So, I know John Rogers has said this isn't Eliot's back story, but I started writing this before ever reading his blog, so, tuff lol.
Massive thanks to the Leverage Exchange mod Ann for the beta, this wouldn't be half the fic it is without her.
Remember people, feedback is life, feedback is blood, I will die without your feedback :-)
Please, Mr. Ford," the woman begged, "It's been three months, we have nowhere else to turn." She finished, tears running slowly down her pale white cheeks. Her frizzy brown hair hung limp around her slim face. Her hazel eyes were almost grey and appeared as if they'd sunk into the sockets. Her clothes hung loosely off her slight frame; all in all, she looked like a walking ghost.
"I'm sorry Mrs. Stevens," Nate began, "I'm just not sure what we can do that the police haven't already done."
"They did nothing!" She said fiercely, a fire burning briefly in her eyes before the pain returned. "I know we've had problems at home," she snuck a look towards her husband as his hand quickly shot out to cover hers, "but that doesn't excuse them ignoring us."
Nate shook his head before continuing.
"Regardless of the situation at home, in cases like this, they'll still do everything they can."
"Let's go," the man said defiantly, taking his wife's hand and starting to pull her out of her seat. These were the first words he'd uttered in their thirty minute conversation. In stark contrast to his wife, he was a large man who looked like he'd never missed a meal in his life. His green eyes were cold and hard and trained untrustingly on Nate.
"They said she probably ran away," she pleaded, shaking off her husband's hand "She's six years old, tell me Mr. Ford, what six year old knows enough about the world to run away and not get found?"
"They must have had a reason to think that," he replied, "Was any of her stuff missing?"
"Just a teddy," a sob caught in her throat as she answered.
Nate took a deep breath and looked down at the pictures in the file in front of him. The little girl was small for her age, flowing blond hair cascading down her back, a smile on her face, peaceful, innocent, exactly as she should be at that age, but it was a lie. Even in a photo, Nate could see the way she covered her right arm, trying to make it look natural, but obviously hiding something. A thin red line lurked above her left eye, the last remnants of a healing cut.
Nate closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. Just the happy smiling face in the pictures was enough to start the cascade of images playing in his mind; Sam at the same age playing baseball in the summer; hockey in the winter; building a fort in the backyard or sleeping with his bear tight in his grip. Then they suddenly changed, Nate was sitting in the hospital, watching his son being taken away from him, powerless to stop it. Mrs. Stevens reminded him of Maggie, disbelieving, desperate, and scared. He'd give anything to be able to help them, to give them hope, but he knew better than most, that false hope was not better than no hope at all, because at some point, it would be taken away and the pain would return, magnified.
He opened his eyes and looked up at the heartbroken woman, gathering every ounce of strength he had, knowing it was better, kinder, to turn them away than promise something he couldn't do.
"Of course we'll try."
He turned quickly, the soft southern drawl startling him. His surprise almost immediately turned to annoyance. They couldn't help and Eliot had just done the one thing he'd been trying to avoid. He couldn't help but wonder what the hell he was doing there anyway. They weren't working on a case and the rest of the team were off and away somewhere, he took client meetings alone these days, Eliot should have known better than to interfere.
Before Nate could counter, the woman was out of her seat, hugging the big, burly hitter, an embrace which, to Nate's surprise, he returned, with a look of fury directed towards the woman's husband.
"We'll have a look," he conceded, "but please be prepared; I doubt we'll find anything."
"Anything you can do would be greatly appreciated," she replied, still holding tightly to the hitter.
"Eliot, call the team in," Nate passed him the file, a wary look on his face, which did not go unnoticed by the younger man. "Let's get to work."
Eliot shot a quiet smile to the woman and turned to leave.
Nate turned back to the couple, not surprised that the man, under the hitter's icy stare, had fallen silent and dropped his eyes back to the coffee he'd been cradling.
"I'll call you if we find anything," he said.
"Thank you Mr. Ford," she replied, hugging him tightly.
"Let's go, Michelle," her husband suddenly moved, grabbing his wife by the arm and leading her out of the bar.
It wasn't hard to figure out the problems at home she'd mentioned. She was obviously scared of her husband; she never met his eye and visibly flinched when he touched her. More than likely, he took his rage out not only on his wife, but on their daughter as well. This case was impossible; he knew it, if only he could figure out why Eliot accepted it. They knew so little about the hitter's past, but something about this one must have hit a nerve.
Nate took a deep breath and headed to the apartment above the bar, ready to start the fruitless search for a missing six-year-old girl.