Disclaimer: I don't own Leverage.
Mom tells him there's nothing in the world more important than honor. Dad shows him how to cheat at cards.
Nate loves his mom, loves her more than anything, but it's his dad who molds him. Nate's naturally good at the kind of things his dad does. He has quick hands and a quicker mind—a quicker mind than Dad's, even, though Dad won't admit it and Nate's not yet bold enough to say it himself.
Nine-year-old Nate spends his weekday afternoons at McRory's, in a booth near the back. He does his homework to the accompaniment of Dad's voice uttering low, ugly threats or making honeyed offers of loans that only the desperate would accept. Dad starts drinking at two and doesn't quit till he calls it a night. By four, Nate's always done with his school work—and that's going as slow as he can manage—so that's when Dad calls him over to the bar for what he calls "lessons in being a man."
Lessons in being a man consist of watching Dad break the fingers of people who owe him money. Dad's got it down to a real science—just a quick jerk, a cracking sound, and a cry of pain. Sometimes he does it more slowly, just for kicks, or to make a point. Sometimes he breaks every finger on one hand; sometimes he alternates every other finger on both hands.
Nate was five the first time Dad made him endure a lesson in being a man. He tried to run away, but Dad caught him at the door and carried him kicking and writhing back to the bar. Dad grabbed Nate's wrist hard enough to bruise, squeezed it until his fist sprung open, and for a terrifying moment he thought Dad was going to break his fingers. Instead, Dad reached over the bar, grabbed something, and pushed into Nate's open palm.
It was a mallet.
His eyes on the terrified young man sitting a few stools down from them, Dad leaned forward and whispered in Nate's ear, his breath reeking of whiskey, "You break two, or I'll break five."
Weekday afternoons have taught Nate to distance himself from the suffering of others. If that's what it means to be a man, he's not so sure he wants to be one.
Nate spends his Sundays at church. Dad thinks it's funny for a bookie's son to be an altar boy, so he doesn't complain. Mom gets tears in her eyes every mass.
Nate feels safe at church. It's a place where nobody gets hurt. A place where he can confess his sins—and thanks to Dad, he has a lot to confess—and get absolution. He likes Father Patrick, too, likes the way the man never raises his voice, the way that people seem happier after they've spoken to him.
No one's ever happier after speaking to Jimmy Ford.
Nate was eight when he decided that he was going to be a priest. He was smart enough not to tell Dad—Dad still seems to think Nate's going to help him rule the city when he's older—and he couldn't tell Mom because despite her best intentions she'd almost certainly let it slip to Dad. He told Father Patrick, instead, and the priest couldn't have been more delighted.
Nate understands people. He manipulates them almost unconsciously, makes them think whatever he wants about him. His mother thinks he's an angel. The bullies at school think he's tough; the bullies' victims think he's their protector. His teachers think he's smart, but they have no idea just how smart he is. Father Patrick thinks that Nate is a good person.
Nate has never dared to manipulate Dad. He's always been afraid that Dad would see right through him—like recognizing like, and all that.
"Nate!"
He looks up from his homework, surprised to be addressed so early in the afternoon. "What?" he says.
Dad gestures impatiently. "Get over here, kid."
Biting his lip, Nate slips out of the booth and walks across the bar with hesitant steps.
Dad's got two of his lackeys at the bar with him, but thankfully none of his "clients" are there right now. Dad downs a glass of whiskey and glares at Nate. "I hear you want to be a priest," he says.
His lackeys laugh raucously. The bartender refills Dad's glass.
Fear trickles down Nate's spine. "Where'd you hear that?"
He sees Dad move but doesn't have time to react, and then he's reeling back, the entire right side of his face throbbing.
"Don't you give me cheek, Nate," Dad slurs, pointing a finger at him. "Your blessed Father Patrick told me when he tried to convince me to let you spend your afternoons at church."
Nate, fighting every instinct he has, does not bring his hand up to prod the burgeoning bruise on his face. Careful to keep his tone quiet, he says, "What'd you say?"
Dad laughs. "No, of course. I need you here, kid. You know that."
Nate's eyes burn.
"Are you crying?" Dad demands, grabbing Nate by the chin with painfully strong fingers. He shakes his head in disgust. "I can't believe it—Jimmy Ford's kid cries after a little pat on the cheek." He frowns at Nate for a long moment before a vicious smile forms on his lips. "I know what'll help."
He squeezes Nate's wrist until Nate whimpers and feels his hand spring open. Dad forces the glass of whiskey into his hand.
"I'm all right," Nate whispers. "I don't want it."
"Drink it," Dad says. "Drink it, or you can forget about being an altar boy any longer."
Nate lifts the glass to his lips, takes a sip. The whiskey sears his tongue and throat, as harsh as gasoline. Coughing, he turns his head away.
"All of it, Nate," Dad orders.
So Nate brings up his other hand, uses it to steady his grip on the glass, and forces himself to drink it all. It's foul and acidic, yet it makes his stomach feel strangely warm. By the time he's finished, he's decided that he hates Dad, hates him more than he respects him, hates him more than he fears him.
Nate would never, never use these tactics to get someone to do something. It's crude and stupid. And so is Dad. So is Dad.
Maybe it's possible, he thinks, his thoughts quiet and cautious as if afraid of being overheard, maybe it is possible to manipulate Dad. To convince him that Nate's not all that smart, that Nate's too weak and useless to help Dad run the town.
"Good boy," Dad says when the glass is empty, taking it away from him and motioning for the bartender to refill it again. "Now, sit." He hooks a stool with his foot and drags it over. "I'm gonna give you a lesson in being a man."
Nate sits.
Dad pulls three bent cards out of his pocket and puts them face up on the counter. "Now, watch the queen," he instructs. "I want you to keep your eye on the queen."
He flips the cards over and begins to move them, his hands dexterous and quick. Nate watches the queen, watches as it flies over and under the other cards, watches as it flies up Dad's sleeve and another card flies out to take its place.
"Keep your eye on the queen," Dad says, his hands still moving. "Where's the queen, Nate? Are you watching the queen?"
Perfect, Nate thinks. Let the manipulation begin.