Family Collision
Author: Peripatetical
Rating: T
Summary: What if the need to clear up some family problems contributed to Sophie's departure after the Two Live Crew Job?
Spoilers: Season Two
Disclaimer: Not mine. I'm just taking the Leverage crew out for some cheap fun. I'll get them back to Electric Entertainment and TNT in the morning.
Author's Note: WIP. Read at your own risk!
Sophie unlocked her apartment door quietly and crept inside. It was 4 AM, and she didn't want to wake her neighbors. After all, "The Sound of Music" had failed in such a spectacular fashion, she could no longer dismiss erratic comings and goings as "theater hours." As she padded down the dim hallway towards her bedroom, she tried to think about her evening with Jack rather than the look on Nate's face when she told him she had a boyfriend. Nate's eyes kept intruding on her thoughts, though, so she gave it up as a bad job and turned her attention to finding the prepaid cell hidden in her dresser drawer.
Shoving aside knickers and a man's dress shirt that she would deny having in her possession, her fingers finally touched smooth plastic, and she drew the phone out from under a pile of bras. She turned on the lamp on the nightstand, kicked off her shoes, seated herself at the head of her bed, and flipped open the phone. Even though she had known what she'd find, she swore softly at the list of missed messages. One text message was more than three days old, and there were several subsequent messages, all since yesterday evening. Judging by its timestamp, the initial message had been sent within an hour of Nate's first warehouse meeting with Brandon O'Hare and his goons. One of the mob guys must have done some fact-checking afterward, damn it. Hardison's "Age of the Geek" could be a real pain.
Taking a deep breath, Sophie opened the oldest message. There were no words, only a string of digits. No preceding country code, either, but both she and the sender knew the string was a London telephone number, one that she was expected to call immediately upon receipt. Without reading the other messages, she pulled two new prepaid phones from the nightstand drawer. She activated one and keyed in the London number; the second phone would become her new contact number after this call was completed. Before she hit 'dial,' though, she peeked at the remaining texts. The second message contained the same number as the first, but with an exclamation point after it. The next simply added another exclamation point. The final SMS, sent just 30 minutes before her stealthy homecoming, had the number, three exclamation points, and then a jumble of symbols, like cartoon cursing. Rolling her eyes, Sophie pressed 'dial.'
She didn't have to wait long before her call was answered on the other end.
"Tina!" a male voice barked. "What the soddin' 'ell are you doing?"
Sophie tamped down a sigh. "Hello to you, too, Martin," she answered.
"Aww, Christ, I thought you'd gone straight, gone off to be a bloody 'ollywood star or some such." was the aggrieved reply. "But oh, no! Apparently the great Sophie Devereaux is back running cons."
Sophie waited. She had known that hearing her voice on the phone speaking with Sophie's accent would set Martin off. Her elder brother loathed her Sophie persona, and she rather hoped fresh annoyance would distract him from his original—and justifiable—anger.
Apparently not. He jumped right to the main point.
"You know what, I don't care. What I care about is the friendly little ring Dad got from New Scotland Yard yesterday evenin'."
Sophie winced, imagining that scene, and Martin continued.
"Can you guess what the Inspector was nosin' after, Tina? Can you, now?" His next words came over the connection in a bellow.
"That identity is for family business, Tina! Family ONLY! What the bloody 'ell are you doing, prancin' about the States as Annie bloody Kroy? The Inspector said there was rumors you snuffed a policeman!"
The grifter closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the headboard. In her mind's eye, she pictured her brother in full frustration mode. Judging by the volume and content of his rant, he was someplace where he was confident he would not be overheard—his workshop, then. The room was sound-proofed, and he militantly swept for bugs. It was mid-morning in London already. He probably sent the final text right after he finished his breakfast. He would be dressed for business meetings, she decided...it was too early for him to don his pub clothes and play honest citizen barkeep. He wouldn't look polished anymore, though; Martin was the type who paced when angry. By now, his tie would be tossed away, the sleeves of his lavender dress shirt rolled up, and the hand not holding the phone would be making furrows in his dark hair, hair the exact color of her own. In fact, waiting for her response was probably pushing him directly to the hair-pulling stage. She abandoned the smooth cadence of Sophie's cultivated speech for the sharper tones of her youth and cut to the chase herself.
"Don't get your knickers in a twist, Martin. I didn't kill no one. The body up and walked away after the mark left, now, didn't it?"
Apparently, Martin already suspected as much, because he wasn't pacified.
"Annie Kroy is for family jobs," he repeated, "You want to run something in the States, I'll set you up. But after the Berlin disaster, we're laying low. You KNOW that."
Sophie did know that. Furthermore, she had a niggling suspicion that she knew more than Martin did about the German fiasco. Eliot had been in Berlin recently—something about a layover before or after Pakistan—and yesterday afternoon the hitter had asked her a few guarded questions about her connections to Thierry Adams. She also knew that Martin was truly upset—his pronunciation of 'something' sounded more like 'summfingk'—so the Scotland Yard Inspector's call had rattled him. Or else their father's volcanic reaction afterward had done the rattling.
Sophie felt her conscience twinge. Yes, Martin was overbearing—he always had been an obnoxious, condescending wanker. But he was still under their father's thumb no matter how much responsibility he shouldered, while she had gotten out, more or less, years ago. Using Annie Kroy's passport had been a calculated risk, a risk she had chosen to take for the team, for the client, and for Nate. None of her reasons would placate Martin, though. Her brother hated Nate Ford even more than he hated Sophie Devereaux.
Since she couldn't explain without angering him further, she opted for contrition and reassurances. "I'm sorry, Martin. I needed to be Annie. Only someone with serious connections could get the job done. And now Annie's disappeared. No body. No gun. No evidence of anything."
"She best not reappear," growled Martin. "Any CCTV cameras?"
Sophie let herself relax. Martin was still angry, but he had quieted down. Murmuring more assurances into the phone, she realized that she had passed tiredness at some point, and skipped straight to exhaustion. She needed to confirm that nothing more serious than the Boston appearance of Annie Kroy had prompted the Inspector's query, and then she could convince Martin to ring off. Not that she was likely to get much sleep after this, but still...
"Martin, what do you think about the Inspector's call? Was 'e after Berlin at all, or was 'e just chasin' American rumors?"
"All I know is what I shook out of the old man," her brother admitted. "After he got done yellin', that is. But no. There weren't no mention of Interpol sources. Or even your Yankee FBI. The Inspector was just askin' after you. And makin' the usual noises about how it were in the family's 'best interests' to cooperate."
Sophie was relieved. "It's nothing, then," she promised her brother, "and I'm done in. Let me get some proper sleep, and I'll text you a new number in the morning. If anything more comes of this, you can bawl me out again, and I'll fix it. I swear."
"Oh, you'll fix it. Anything more comes of it, Tina, and your arse'll be on a plane back to London." Martin threatened. "It wouldn't 'urt you to contribute more to the family than 'eart attacks, now would it?"
With that parting volley, Martin rang off. Sophie dropped the phone on the bed and wearily crawled under the duvet, clothes and all. At first, her brother's voice repeated his threat on an endless audio loop in her head. He was serious, and while she had used marriage, and then a globe-hopping career in art theft to escape her father's reach, her brother had pulled her back in more than once over the years. If Martin wanted to be well and truly shut of her, like he periodically claimed, he could have staged Annie's death at any point. When she was 25, she had actually begged him to do it. No, Martin kept Annie Kroy's identity alive because his little sister's grifting skills were too valuable to surrender permanently.
Sophie had expected the exchange with her brother to ruin her chance at sleep, but her exhaustion soon overpowered all thought. Worries over the London world of arms deals, angry family members, and past ghosts drifted away. She fell asleep and did not dream.
After a few hours of rest, Sophie's natural optimism had reasserted itself. Some residual bit of conscience whispered that what she considered optimism was perhaps closer to recklessness, but she silenced her inner voice with coffee and a croissant. The con had ended well, she reminded herself. Her brother wouldn't need to call her in. And the team was truly back together. That in itself was worth a smile or two over breakfast. Nate's hold on sobriety did seem tenuous, but the others would help her keep an eye on him. Terrible theater reviews aside, things were good. She even had a social life—she mustn't forget Jack in her tabulations.
Sophie rinsed her plate, poured a second cup of coffee, and then dutifully sent Martin an SMS containing the new cell number. Friendly weekly chats between siblings would never be their style, but she had promised. And for once, she was honestly sorry for causing her brother trouble. However, she could admit to herself what she had withheld from Martin: she had risked bringing Annie Kroy out of retirement for her makeshift American family, and for them, she'd risk it again in a heartbeat.
It wasn't quite noon, and the sun was shining in Boston. The sky was a dazzling, clear blue, proof that she was an ocean away from England's overcast damp and her father's oppressive web. Sophie poured her remaining coffee into a travel mug, scooped up her purse and keys, and set out for Nate's apartment. Sometime during her dinner with Jack the night before, Parker had texted her smartphone about Hardison becoming Nate's landlord. Even if there were no new clients yet, this situation had great potential for entertainment. Nate was sexy when grumpy, and she had missed the team's antics. Sophie smiled in anticipation. Yes, things were good.