A/N: Hello everyone. Thank you so much for all of the lovely reviews, they're incredibly encouraging. Obviously, I have decided to continue this fic, although I went in a slightly different direction than I'd orginally planned, so please let me know what you think.

The timeline of Parker's backstory is a little confusing. I tried to keep it consistant with the show, but if I've messed anything up just call it taking creative liberty.

Disclaimer: I still don't own Leverage.


Chapter 2

"I don't believe in your hate, cause these scars are gonna fade

So pour me out like water and soak me up like rain."

Run

That inner instinct is screaming at you again, and by now you're so attuned to it that your body reacts before your mind even has the chance to process the demand.

Your muscles tense, and adrenaline surges through you, bringing with it the familiar wave of icy clarity that you've come to relish. Suddenly, everything comes into focus, perfectly clear and strikingly sharp, a scene straight out of a well-shot movie, playing out across a giant screen in high definition. Every color brightens, every sound sharpens, and every tiny detail suddenly stands out crystal clear against the faded background of monotony.

In that moment, everything else ceases to matter, and despite the rapid hammering of your heartbeat and the sudden rush of blood through your ears, you smile.

It's almost like the thrill of racing a bicycle down a steep hill, but without the unbearable tide of guilt that crashes over you anytime you even vaguely contemplate that particular sensation. It's that same wild, liberating sense of freedom, but less surreal, less uncertain. It's more vivid, more tangible, more like a physical presence. And you love it.

You can hear the wail of police sirens in the distance, barely discernable over the agonizing screech of the security alarm. It's embarrassing really, the fact that you set off the alarm. Though in your defense, it was an entirely unnecessary backup alarm. The same entirely unnecessary backup alarm that Erik had confidently assured you didn't exist. Lying bastard.

Your concentration is, as it should be, entirely focused on your pre-planned escape, but some distant part of your consciousness that you're only vaguely aware of is cursing with the fluent vocabulary of a convicted felon, damning Erik to the blackest corner of hell. And it's hard to believe that the sheer force of your fury isn't enough to send him there.

But, as angry as you are with him, it's nothing compared to how furious you are with yourself for having trusted him in the first place. Even at twelve years old, you pride yourself on being a cynic. You've always considered yourself immune to the basic human weaknesses of trust and dependence. You've always been self-reliant, because it's been your only chance of survival.

Expect the worst.

Have an escape route.

Work alone.

Trust no one.

They're your mottos; the fragmented phrases and whispered warnings that you've always relied on to keep you safe. And until Erik, they had worked perfectly. But, with nothing more than a challenge and a charming smile, he had slipped past your barriers and effortlessly destroyed everything you prided yourself on.

Damn him.

You move through the crowd with practiced ease, swiping wallets and watches almost absentmindedly. It's so easy that it's not really fair, and certainly not challenging enough to be fun. It's a parade for god's sake. Familiar streets crowded with the chatter and laughter of moronic tourists, toting their expensive cameras along and snapping pictures at every opportunity, wallets brimming with cash tucked into shallow, tempting pockets.

They might as well have hung a neon sign: COME PICK POCKETS HERE! It would have been less obvious.

"Sorry," you mutter half-heartedly as you bump into a middle-aged woman with a sour expression and a truly disgusting fire-engine red jacket, slipping her wallet out of her handbag and into the pocket of your over-sized black hoodie with a practiced motion. She glares at you impatiently and mutters a particularly unflattering insult before fading back into the crowd. You flip her off as soon as her back is turned.

A soft chuckle from behind has you whipping around. He's standing there, watching you with his hands tucked casually into his pockets and an amused smile stretching across his lips.

"Not bad kid," he compliments you, jerking his chin toward the crowd into which the woman had disappeared, "Nice lift."

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to decide how much of a potential threat he poses. Physically, he isn't intimidating, a slender kid of about sixteen with sharp, chocolate brown eyes and shaggy black hair. Even with his longer legs, you're certain that you can outrun him if it comes to that.

His eyes twinkle with undisguised amusement as he rakes his gaze over you, starting at the top of your messy blonde ponytail and trailing down over your face - taking in the angular features and suspicious eyes - past your over-sized hoodie and hand-me-down jeans, and finally coming to rest on your flat-soled sneakers.

His eyes flick lazily back up to your face, taking in your hostile expression as well as the well-concealed uncertainty behind it.

"Cute."

He has less than a second to relish the look of utter shock on your face before your small fist slams into his jaw with the force of a sledgehammer.

"Fuck you," you hiss, turning on your heel and storming off in an uncharacteristically childish display of temper.

Cute. Even in your head the word sounds like an insult. It's a disgusting adjective, reserved for sweet, rosy-cheeked little girls named "Suzy" and "Cindy" and "Sally" that wear frilly pink dresses and obsess over their perfectly-curled hair. Cute is childish, a pathetically feminine description used for baby animals, young children, and plastic dolls.

You are not cute. Not even close.

You're so furious that you can do nothing more that stare at him when he grabs your wrist and uses the force of your own momentum to spin you around so that you're facing him again.

"Hey," he says apologetically, "my bad, okay? Cute was not the right word."

A million possible responses race through your mind with lightning speed, each one more vulgar and offensive than the last, but he's still holding your wrist, more tightly than necessary, and all traces of amusement have vanished from his expression. Now, he's staring at you in a combination of poorly-concealed anger and grudging admiration.

"Nice punch," he offers when you don't reply, rubbing his free hand over his jaw, still astonished by your unexpected reaction, "I didn't see it coming."

You say nothing.

"I'm Erik, by the way," he continues, rubbing his free hand over his jaw, still astounded by your unexpected reaction, "Erik with a K."

His lips quirk up into a smile, not the smirk of amusement that he'd worn a moment ago, but a genuine, slightly crooked smile. A rush of adrenaline shoots through you, but instead of the icy clarity that you'd been hoping for, it brings only more uncertainty. He must somehow sense your hesitation, because he releases your wrist and takes a half step back from you, still smiling.

"You got a name babe?" he asks, his eyes trained unblinkingly on your face, trying to read your expression. Your eyes narrow and he holds his hands up in apology

"Sorry," he says quickly, "the 'babe' thing is just a reflex."

You stare at him for a moment, uncomfortable with the sudden and almost overwhelming sense of uncertainty that washes over you when he smiles again.

"Parker," you say finally, hesitating slightly at the sound of it. It's not your name, or at least not all of it, but it's the first thing that comes to mind, and you learned long ago never to argue with instinct.

"Parker," he repeats, his smile shifting back into that infuriating half-smirk of amusement. "I could use your help."

"Damn it!" you curse furiously, as you sprint down the sidewalk toward the safety of a nearby alleyway.

Your heart is slamming against your ribcage with the unyielding ferocity of a jackhammer and every breath makes you feel as though your lungs are about to explode, but the necklace is still tucked carefully into your bag; at least that part had gone according to plan. It's the first time you've broken into anything more complicated than a residential home, and if it weren't for the fact that you were naive enough to rely on someone else's plans, you would have gotten away from the museum without a problem.

Half an hour later, you slip back through the second story window of your bedroom by way of the ancient oak tree in your latest foster home's front yard.

Bunny stares at you from his place on the bed, tucked lovingly against the pillows, and you tell him the story of the break-in, describing in perfect detail how Erik had recruited you to slip through the ventilation shaft because he was too big to go crawling through air vents himself. You explain about evading the museum guards, accidentally setting off the alarm, and about the frantic race to escape before the police arrived.

You're far too old to believe that Bunny can actually hear you, but you're high on adrenaline and far too wired to care that he'll never actually respond. So, you recount every vivid detail of your first real heist with a kind of thrilling energy that you've never felt before.

It's like the feeling of riding a bike for the first time, that same rush of adrenaline that you get from swiping wallets or boosting cars, but in a much more concentrated form. The rush of adrenaline, the sudden clarity, the immense burst of satisfaction that comes with pulling off the impossible steals through like a drug. It's your own personal brand of heroine, and you're completely addicted.

You're too wired to sleep, even though it's already almost three in the morning, and you'll be dragged out of bed against your will and shipped off to the utter hell hole that is middle school in less than four hours. Your hands are practically shaking with excitement as you slip the small backpack off of your shoulder and unzip it.

The exchange had been simple. No face to face contact. You'd taken the bag with the necklace to a pre-arranged spot, and exchanged it for an identical bag containing your payment. It was simplicity personified.

Grinning like a five year old on Christmas morning, you reach into the bag, already envisioning the money. One thousand dollars in clean, perfectly-pressed, straight-from-the-bank bills, not a bad haul for a one night job. But instead of the silken feel of cash that you're expecting, your fingers brush against a rough piece of folded paper.

You freeze, doing your best to deny what your senses are telling you.

You hadn't checked the bag.

The thought hits you like a punch to the face, leaving you reeling and disoriented. You had been in a hurry, paranoid about being followed, and still running on the adrenaline of your narrow escape. You'd switched the bags without a second thought, never even considering the possibility of a double cross.

At the time, getting out safely had been your only priority; the weight of the bag hadn't even registered. Looking into it now, you realize that you should have known as soon as you picked it up. It wasn't heavy enough.

There's no cash inside. The bag is completely empty except for the small, carefully-folded piece of paper that your fingers had brushed against.

You had been too wired, too afraid of being caught, too giddy with the rush of evading the authorities to have checked the bags. And it was that inexperience that Erik had been counting on.

Damn him.

Running on autopilot, you pull the piece of paper from the bag, unfolding it methodically, still numbed by disbelief. You squint at the small, untidy handwriting, the thrill of escape dissolving more rapidly with every word.

"Sorry babe, but you should know better than to trust a thief."

- Erik

You let out a soft snort of disbelief, astounded that you could be so stupid as to have allowed this to happen. Even after he'd neglected to tell you about the alarm, you still had never believed that Erik would betray you.

You glance over at Bunny, still seated on the bed, watching you silently. Possessed by a new wave of frantic energy, you dash across the room, gathering clothes, taking all of your cash from the hiding spots around the room that you've stashed it in, and throwing everything into your backpack.

You open the window, staring silently at the giant oak tree, half-illuminated by the moonlight. You grab Bunny from the bed, and sparing only a passing thought for your foster parents who are sleeping soundly in the master bedroom, do the one thing you do best...

You run.


This is just my take on why Eriks with 'k's are evil.

So... Thoughts? Liked it? Didn't like it? Favorite part? Least favorite part? ... I don't care, just leave me a reivew and tell me something.

Thanks so much for reading,

Shailee =)