A/N: Long time no see! Wow, I can't believe it's been, what, almost nine months since the last time I posted on here (although, to be fair, that isn't my longest hiatus). Anyway, I'm trying to get back into the groove of things by finishing up all these old stories I have that are so close to completion but I just dropped out somewhere along the way, and this just happened to be the one I finished first!
I started writing this after the second time I watched "The Beantown Bailout Job," and for some reason I was just so struck by the dynamic between Nate and Zoe Kerrigan, the daughter of the client. It's just been sitting in a folder for a good four or five months now, nearly done, and I just got the urge to finish it up! Now it is almost 3 AM and I should really do some homework tomorrow…
Anyway, hope you enjoy my first foray into Leverage!
He won't talk to her, something she's loathed ever since she was six and he wouldn't tell her what happened to her goldfish while she was away at her grandparents' house. But this is so much more serious than her empty aquarium because it has to do with money and his job and the stupid briefcase he carefully places in the middle of the backseat.
At least he finally called the police, although he claims they didn't understand because they're not bankers. So explain it better, she pleads. She doesn't understand why this has to be so difficult.
He's floundering and he asks her to change the subject.
She sighs. Fine. She'll try talking sense into him later, maybe after school if he's in a good mood. She casually flips her hair and brings up Plan B: a cell phone.
He glances at her, part surprised and part exasperated. I've got no good choices here, do I?
She's about to start making her argument—she's in high school now, she's responsible and trustworthy, everyone has one—when he cruises through a yellow light. They weren't running late, were they? Because her father never ran yellow lights…
When she glances over at him she sees his face has twisted up in confusion and… and something else. It scares her. She looks at the dashboard, the wheel, the floor—
The brakes aren't working.
She starts screaming, clutching her seatbelt for dear life as he tries frantically to slow the car down, careening wildly through intersections on screeching tires. This can't be happening, this can't be happening, this can't be happening…
Her father flings his arm across her and she covers her head as the car slams into another and suddenly they're flying, rolling, weightless, and it's not until they crash into the ground that she finally stops screaming.
Her head slams into the roof before she slides down the seat, tears stinging her eyes. Her fingers fumble for the seatbelt and she can hear her father groaning beside her, groaning and mumbling.
She sees a hand before she sees anything else, a hand and an arm encased in black. A hand, a pair of hands, reaching for her. The hands and arms are connected to a body and a head, a head she struggles to make sense of through her tears. What she notices most… the tangled mess of dark curls spilling onto the man's forehead.
The man reaches for her, wraps one arm around her shoulders and the other beneath her knees, gently tugging on her limbs until he can hoist her out of the smoldering wreck. She wraps her arms around his neck and buries her face in her hair and his lapels. His heart beats rapidly in her ear, rapid but steady, and she huddles closer because he makes her feel safe.
She's so dazed, clinging so close to the sound of life in his chest, that she only vaguely hears him shout something. Then he's stopping, then turning, then easing her legs to the concrete before he dashes off in the direction of their car. Toward her father, who hasn't emerged yet.
Sharp, stabbing pains shoot up and down her left arm and she grabs it, trying to stem the ache as she watches with panicked eyes as the man darts around the car to the driver's side and disappears from sight. A moment later he's standing, but this time her father's arm is strung around his neck. They start hobbling away from the wreck and the man shouts at her to go, go. She turns and starts sprinting, her brief respite of relief vaporized as a wave of heat strikes her back and she stumbles. She turns to see a column of orange flames and black smoke shooting skyward, hunks of twisted metal and melted rubber flying off in its wake. She screams as the man and her father are flung down by the force of the explosion and turns around and runs back. They are lying face-down on the asphalt as she skids to a halt and drops to her knees beside her father. The man is groggily sitting up, scraping his hands through his gnarled curls, but... her father isn't moving. She tries to flip him over but her shoulder, twisting painfully, gives out from the effort and she gasps. The man glances up sharply when she does, his eyes flicking to her and the prone man beside them.
Her heart grinds to a halt as the man easily rolls her father over and presses two fingers against his neck. After a moment he looks up and a flicker of a smile passes over his mouth, and her heart jumpstarts back to life. They each grab an arm, lift her father, and haul him out of the street.
How're you doing? the man asks, sitting beside her on the curb as they wait for the ambulance, her father's head resting in her lap.
She shrugs, swipes at the tears smudging her face. Sticking his hand in his jacket, he digs out a crumpled tissue and hands it to her, and she sniffles a thank you and wipes her cheeks.
He's going to be okay, he says suddenly, glancing up at her from his folded hands. Your dad, he... he's going to be okay.
She bites her lip, tries to nod and fails. As the shock finally subsides, she buries her face in her hands and bursts into broken, chest-racking sobs, rattling her body and intensifying the pain. Suddenly she's pulled into a warm embrace and she presses her face against the man's soft black jacket and cries until the ambulance arrives.
The man rides with them in the ambulance, holding her hand even as she holds her unconscious father's. They had wanted to strap her onto a stretcher and pack her into a separate car, but when she nearly hyperventilated with hysterical sobs, the man spoke with the EMTs and they relented. She had groped for the man's hand and shyly asked him to come with them, and he patted her hand and said he would.
They are separated at the hospital. She watches as the white-coated doctors wheel her father off down one hallway and another nurse comes and tugs her down another, while the man is left at the crossroads. He smiles gently and waves, and she hears him promise he'll come visit her as soon as she's processed. She nods, takes a deep breath to hold back the brimming tears, and lets the nurse lead her away.
Once she's changed into a hospital gown, she's sent through x-rays and transferred to a room on the third floor. She's trying to bury this awful memory in the back of her mind so she mumbles her answers when the doctors and nurses and police officers ask what happened, because if she can bury it then maybe she can pretend like it never happened.
Sunlight spills across the starchy sheets as she lays back in the bed and gazes out the window. She sees a nurse come in and reach for her chart, but she ignores her. She stares out the window and wonders where her father is until the tears begin to blur her view.
She hears voices beyond the open door, men's voices. None of them are her father's, so she tunes out the sound. Until she hears the man who saved her. The nurse leaves and she turns her head and listens.
There are three distinct voices. The first is the man's, deep and pleasant and warm. Then there's her father's boss, his voice higher in pitch and less sincere. She's never liked it. And there's another voice, a stranger's. He speaks with a deep bass and a Boston accent.
They're talking about the car accident. She straightens up and listens harder, wondering if they know, if they'll figure it out.
Mr. Leary and the stranger leave and there's just the man standing there, hands in his pockets, head turned away as he watches them go. He doesn't follow.
She doesn't know who to trust. Her mother is gone, her father is injured and secreted away somewhere inside this enormous hospital. She's felt alone for some time, but never so much as she does at this moment. Except for the man who saved her. He didn't leave. He didn't leave her alone.
And so she calls out to him because the secret is eating her up inside and because she has no one left right now. Because she wants to trust someone so badly, because she wants the nightmare to end.
Because she needs a friend.
Something's wrong with the car, she says. As soon as her voice carries the man turns and strides quickly into the room, straight to her bedside. Now that he's here she's nervous again, nervous and scared, and the words trip along her tongue as she tries to explain.
I'm gonna go tell him about this, okay? he says, and he means Detective Bonnano, a state policeman, the one her father had called. But he doesn't get it, not yet, and so when he starts to walk away she reaches up and grips his hand so tightly her tiny nails bite into his skin. He turns back to her and she holds him there with a meaningful look. Her voice is nothing but a broken whisper, fat, glittering tears slowly slithering down her cheek.
Something's wrong with the car.
He brings up his other hand, gently cups her shaking fingers in both of his, and slowly sinks to sit on the nightstand. Her fingers loosen as he nods. He believes her. Okay. Okay. The corner of his lip curls up and he quietly tells her to go to sleep, and her eyelids flutter as she nods. The fresh tears budding in her eyes blur his face into a flesh-colored mosaic and her head lolls on the pillow as she focuses on the pair of warm hands cradling hers. He makes her feel safe, and so she lets herself fall asleep.
When she wakes up, hours have passed. The curtains have closed and the lamp by her bedside is glowing brightly. It's dark outside, and she is alone.
Most of the next day she spends channel-surfing, ignoring what's on in favor of the simple action of clicking a button repeatedly. Her sleep was black and dreamless, and that's left her tired and listless. Around ten a doctor pokes her head in and asks to check on her shoulder. She explains that her shoulder was dislocated, not broken, and the pain will fade in a few days, along with her cuts and bruises. She also has two fractured ribs and there's nothing for those but pain medication and sleep. The doctor warns her not to jostle her arm or breathe too deeply. She tries to listen but it's hard because she aches all over and she simply doesn't care about herself, only her father, and when the doctor's speech trails off she asks about him.
The doctor stares at her very solemnly and says that her father is in a chemically-induced coma and will be for a short while in order to help his body begin to recuperate. He was hurt much worse than she was, but he's expected to make a full recovery. Eventually. With his broken leg, the doctor says, he'll need physical therapy for a long time. But other than that, there should be no lasting damage.
Near noon a nurse takes her to therapy. Physical, for her shoulder, rotating the joint and readjusting the bones. Psychological, because she doesn't want to talk to anyone. Except, of course, to the mysterious man who came in with her and her father. But after the therapy, she still doesn't want to talk.
Until the man comes and visits her, carrying a bouquet of flowers and a bag of warm, greasy comfort food. For the first time since her arrival, the nurses see her smile.
The next day she's finally allowed to see her father, and when the man comes to visit her she's already in his room, back in real clothes instead of the starchy gown, with her arms crossed and a hand at her throat. He sidles in beside her and leans against the wall behind them. The silence floats in, hanging heavily on the air, clambering to her shoulders and pushing her down.
But it's not real, total silence. There's the occasional pair of footsteps outside the door, the constant beeping of the heart monitor and whirr of several other machines. The uncomfortably labored sound of her father's breathing. The tinkle of metal against skin.
The man glances at her and she shrugs, continuing to finger the tiny pendant. Nervous habit.
He asks what it is. St. Bridget. My mother's name.
He nods, then looks at her, asks kindly how she's doing. She can't tear her eyes away from her father's still form, the guilt swelling in her throat as he explains what he's discovered—that her father found something at the bank, but he got too close.
She shakes her head, the tears and guilt nearly choking her as she admits the accident was her fault. Of course he tries to tell her otherwise, nice man that he is, but it doesn't matter. She knows it's her fault. I told him to call the police, and now… now they… But she has to stop and catch her breath before she bursts into tears again—there are only so many times she's willing to cry in front of the nice stranger who's helping her.
There're wolves in the world, she says when she's composed herself once more. That's what her father tells her. Used to tell her. The man doesn't correct her.
Bad people do bad things, and they always get away with it. The pendant is digging into her palm and she's sure it'll cut or bend, but what does that matter anymore? Her father is here, hooked up to tubes and machines and in slings and casts and stitches, and who knows when he'll wake up and she'll hear his warm, comforting voice again telling her everything will be okay and he'll be okay and they'll be okay because she's his little angel.
Her hand stings—she broke the skin. Nobody stops them.
The man says nothing. After a moment, he places a hand on her shoulder and squeezes it gently. It's nice, reminds her she can still feel things, that she still needs the comfort. He mutters something under his breath as he exits the room, although she's not entirely sure what he said.
She watches him go, then glances back her father. Her hand still smarts as she mulls over the man's parting words.
Not if I can help it.
She cries the first time he opens his eyes. One of the nurses had brought in a chair and a stack of raggedy magazines for her to pass the time as she waited diligently in the shadowy room, and although she patiently flipped through the shiny pages, past blinding smiles and celebrity mug shots and lies, lies, lies, she didn't read a word of it.
But, diligent though she may be, that doesn't make it less boring. She's never liked sitting still but this is torture—hence the magazines—and occasionally she will run to the cafeteria for their mediocre offerings and a big vanilla ice cream because that's the only decent thing they serve, or the bathroom when she can't hold it anymore. There's not even a TV for her to mindlessly lose herself in, although there would probably only be news, soaps, and Jeopardy. And she hates Jeopardy.
The chair isn't very big or comfortable but she makes due, curling up her knees and letting her head fall against the wall behind her. It's difficult to do without jarring her achy arm, and more than once she has to stop and bite her lip to keep from gasping, but finally she's in a semi-relaxed pose and closes her eyes. The nurses would have a fit if they found her, but she doesn't care. She doesn't like it here anyway.
She begins reciting her prayers in an effort to fall asleep, the fifteen she'd memorized after her mother died because it was the only way she knew to keep her close. They're just long and monotonous enough to work, but she puts a bit more effort into the recitation tonight. Eternal sweetness to those who love Thee, joy surpassing all joy and all desire…
She's on the fifth prayer and her words are beginning to slur together as she drowses when she suddenly hears something that sounds suspiciously familiar. She opens her eyes.
Her father is blinking. Blinking steadily at the ceiling. He says her name again.
She nearly dislocates her other shoulder as she untangles herself from the chair and falls to his side. Daddy? she breathes. Oh, God, this is what she wanted and she cannot believe that he's opened his eyes and is turning his head to look at her and cracking a wonderfully welcoming smile and whispering her name again. Her eyes well up, and she buries her head against his chest. Daddy, she sobs. Oh, Daddy…
Gingerly, he wraps an arm around her shoulders and holds her and she can almost pretend like everything is going to be all right.
She's happy to see the man the next day when he drops by to visit, ragged and tired but pleased. She grabs his hand and pulls him into her father's room just as her father breathlessly reaches for his other, loaned, loafer.
The man smiles when he sees her father and he offers his hand. Her father hesitates a moment before recognition blooms in his eyes and he earnestly pumps the man's arm up and down, thanking him over and over for saving them. Blushing sheepishly, she finally nudges her father's side to make him stop, but the man just smiles.
I have a surprise for you, he says as she helps her father to his feet, adjusting his new pair of crutches so he can stand properly.
They tilt their heads quizzically, but he refuses to say anything more. He simply stands there, rocking back on his toes as her father wobbles off to the bathroom and promises to be back in a minute, and she furrows her brow, not understanding.
When the door closes, the man hands her a note scrawled with an address. Whenever you're ready, he says. He squeezes her hand, positively beaming, and the grin is infectious. She smiles back.
By the time her father comes out of the bathroom, looking cleaner and more awake, he asks her where the man went. She shrugs, then hands him the piece of paper. We need to go here.
He glances down at the paper in his hand and nods, and she grabs his jacket and they slowly exit the room to check out.
The man is there to greet them when they finally arrive at the address—a little Irish pub, all dark polished wood and soft yellow lights—after her first ride in a taxicab. She was nearly bouncing on the seat with anticipation, asking her father every few minutes what he thought the surprise might be and he, laughingly, telling her he had no idea.
There are other people there, too, with the man, but strangers scare her now so she slides a little behind her father's back and hopes they won't notice.
One of the ladies steps forward and explains in a lilting English accent how her father's honesty in reporting on a bunch of fake businesses' tax frauds was going to reward them with a large check from the IRS. She hands her father an envelope, and she peeks over his shoulder as he pulls out the small white slip and the smile melts off his face. She's never seen so many zeroes strung together like that…
I can't thank you enough, her father gushes, shaking all their hands and especially the man's and the British lady's, and she's nodding and smiling too because her thanks would be completely inadequate to sum up all the man—and his friends—have done for them.
Finally, the act of shaking so many hands wears her father out and he starts for the door. She moves to follow him but can't quite yet, and she turns around. Patting her father's arm absently, she scurries back and throws herself at the man, pressing her face into his soft blue shirt and smiling so very happily. There aren't words for all the things he's given her and given back to her. The money, of course, is wonderful, but her father and her peace of mind… they're without price.
She thanks him and glances up at him before gazing at his group of friends. The ones who saved them. There are wolves in the world… But there's more than that, she realizes. So, so much more. The bad guys don't always get away.
She catches his hand and drops the small golden pendant into his palm, gently folding his fingers closed. After nearly losing everything, it won't hurt to give away one thing more. She hopes it brings him as much comfort as it once did her.
She lets his hand go and runs to catch up with her father, but not without one more glance back. She raises her hand shyly, waves, and his smile broadens and he nods in return. Then she steps out into the cool night air and hurries to her father's side to flag down another cab. She loops her arm through his and leans her head on his shoulder and he kisses her hair.
I love you, Zoe, he murmurs as a cab finally pulls up to the curb. She helps him slide into the backseat, hands him the crutches, and crawls in after him. Sighing contentedly as the driver pulls back into traffic, she looks up at her father in this wonderful, perfect moment and smiles. I love you too, Daddy.
Thank you, Mr. Ford.