rysler
in
femslash10
The Fourth National Job
Title: The Fourth National Job
Author: rysler
Recipient: havocthecat
Fandom: Leverage
Pairing: Sophie Devereaux/Tara Cole
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1300
Disclaimer: TNT cannot be held responsible for this but is welcome to any of my ideas, free of charge.
Warnings: Cussing, mild fear, mild seediness, sexuality. No spoilers.
Summary: Sophie's plans go awry.
The littlest things change a mark's mind. The half-heard rumor from another table about a new stock. A skirt covering just ever-so-much thigh. Offering something, instead of giving something. But never too much. Nothing is really free--That was the mistake I made over and over again in my early days. Offering everything. That's how I got used. Now I know, it's just a taste.
A little thing.
Like stepping in dog shit on the way to an important bank meeting. Damned, irresponsible--
My mark thinks I'm another boring vendor out to offer him a bribe. That's what I'll be for him today. But not in ruined Guccis. Shoes matter. Shoes always matter. They let him know I have a source of money. He'll want to know where and how he can get some of it. Curiosity killed the--
Anyway, I'll have his cufflinks and his wallet and if he asks me to dinner, gets me into his home, I bet I can clear five grand or so. Hey, it's not an elaborate plan. I just have to pay my rent. Maybe he'll know a bigger fish. Or maybe he'll be the self-important moron I think he is.
I'll look for little clues after I finish saying, "Fuck!" outside the Fourth National Bank. I wipe off as much as I can on the Fourth National Door Mat and go inside.
The receptionist gives me a sympathetic look. "Harry again? They've got a lawsuit pending, but I swear that's only making him do it more."
I smile. Charming even in the face of adversity. "Do you have a bathroom, perhaps?"
She leaned over the desk, examining my shoes. I examined her in return. She had blonde hair, swept up just so. I couldn't quite tell if the shade was strawberry blonde or perhaps a summer bleach. She looked up, meeting my eyes. Hers were perfectly blue.
I caught my breath. I tried to rationalize. Of course they would want someone like this to be the face of Fourth National Bank.
Her mouth moved.
I blinked.
She said again, "You look to be the right size. Here, take mine."
Before I could blink again, she handed me her Choos.
I looked away from her amazing blue eyes.
"Thanks a lot," I said.
She winked. "Good luck."
* * *
Only forty minutes later I strode back across the bank lobby in those Jimmy Choos, heels clacking against the tile.
The woman was still there. I mean, why wouldn't she be? But I felt relief all the same.
"How did it go?" she asked.
"Not what I expected, but all right, I suppose," I said.
"I love your accent."
Everyone always did. I stuck my hand across the desk. "We haven't been properly introduced. Sarah Connor." That was a name that sounded lovely with a British accent.
"Like the Terminator?"
Well, shit. I smiled politely.
"Tabitha Stephens," she said, shaking my hand.
I said, "You have got to be kidding me."
She kept smiling and took her shoes back.
"Thanks again," I said.
"Anytime."
"Oh, let's hope not."
Her gaze followed me as I left the bank.
I would know her later as Tara. She would become an ally, which was so much safer than friend or lover. We would owe each other so much later that the web of debts would become inescapably deep.
For now, I was curious. I had had a taste. I wanted more.
* * *
So here I was doing this stupid presentation in this ugly boardroom. I'd expected to not have to remember Fourth National Bank existed by this point. But in front of me sat the collection of Bigger Fish. The school? The school of Bigger Fish.
I slapped my pointer against the chart. That got everyone's attention. I made a note of who was suddenly turned on. They might be good for drinks. Maybe even a meal. A good grifter never has to pay for a meal. The goddamn rent, on the other hand, was eluding me.
Business cards, but not cash, filled my pockets as I walked across the lobby, daring to glance in Tabitha's direction. The radiant smile she greeted me with caused me to change my destination. I arrived at her desk.
"Do they let you out of here for lunch?" I asked.
"Let me just call my replacement." She'd already picked up the receiver. "Wouldn't want to leave this place vulnerable, you know."
"Absolutely."
Lunch turned into a dinner appointment two days later. I learned she was a temp. After dessert, I took her back to my place, because it was the place I brought people. She was suitably impressed. She said all the right things.
Her mouth moved against mine in all the right ways.
I couldn't see her blue eyes, pressing her against the wall like this. But my hands moving under her shirt offered consolation and the promise that I could see them again, later, moving above me, staring into mine. I wanted that. I wanted more.
My mouth positively watered. I stepped back. She moved with me, keeping her fist tight in my hair. Her breasts grazed mine again.
"Maybe we should--" I started, thinking of the bed.
Someone banged on the door.
Loudly.
"The fuck?" I said.
Tabitha's expression filled with fear.
Heated and distracted as I was, I didn't really notice her as I looked through the peephole.
Small Fish stood there.
"This isn't a good time, Bill," I said through the door.
He said, "I know Tabitha's in there. Let me in, or I'm calling the police."
I glanced at Tabitha. She seemed frozen.
"No hablo ingles," I shouted. Then, to Tabitha, I hissed, "What the hell is going on?"
"It has nothing to do with you," she said.
My blood ran cold. I should have known. I should have known and I didn't. I looked at the door, and then back at her.
"Just open the door," she said.
I shook my head. "There's a service door in the kitchen. It goes to a janitor's closet. I'll let him in, you can get into the hallway that way. If you can pick the lock."
She nodded. "Why?"
"Oh, hell, why not? My night is ruined."
My con was certainly ruined. This apartment would no longer be mine. Like a mirage evaporating into sand and dust. I waited until the service door clicked open and then closed again, and then I let the Small Fish in.
People don't want to think that life is a game. They don't want to see themselves as pawns, powerless to the maze around them, getting screwed. Conspiracies as theories, sure. The moon landing, the tax system, whatever happens to others. But people who see a conspiracy in their own lives are called paranoid freaks and nobody wants to be called out. Nobody wants to make a scene over something that sounds so damn crazy.
When Small Fish came in, he met my eyes. He knew what I had just figured out. But he wouldn't say it.
I had ignored every sign. The fake name. Referring to the bank staff as "They," not "We," the joking suggestion of the bank robbery, the temp position, they all added up to a scam. I should have asked her how she'd gotten rid of the real receptionist. I liked picking up new tricks. I'd stepped into the dog shit of someone else's game. And like every good mark, like Bill here, all I wanted was out.
I wasn't going to get a cent out of him. But at least he wasn't going to call the police either, not when he was in it up to his neck. And I had a contingency plan. He didn't. He didn't know the game.
He didn't know that Tabitha was already gone.
She had something we wanted.
He left, to try and catch her in the lobby. I glanced at the service door and it was all I could do not to chase after her myself. No matter how much my palms itched. No matter how much that little voice inside me suggested that if I gave her just one small thing, I could have untold riches. Just one little sacrifice.
This is what it felt like.
I poured a glass of wine and looked out of the window, my back turned to the condo I couldn't afford, instead seeing the city I wanted, but not half as much as her underneath me.
END
Author: rysler
Recipient: havocthecat
Fandom: Leverage
Pairing: Sophie Devereaux/Tara Cole
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1300
Disclaimer: TNT cannot be held responsible for this but is welcome to any of my ideas, free of charge.
Warnings: Cussing, mild fear, mild seediness, sexuality. No spoilers.
Summary: Sophie's plans go awry.
The littlest things change a mark's mind. The half-heard rumor from another table about a new stock. A skirt covering just ever-so-much thigh. Offering something, instead of giving something. But never too much. Nothing is really free--That was the mistake I made over and over again in my early days. Offering everything. That's how I got used. Now I know, it's just a taste.
A little thing.
Like stepping in dog shit on the way to an important bank meeting. Damned, irresponsible--
My mark thinks I'm another boring vendor out to offer him a bribe. That's what I'll be for him today. But not in ruined Guccis. Shoes matter. Shoes always matter. They let him know I have a source of money. He'll want to know where and how he can get some of it. Curiosity killed the--
Anyway, I'll have his cufflinks and his wallet and if he asks me to dinner, gets me into his home, I bet I can clear five grand or so. Hey, it's not an elaborate plan. I just have to pay my rent. Maybe he'll know a bigger fish. Or maybe he'll be the self-important moron I think he is.
I'll look for little clues after I finish saying, "Fuck!" outside the Fourth National Bank. I wipe off as much as I can on the Fourth National Door Mat and go inside.
The receptionist gives me a sympathetic look. "Harry again? They've got a lawsuit pending, but I swear that's only making him do it more."
I smile. Charming even in the face of adversity. "Do you have a bathroom, perhaps?"
She leaned over the desk, examining my shoes. I examined her in return. She had blonde hair, swept up just so. I couldn't quite tell if the shade was strawberry blonde or perhaps a summer bleach. She looked up, meeting my eyes. Hers were perfectly blue.
I caught my breath. I tried to rationalize. Of course they would want someone like this to be the face of Fourth National Bank.
Her mouth moved.
I blinked.
She said again, "You look to be the right size. Here, take mine."
Before I could blink again, she handed me her Choos.
I looked away from her amazing blue eyes.
"Thanks a lot," I said.
She winked. "Good luck."
* * *
Only forty minutes later I strode back across the bank lobby in those Jimmy Choos, heels clacking against the tile.
The woman was still there. I mean, why wouldn't she be? But I felt relief all the same.
"How did it go?" she asked.
"Not what I expected, but all right, I suppose," I said.
"I love your accent."
Everyone always did. I stuck my hand across the desk. "We haven't been properly introduced. Sarah Connor." That was a name that sounded lovely with a British accent.
"Like the Terminator?"
Well, shit. I smiled politely.
"Tabitha Stephens," she said, shaking my hand.
I said, "You have got to be kidding me."
She kept smiling and took her shoes back.
"Thanks again," I said.
"Anytime."
"Oh, let's hope not."
Her gaze followed me as I left the bank.
I would know her later as Tara. She would become an ally, which was so much safer than friend or lover. We would owe each other so much later that the web of debts would become inescapably deep.
For now, I was curious. I had had a taste. I wanted more.
* * *
So here I was doing this stupid presentation in this ugly boardroom. I'd expected to not have to remember Fourth National Bank existed by this point. But in front of me sat the collection of Bigger Fish. The school? The school of Bigger Fish.
I slapped my pointer against the chart. That got everyone's attention. I made a note of who was suddenly turned on. They might be good for drinks. Maybe even a meal. A good grifter never has to pay for a meal. The goddamn rent, on the other hand, was eluding me.
Business cards, but not cash, filled my pockets as I walked across the lobby, daring to glance in Tabitha's direction. The radiant smile she greeted me with caused me to change my destination. I arrived at her desk.
"Do they let you out of here for lunch?" I asked.
"Let me just call my replacement." She'd already picked up the receiver. "Wouldn't want to leave this place vulnerable, you know."
"Absolutely."
Lunch turned into a dinner appointment two days later. I learned she was a temp. After dessert, I took her back to my place, because it was the place I brought people. She was suitably impressed. She said all the right things.
Her mouth moved against mine in all the right ways.
I couldn't see her blue eyes, pressing her against the wall like this. But my hands moving under her shirt offered consolation and the promise that I could see them again, later, moving above me, staring into mine. I wanted that. I wanted more.
My mouth positively watered. I stepped back. She moved with me, keeping her fist tight in my hair. Her breasts grazed mine again.
"Maybe we should--" I started, thinking of the bed.
Someone banged on the door.
Loudly.
"The fuck?" I said.
Tabitha's expression filled with fear.
Heated and distracted as I was, I didn't really notice her as I looked through the peephole.
Small Fish stood there.
"This isn't a good time, Bill," I said through the door.
He said, "I know Tabitha's in there. Let me in, or I'm calling the police."
I glanced at Tabitha. She seemed frozen.
"No hablo ingles," I shouted. Then, to Tabitha, I hissed, "What the hell is going on?"
"It has nothing to do with you," she said.
My blood ran cold. I should have known. I should have known and I didn't. I looked at the door, and then back at her.
"Just open the door," she said.
I shook my head. "There's a service door in the kitchen. It goes to a janitor's closet. I'll let him in, you can get into the hallway that way. If you can pick the lock."
She nodded. "Why?"
"Oh, hell, why not? My night is ruined."
My con was certainly ruined. This apartment would no longer be mine. Like a mirage evaporating into sand and dust. I waited until the service door clicked open and then closed again, and then I let the Small Fish in.
People don't want to think that life is a game. They don't want to see themselves as pawns, powerless to the maze around them, getting screwed. Conspiracies as theories, sure. The moon landing, the tax system, whatever happens to others. But people who see a conspiracy in their own lives are called paranoid freaks and nobody wants to be called out. Nobody wants to make a scene over something that sounds so damn crazy.
When Small Fish came in, he met my eyes. He knew what I had just figured out. But he wouldn't say it.
I had ignored every sign. The fake name. Referring to the bank staff as "They," not "We," the joking suggestion of the bank robbery, the temp position, they all added up to a scam. I should have asked her how she'd gotten rid of the real receptionist. I liked picking up new tricks. I'd stepped into the dog shit of someone else's game. And like every good mark, like Bill here, all I wanted was out.
I wasn't going to get a cent out of him. But at least he wasn't going to call the police either, not when he was in it up to his neck. And I had a contingency plan. He didn't. He didn't know the game.
He didn't know that Tabitha was already gone.
She had something we wanted.
He left, to try and catch her in the lobby. I glanced at the service door and it was all I could do not to chase after her myself. No matter how much my palms itched. No matter how much that little voice inside me suggested that if I gave her just one small thing, I could have untold riches. Just one little sacrifice.
This is what it felt like.
I poured a glass of wine and looked out of the window, my back turned to the condo I couldn't afford, instead seeing the city I wanted, but not half as much as her underneath me.
END