A/N: This is based, however loosely on a prompt by for a Nate/Sophie fic with Sophie backstory (with emphasis on the Duchess of Hanover and William.) , I hope this works for you! Please enjoy and let me know what you think.

A/N II: I have a prompt for whoever wishes to grab it. I will post it again at the end of this fic in case you guys forget but here it is: I would like a Nate/Sophie story set to the song Kiss It All Better by He is We. (it can be found on YouTube I promise you.) Bonus points if Moreau is somehow involved. (Canon please if you wish to include the team.) Thanks, and enjoy!

There were many thoughts running through Sophie Devereaux's mind as she skittered across the floor. Absolutely none of them were happy images of her father, back when he was kind and her mother was still alive. No, terror had always ruled her young life no matter how often she tried to forget that lovely piece of information.

At the tender age of three, Sophie Devereaux wasn't even her name. Of course, she didn't know at the time that she would have a name that didn't belong to her birth family in the least. At the time, all she cared about was the fact that Mummy wasn't making her breakfast or reading bedtime stories anymore. The only time her mother would even speak to her was when she made the effort of running into her parents' bedroom and flopping on top of the bed. She would race under the covers and cuddle into Mummy as quickly as possible, usually with tears on her face.

She would tell her mother tales while in the room; tales of Daddy's meanness towards her because he couldn't pour the milk into the cereal correctly. She would even tell tales of when Mummy got better from the far too misunderstood word cancer that they were going to climb the jungle-gyms and march the streets of London looking for the best boutiques and shops. Even back then Sophie had been rich, though she didn't know the class difference or why at the time.

Then one day, as the story always goes, Mummy wasn't in bed. The young Sophie Devereaux had actually squealed in delight over the news. She clapped her hands and jumped up and down in joy of the fact that her mother was no longer bed-ridden. She happily raced towards the kitchen in pajama clad feet because her mother only believed she should wear footed-pajamas at her young age. She stormed down the stairs with an extra bounce of life and ran towards her spot at the table. Her cereal had yet to be poured and the milk wasn't even out for her to help herself. Her mother was nowhere to be found.

Sophie had puzzled over this for a good hour before a loud bang and a yelp of pain enveloped her ears. She turned towards the front door of their flat and stared at her father's ragged form. Her old man fell against the door frame and didn't seem to mind. He just drank from a brown sandwich bag and allowed the door frame to win until he was sitting on the floor leaning against it. Even then young Sophie knew the liquid inside the brown bag was evil but she raced towards her father anyway. She wanted to know why he was so sad and where was Mummy?

It wasn't until a few days later, when they were placing the casket six feet underground that she learned of her mother's passing. Mummy had lost to the cancer and left them forever. Heaven wasn't even a word in Sophie's vocabulary then. Nathan Ford had yet to teach it to her. But the young Sophie Devereaux had learned something very important that day, she had to stay behind to take care of Daddy.

Little did she know, Daddy had other plans.

%

"Sophie!"

The mastermind's voice snapped the grifter out of her thoughts immediately. His hand was waving in front of her face and there was concern on his features. Apparently, she had been thinking for a very long time. She didn't answer on the first or the second calling of her name.

"What?" She asked, trying to shrug it off with being half-asleep and highly jet-lagged. They had only just come back from a trip to Paris. It was easy enough to believe.

"I asked you what kind of venue you wanted and you just zoned out on me," Nate explained his forehead creasing with worry, "I'm voluntarily talking about the wedding and you zoned out."

Sophie blinked at him, not because he had caught her like he most likely thought. She had blinked because he was discussing the great big pink polka-dotted elephant in the room. He had refused to even pick a date for their upcoming nuptials since their engagement. He kept shrugging it off to "we've got time why hurry?" But she knew him better. He was already planning her funeral and how he was going to move on after yet another tragic event, the coward.

"No I didn't," she argued immediately. It was their thing, who was she to change it? "I was just thinking about a castle in Paris or the Coliseum in Rome. Somewhere with beautiful sunsets and lots of space!"

"For the six people we are inviting?" He asked, brow raised high and forehead further creasing with worry.

Sophie stared at him for a while, thinking of all the different replies she could give him. Then she found the opening she needed because he was surely counting wrong.

"Who's the sixth?" She asked, tilting her head just so to expose a certain inch of collarbone that Nathan Ford happened to find favor with.

"We discussed this," he said, rolling his eyes at her and making her feel like a complete idiot. She didn't remember discussing anything like guests. "I want to invite Sterling because he was, at one point, my friend."

"Still is," Sophie mumbled under her breath. At least she thought it was under her breath. Nate's rising eyebrow and amused smirk seemed to suggest she wasn't as subtle as she was aiming.

"Sophie…" Uh-oh! She knew that voice. That was his "I'm going to figure out your con" voice.

"I'm fine," she interrupted gently, "I'm just tired. We only just got back from our trip. Can't we have a little break before we jump right into the bride and groom routine? We haven't even picked a date yet."

The eyebrow only seemed to rise higher which was pretty difficult considering it was already in his hairline. His concern was really doing a number on his forehead too. He was definitely going to get a few more wrinkles when this conversation was done. If he would allow it to be over.

"You know," he said keeping the conversation going because he just can't leave well enough alone, "You've been very moody lately-"

"I'm tired, Nate," Sophie rolled her eyes. He was truly atrocious at subtle, "I'll be fine with a good twelve hours of sleep in my system. Quit being such a worry-wart."

"Ordinarily I would believe that," Nate countered, "but you haven't been fine since before we even went to Paris. You've slowly started disappearing off the face of the Earth. I thought it was just jitters from getting married then I remembered this is you and now I'm thoroughly worried."

Sophie stared at him like he had three heads. She hadn't expected him to have noticed her odd behavior before she did. She hadn't even expected him to catch onto the fact that she spent most of her time in her head. Damn, he was starting to become way too good at reading her. She should have put a stop to that long ago. Maybe then they wouldn't be so screwed up.

"I'm fine," she tried again. Only this time she didn't even believe herself. It was a sad day when even a grifter of her caliber couldn't con herself or the man she was with.

Nate's hands were on her cheeks in seconds. His forehead was against hers and felt nice and cooling. His nose was almost touching and his lips were just as close. His blue eyes were filled to the brim with concern and she secretly hated the fact that she really wanted to kiss him.

"You know you can tell me anything," he said. Bloody cliché. "But do you believe it?"

Okay, when did he get so poetic? This isn't the Nathan Ford she signed up for. She was specifically informed that this one no longer existed. This one was buried six feet underground with his son Sam and his divorce with Maggie. She didn't get this one. She knew she didn't get this one.

"What's wrong?" He asked softly.

"I'm not supposed to get this one," she replied. Then she mentally smacked herself in the face for it. She was starting to forget who she was. She was a grifter. She wasn't allowed to speak her thoughts as she was thinking them. It was going to get her killed.

"This one what?" Nate frowned.

"Nevermind," was her reply.

That stupid worry was back on his face. His palms were pressing into her cheeks and looked ready to take her to the hospital. That was an odd thought, Nathan Ford voluntarily visiting a hospital for something other than a con. Maybe she wasn't feeling well after all.

"I've just got a lot on my mind," she explained.

"Sophie," Nate sighed glaring daggers at her, "At least tell me what you meant by this one."

A punch of guilt slammed into her chest at the worry in his eyes.

"Well," she stalled as she tried to think of the best approach.

"Sophie," he growled apparently reading her mind like he totally was not supposed to.

"I'm not supposed to get the super caring and considerate Nathan Ford," she said, flinging the words at him in hopes of getting it over and done with, "I'm supposed to get the drunk bastard who is trying his damnedest to pretend he's not healing from his son's death."

She took a deep breath and found a spot on the wall. She felt her cheeks flush at the close scrutiny she was receiving. Then she dared to find his eyes again and a childish smile appeared on her features.

"That's supposed to be Maggie's Nate," she finished dryly, "the one that died with Sam."

Then she swiveled the stool around. The mastermind latched onto her arm and stopped her from escaping his gaze. She flashed back to an image of him doing the exact same thing to Parker when they lived in Boston. She mentally disciplined herself for daring to smile at the memory because he had an adorable fatherly look as he scolded the thief for spinning around in a stool instead of sitting properly.

"You deserve that Nate," he whispered into her ear. His soft, warm breath was suddenly right in her ear and she could feel the heat of his skin by his neck.

"And I will strive to give him to you every day," he said, "That's what the ring means. I'm going to do everything I can to be the man you deserve, because you deserve so much more than I can give you. I know you don't believe that but I will do my best to prove it to you."

He placed his hand on her cheek and pushed gently. The grifter turned towards him with an arched eyebrow. She could see the honesty in his eyes. She could even feel the truth of his words in her bones. He rubbed his thumb on her cheek and slowly inched closer. She beat him to the punch by melding her mouth to his. She felt the slight tilt to his left cheek when he realized she was giving him all that she had.

%

She was five when Daddy began teaching her how to mimic other people's voices and accents. She could speak French, Italian, and German in her sleep. (Literally, she had dreams in each of those languages with absolutely no idea how not-normal that really was.) She had already mastered the art of numbers and letters after Mummy died. Daddy had been so sad and she wanted to remind him that he still had her. (This, she would later realize, ended up back-firing on her and pretty much ruined the rest of her life.) So she worked very hard to learn how to read and write and add. Her teachers were highly impressed when she could count to one hundred forty-seven without a pause. They were even more impressed when she volunteered to subtract forty-nine from seventy-three. It only took her teacher three days before she suggested Sophie should skip a grade. One grade was already on the verge of turning into two because she was such a quick and skilled learner. (She had yet to realize her advanced intelligence would also lead to her downfall and future career.)

School was fun and easy for her. Sure, she was constantly picked on for being smarter than at least half of her class but that didn't really matter. Her father had started taking an interest in her after she started her first year of school. He cherished his five-year-old's intelligence and, Sophie being eager to bring out her father's smile, he used his little sponge to her fullest potential. He had her begin with reading her favorite books, Winnie the Pooh and The Little Engine That Could, and he would repeat what she said in funny voices. After the giggles had finally subsided, Sophie would repeat the phrase until she could mimic his voice to a T. (Okay, so maybe the beginning wasn't too bad.)

Soon, Sophie was a seven-year-old who could read, write and speak in four languages without a pause. It was as though it was a fluid, natural movement in her abilities. So her father, highly satisfied with his daughter's quick wit, decided to take her tutelage up a notch. He taught her how to pick a pocket with nothing more than her forefinger and her middle finger. This she found much more challenging.

See, Sophie had yet to grow into her long, elegant fingers. At the age of seven, her fingers were tiny digits that could barely even beat a golf pencil in size. Like most children, her fingers were chunky and barely more than stubs at the ends of her hands. The first time her father showed her how to do it, he yelled at her for not being able to do it without him feeling it. After her third attempt, to no avail, he began drinking. This made young Sophie nervous, she had already learned about Evil Daddy and the bottle. Her fifth attempt ending up getting her lightly slapped on the hand and another round of scolding. Her tenth attempt had her bawling in the corner because Daddy hit her hand a bit harder. He had raced out of the room before he could do any further damage, the bottle going with him to give him comfort from his deed.

"I'll get it," Sophie had shouted after her father through the tears. At the time, she thought he was leaving because she couldn't do what he wanted her to. "I promise I'll get it, Daddy. Please don't leave me like Mummy! I'll be good, I promise."

She allowed herself to cry for another fifteen minutes. (Yes, she had already mastered the art of telling time without a clock.) Then she went to work learning her new trade. She found an old coat of Mummy's and sowed a series of bells all over it. She stole Mummy's mannequin and began practicing. Her father was more than pleased when she finally mastered the art of pocket-picking. He yelped with joy, only scaring her slightly, and swopped her into the air. Then he promised her cake, cookies and whatever else she wanted. She spent a full three months practicing on her class-mates and teachers to make sure she never got out of practice.

%

Sophie stands at the back of the church with nervous bubbles in her stomach. A smile is on her face, as she has always expected. A familiar figure of the past is holding her left arm.

His hair is still pitch black, darker than the night. The smile on his face is almost as perfectly placed as hers. He still can't hide the hate in his black eyes though. He wears a tailored, double-breasted black suit like he always has. His hair is slicked back. Unlike, Eliot and Hardison, his pocket handkerchief is a stark blood red. His vest and undershirt are the same blood red color. But he selected no tie for the occasion. His eyes tell her to keep staring forward, like she can ignore the gun he's holding against her.

Her dress is perfect ivory because a white dress was just a little too cliché. It wraps around her body at the top and delicately billows out from her waist. The sweetheart neckline gave her the illusion that she was a princess. The beaded bodice cascading into a field of lace reminds her of the dress her mother wore. Parker insisted on the antique silver tiara on the top of her head so Sophie made certain her veil easily worked with it. There is a perfect bouquet of white roses in her hands. The petals are stained with tears already. The salty sadness collapses from her eyes as she tries to at least pretend she's happy.

The figure applies pressure on her arm and she can't help the slight yelp that escapes her lips. She steps her left foot forward without further instruction. As she walks down the aisle, the happy faces fall in quick succession. Everybody has figured out things aren't going to end well. Hardison moves to take his phone out of his pocket. Eliot's left eyebrow twitches because he's just realized he can't get to the bride without getting her killed. Maggie is clasping Parker's arm to keep the tiny thief from taking unnecessary chances. Tara and Sterling are staring at the incoming pair with frowns on their faces. The groom is the most worrying sight.

Nate is beautiful in his black suit. He has a baby blue vest and matching pocket handkerchief. Unlike the groomsmen he selected no tie because he knew it would drive her crazy. Mostly, it was because he couldn't decide between the two and finally gave up. He took two steps closer to her before he realized the gun was pointing at her. Now he is staring at the men with pure hatred on his features. He's mentally calculating all of the different ways he can get her out of there. He doesn't know that he's already lost, that they've already lost.

The figure takes his time to reach the altar. Every eye is on them on high alert, even the priest is staring at the two in horror. The pain in her back is suddenly far too much. Her next step forward almost causes her to stumble. Then the figure lets her go and she falls into the mastermind's arms.

"Soph," He gasps and she winces in pain when his hand comes in contact with the stab wounds on her back.

She can hear more than see Maggie's reaction. It's a tight, quick scream as she sees the giant trail of blood running down the grifter's back. Her beautiful dress is now a decorative red back that matches the figure's vest perfectly. There are a few black patches too if Nate's shaking hands were anything to go by. He cradles her closer and closer to his chest. He is staring into her eyes with giant alligator tears. He's pushing the hair away from her face while their friends are battling the figure behind them. Her breaths are ragged and it makes him panic even more.

"Soph," he groans because he's finally figured out that she's not coming back.

"I'm sorry," she replies and cries at the horrible fact that the war has finally begun.

A gunshot running through the air sounds.

Sophie snapped from her dream instantly. She extracted herself from Nate's solid grip, a feat nobody expected to be so difficult. Then she turned around to make certain he hadn't noticed her absence. His face was already forming a frown so she had only a few minutes at most.

She raced towards the bathroom and made quick work of emptying her stomach contents, what little there was to begin with. She breathed deeply and worked very hard to get the image out of her head. Her fingers were quaking and her breath was heavy. Tears were pouring through her eyes before she could even stop it. She ran the water in the sink and tried to wipe the dream away, rinsing the metallic taste as she went.

Her eyes caught her attention instantly. Despite their red puffy nature she could still see him. The man with black eyes and black hair was staring back at her. He was staring at her with the same evil and the same contempt. Then the grifter realized she was only staring at her own reflection.

She grimaced at her own image and quickly turned off the sink. She sat down on the bathtub and tried to get her head back on straight. She took a deep breath and somehow missed the fact that her bathroom door was open. The mastermind's hands were on hers in seconds and she looked up into a field of blue. The concern in those eyes nearly scared her.

"Soph," he gasped.

He used the exact same tone in her dream and that was enough to nearly kill her. She collapsed into his arms and ignored the consequences of her actions. She just held him tight and cried her heart out. His hands were splayed across her back in an attempt to calm her. He didn't realize that was exactly how he had gripped her in the dream. It made her tears fall harder and one hand was suddenly rubbing her neck.

"It's okay," he whispered into her ear, his breath soft and warm, "Everything's going to be alright. Nothing's going to hurt you anymore. I'm here."

Sophie giggled at the words he spoke. Then she clung tighter to him out of a sudden fear of losing him. Maybe she was being paranoid but history told her this fairytale was about to end. It was always when she was happiest when things started to hit the fan. But Nate knew everything that usually held her back. She was just being silly.

"You want to talk about it?" He asked.

She shook her head and cuddled into his shoulder more. She felt like a toddler the way she was seeking comfort from him. He didn't seem to mind though if the kisses he was planting were anything to go by. They just sat there in their bathroom together. He gave her comfort and made her feel like herself again.

%

She was fourteen when she realized that what she and her father do was actually illegal. (Technically, she figured this out when she was nine, right along with the fact that Santa Claus smelled like Daddy's cologne and favorite cherry rum.) She was no longer in school, too many times transferring from country to country turned it into an at home by ear event. She didn't really mind. There were too many people who were constantly glancing at her in scorn, mostly for her brain and only a little bit for her father's career.

She had been upgraded in her tasks now. She didn't just pick pockets anymore, hasn't for a long time now anyway. She now had the pleasant ability to lead marks to her father's door. (Sometimes she even got to pretend to be his assistant, but never his daughter because that was a weakness and thieves don't have weaknesses.) Her language skills had improved to add Mandarin and the ability to speak many African dialects with little trouble. She even got to con a man out of his entire life's savings once. Her father wasn't happy with her job, she made the mistake of losing her accent at the wrong moment, but the con was a success so he didn't punish her either.

She was sixteen when her father finally decided to include her more in his cons. She was no longer leading the marks to his door. No, now she was taking point while he was the one on the side. Puberty had been kind to her. She took after her mother with her too skinny frame and flawless bone structure. Her curves had developed nicely in all the right places and her father had struggled for the last year with some of the marks paying more attention to those curves instead of his cons. (She didn't realize it was because she wasn't old enough for him to exploit that yet. She thought he was actually being protective of her.)

Her very first con was done mostly on her own because her father didn't believe in taking it slow to learn the ways. She executed the persona, Demetria Mantras, flawlessly. She even impressed her father by getting the full collection instead of just the Degas they came for. (Degas was her mother's favorite painter, at least, that was what he told her.) He smiled at her, pat her on the head and left her alone in her room for the rest of the night. That meant he was very pleased, she had learned that early on too.

It was a few months before Christmas when her first failed con happened. It wasn't even her fault. (She knows that for certain now. She spent two whole decades going over the events just to be certain. Eventually, she realized there was nothing she could have done.) Her father had messed up, badly. The mark figured out he was a con artist. He tortured the older man incessantly for a couple of hours. Her father was shot, beaten and many other horrible things. He was left for dead on the side of a street in the rural country-side of Italy. Sophie burned three aliases just to get to him and another two to get him some medical treatment from a reliable doctor who didn't ask questions. After her father's miraculous recovery, her thanked her with three broken ribs and a black eye.

"Never go back!" He had shouted at her as he kicked in rib number two, "Always keep running. Have I taught you nothing, stupid girl? Never return for anyone, even your own blood!"

Oddly enough, that was the one lesson she would never truly learn.

%

This is how kidnappings are supposed to happen. The kidnapper, or kidnappers depending on the type of person you're targeting, finds their target easily enough. He, or they, follows said target to a predetermined destination after days, weeks, sometimes months of surveillance. Then the kidnapper(s) springs up behind said target, places their hand over target's mouth and pulls the target into a car or van with very specific instructions of what will happen if the target does not go quietly. Both the kidnapper(s) and the target are aware that the target's life is no longer in his or her hands. There is a demand for ransom, if the person comes from money and that is why the target was acquired, or there is nothing more than a gunshot later on when certain information is obtained.

This is how Sophie Devereaux is kidnapped.

She walks into her brand new home, the one she is currently sharing with Nate, and places the brand new shopping bags on the kitchen floor. She does a fabulous job of sorting out the mail while pouring herself a lovely glass of milk. Then she removed her secret stash of Oreo cookies.

"Hello Monkey!"

The grifter dropped the brand new bag of Oreos, crushing them instantly. She swiftly turned around and stared at the person belonging to the familiar voice. He was older now. Wrinkles decorated every inch of his face. His hair was peppered with white streaks, but it was still as black as ever. It was his eyes that held Sophie so captive, his black eyes that mirrored her own.

He smiled at the sign of recognition. Then he approached her slowly. He kept his distance as he spoke.

"Come with me," he ordered briskly.

Sophie wanted to scream at him. She wanted to hit him in the head, kick him in the shins and run away screaming for her life. She wanted to get as far away from him as possible. But she knew better. She knew she wouldn't make it far enough to be heard. There would be no witnesses to her kidnapping. Nobody would even hear it as he broke her neck.

No, she had to go with him. Nate was due home any second and that would be bigger trouble than it was worth. So she nodded her head, slipped her ring off of her, slipped it into the drawer directly behind her, took his offered arm and carefully exited her home for the very last time. Together they walked to his carefully shaded black car. He opened the door for her and she smiled in gratitude. He was in the car before she could even think to run away. The car was already pulling out of its parking spot when she dared to look back.

Sophie stared at her new house, the house she and Nate took a very long while to find and deem as their perfect haven. She pushed back the tears that wanted to fall. She just watched all of her hopes, all of her dreams, and everything she loved most disappear behind the horizon. Then her home was gone.

"Cheer up, Monkey," her kidnapper cried rubbing circles in her hand like he was trying to be comforting, "We'll find you a better mark. In fact, I've already got one in mind."

Sophie nodded at his statement.

"Okay Daddy," she said, too busy fighting back the tears to give him a proper response.