hear that accent here, and considering her current predicament, Em straightened in her chair and casually slipped her right hand into her pocket to hold the balisong knife, in case it was warranted. "May I help you?"

The woman walked over to the bar stool next to hers and leaned against it, affording her a long gaze at her new companion. Features that were sharp, but indistinctly ethnic, making her, like Em, indeterminately brown, in a gold silk blouse and a dark silk skirt shot through with enough gold thread to match the shirt, and impossibly tall heels. Her hand over the back of the chair held a book, her finger in the middle keeping her place. A romance novel with a familiar cover, Em almost laughed. "You look like someone I should know."

Oh, this was not anything she had time for… she looked past the woman to the back of the bar, and then to the door again, knowing that there was no way she could make a run for it. "I'm sorry, I don't believe we've met."

The woman studied her closely, and Em's fingers tightened around the knife. She was not above killing in public, but she certainly didn't want to make a habit of it. She smiled and offered her hand. "I'm sorry, I'm Sophie Devereaux, and you look strikingly like—"

"Emmy?"

Em turned in the direction of the door, stiffening as she was recognized twice in as many minutes, only this one wasn't unwelcome at all. It wasn't a surprise that he could see right through her affectations, twenty years of friendship made that possible. She hopped down off the stool in just enough time to grab her cane before being swept up in the bear hug embrace of her old friend.

Though his hair was longer, much longer, and he wore flannel over a tank top instead of black BDUs, she'd know those ice blue eyes anywhere, any time. That and the smell of leather and musk that was distinctly Eliot, something her body also remembered quite vividly. He let her slide down his muscled frame until her feet touched the floor again, though he didn't let her out of the circle of his arms. "How do, neighbor?" she asked in a Southern accent that she'd all but chased from her tongue except for special occasions, as her lips drew back in a broad grin, despite her circumstances.

"Eliot," Sophie was practically bouncing with wide-eyed curiosity, which was a bit of a sight considering she still had on her towering heels.

Eliot's eyes, bright and as full of mischief as she could remember, moved from their perusal of Em's face to the dark-haired woman. "Sophie, not now."

She smacked him in the arm with her novel, her perfectly tinted lips in a moue, "Eliot," she put the emphasis on the last syllable making him look distinctly annoyed. "You know Emerald Duquesne. All this time you've seen me read her novels and you never said anything."

Em swallowed back a slight giggle as his cheeks flamed and he finally released her. "Didn't seem relevant at the time," he offered gruffly.

Em reached out and shook Sophie's hand, "It's a pleasure to meet you. Always great to meet a fan."

Sophie flushed and offered her book. "Lovely to meet you. Would you mind?"

Em smiled and picked up her pen, even as Eliot rolled his eyes and shoved his bangs out of his face. "I'm sure she didn't come here for that, Soph."

She sat up straighter as she inscribed Sophie's paperback, and shook her head slightly to let him know this was not a conversation open to the public. "It's fine, Eliot," she emphasized the 'fine' in case he was unclear on her body language. Sophie took her book back and they made a few more pleasantries until Eliot's glare finally chased her off.

He waited patiently as she put her journal away and collected her effects, carrying her drink for her as he escorted from her seat at the bar to the back room, away from the din of other customers.

Em sat down in the chair he held out for her, hooking her cane on the edge of the table and setting her bag on the floor next to her feet. "It's been a while." It wasn't an accusation, just a commentary, and hell, even a compliment. Surviving five years in his and her lines of work was impressive, on many levels.

"Sarajevo," he said as he looked from her to the lines in his palms that were suddenly more interesting than his friend across the table.

She hummed in agreement. They both knew where they were when they last saw each other, what they said, what was better left unspoken. She threw the rest of her whiskey back in a single swallow, wincing as it sliced its way down to her belly.

"What happened to your leg?" He still didn't look up but his eyes were now focused on the glittery purple handle hooked on the table and not at his own hands. "You get bit by your own work?"

It was Em's turn to look down at her hands, by no means her best feature. Little lines that were white on her natural tan, criss-crossing the backs of her hands and her knuckles. She'd been bitten more than once, gnawed on a couple times beyond that, but she was lucky, all limbs and digits accounted for, which was more than could be said for some of her contemporaries. "Disease managed to accomplish what bullets and even my own machinations could not."

His lips thinned into a grimace. "Sorry," he offered softly. Not much he could say beyond that. There had been a time, back in the day, when their combined destructive natures were enough to topple dictatorships and lay waste to great swaths of land. Now, he was a hitter in a crew of thieves and she was retired, and in need of his services.

She reached across the table and took his hand, a touch that very few ever offered him, most likely because of how he looked and how he was. Em had no such predilections. "No need. We carry on…"

"Because we know no other way," he finished for her with a gentle grin as he massaged the backs of her fingers with his thumb. "So what brings you to Boston? I didn't think you spent much time in America anymore."

Brass tacks. The bottom line. She only hoped he'd be up for one more adventure. "My boys."

His light eyes snapped to hers and pinned her down with wary and wide-eyed suspicion. "I'm sorry? Your… what?" Though he didn't remove his hand from hers, she could feel the tension in his fingers, the slight tremor.

Given their history, she understood the origins of the look of terror that had etched itself all over his face. She reveled in it for only a moment before letting him off the hook. "My godsons, Michael and Gabriel. They live here now, with their mother, and I love them and help take care of them."

He looked simultaneously relieved and proud of her. "Good for you. I'm sure they benefit from your…" he paused to chuckle while he looked down at their mutually battered and joined hands, "vast experience."

She gave him her most sarcastic smile. "I am retired. I'm a writer now. I can't overstate that. They know nothing of my old life."

He licked his lips, and looked at her earnestly. "Ok, then why come to me?"

"Because you're not." She fingered her empty tumbler of whiskey with her free hand, suddenly really wishing for a refill. "Ivan Marković."

"Serbian terrorists? I thought you were retired."

"I am!" She gripped his hand tightly before releasing his fingers. "He requested my services through the usual channels and I politely declined. He took exception, and then he took my boys."

Eliot's eyes grew cold with fury. Very few things got next to him faster than those who intentionally placed children in the line of fire. She was counting on that. "What does he want?"

"He wants my services in exchange for their lives. Says he'll release them in exchange for me."

Eliot sat back and crossed his arms. Theirs was a delicate and dangerous business and even though she was emotionally involved, she knew that she had to keep at least some part of her mind clear in order to get a plan together. That was where he came in. "Your sister. Why didn't you call her?"

"Oh hell." Em looked from him to the empty glass and back and he reached into a cabinet under the table and pulled another bottle of Irish whiskey out. Her sister added an order of magnitude of crazy that she was not prepared to cope with on a good day. She loved her, but this was a job that required a laser, not a chainsaw. She downed the shot he poured her in one gulp and set the glass down upside down on the table. "You want to violently overthrow a tyrant? She's your girl. You want to quietly extract two juveniles from professional kidnappers, you look to someone with a slightly more… subtle skill set. I came to you because she and discretion have never even made each other's acquaintance and most likely never will. She kills freely and would do so in front of the boys. They don't need to see that."

He looked at the ceiling as he thought about it, arriving at the same conclusion with a conceding nod. "Yeah, I remember. You're probably right."

"I know I am." She waited as they stared at each other, hoping that her desperation didn't show. His eyes, always so expressive, were closed to her scrutiny. A part of her was busy making peace with the fact that maybe this was a mistake, that maybe the man in front of her, hardened by wars and battles, had simply been through too much to extend himself like this. Maybe she was a bastard for asking him.

"I gotta talk to the team."

She was angry at the hope she felt, because it grew unchecked in her chest, and she couldn't get a handle on it. "Will they let you take outside gigs?"

Eliot shrugged, an elegant play of musculature beneath the flannel of his shirt. "That's what I'm gonna find out."

"I have money." She hated how needy the offer sounded, but if that was what it took to get her boys back unharmed, she'd dump every account she had in the Caymans, the Maldives, and Zurich.

He stood and she did as well. He walked over and cupped her cheek, his thumb ghosting over her cheekbone. "And I'd never take it. You know that." She closed her eyes at the touch and for just a moment, it was like the last five years had melted away. They were in a flat in Serbia above her workshop, a little wilder, a little more carefree even though they were both on assignment. Then she opened her eyes to find the reality in the same condition they'd left it in, his sad smile telling her that he'd taken the same brief jaunt she had.

They walked back out to the bar and he got her a seat at a table in the back of the bar, away from most of the rest of the patrons. "When will you know?"

"Give me an hour, okay?" He flagged down one of the waitresses, a lovely thin girl with long red hair, and told her to take care of Em. "She's family, okay?"

Em pulled her book from her satchel and began writing again. She'd waited this long, another hour wasn't going to kill her.