The Interlude Job (Leverage, Maggie Collins/Sophie Devereaux) [PG]
Title: The Interlude Job
Author: havocthecat
Fandom: Leverage
Rating: PG
Pairing: Maggie Collins/Sophie Devereaux, with a side of Maggie/Nate and Sophie/Nate
Characters: Maggie Collins, Sophie Devereaux
Spoilers: Set between 2.14, The Three Strikes Job, and 2.15, The Maltese Falcon Job, and has mild spoilers for The Maltese Falcon Job.
Summary: It won't last forever, but they plan on having a good time while they can.
Author's Notes: The list of people to blame for Leverage fic gets longer and longer. Thank you to tinylegacies and ariestess for betareading, and to celli and lyssie for being evil, devious, and encouraging.
***
As Maggie stepped into her condo, she heard Sophie's voice, loud and strident, and watched her pace back and forth across the living room, her heels clicking on the floor.
"No, Parker." Sophie had one hand up, like she was in the same room and gesturing to Parker. "No, you may not put cyanide in Nate's whiskey. For one thing, it's traceable. For another, I'd really prefer it if Nate didn't end up dead."
Maggie blinked. She wasn't going to ask how Sophie knew which poisons were untraceable.
"Absolutely not." Sophie paused, listening to whatever Parker was saying. "Yes. Yes, that you can do. With my blessing."
Right. She could wait until Sophie was off the phone to indulge her curiosity. Even if it killed her. Maggie took off her coat and hung it up in the closet, then walked through the living room and into the kitchen, where she studied the small wine rack she kept there. A nice shiraz, nothing they'd drink too fast, sounded promising.
"Tell Hardison not to do anything rash. Eliot either." Sophie's footsteps got louder as she walked toward the kitchen. Maggie hadn't even been sure Sophie had seen her walk in.
Maggie waved, corkscrew in one hand and wine bottle in the other, as Sophie walked in.
Sophie gave her a relieved look, and then leaned against the wall. "No, Tara won't leave all of you hanging. No, trust me, that's not a good idea either." She paused. "I miss you too. No, no, I'm not. Give my love to Hardison and Eliot."
"Problems with Nate?" asked Maggie, just after Sophie snapped her untraceable, disposable phone shut. Sometimes Maggie wondered about her predilection for getting involved with criminal masterminds, but it wasn't something she could bring up with her therapist.
Sophie's reply was an unintelligible groan. She collapsed into a seat at the table and gave Maggie a pleading, frustrated look. "I hate that man sometimes."
"What'd he do this time?" asked Maggie, ignoring Sophie's protestations of hatred and turning back to the wine bottle. If anyone could relate to how Sophie felt about Nate, it was Maggie. She twisted the corkscrew and popped open the wine, then poured out two glasses.
When Maggie turned back around, Sophie had her head pillowed in her arms. Maggie would have thought Sophie was asleep, but she stuck one hand out. Her voice was muffled, since she was talking more to the table than to Maggie. "Do you really want to know?"
Maggie put one glass into Sophie's hand, then sat down next to her at the table. "It's not as if I can't guess. I was married to the man, after all."
"Don't remind me," groaned Sophie. She sat up and took a drink. "It's a little weird, don't you think, the two of us?"
"I've been trying not to think about it," said Maggie dryly. She slumped back in her seat. "For God's sake, Sophie, I'm sleeping with the woman my ex-husband chased across Europe for ten years. Did he ever cheat on me?"
"What?" asked Sophie, her eyes widening. She made a motion as if to brush her hair out of her eyes. "No. God, no. He never would have--"
"I could always tell when he was close on your trail," said Maggie. She shrugged. "He was more obsessed about catching you than anyone else."
"Shame he never turned me in," said Sophie, smirking at Maggie over the rim of her wine glass.
"We're never telling him about us," said Maggie.
"Absolutely not," said Sophie. She looked more shocked than when Maggie had asked if Nate had ever cheated on her. "None of them. Can you imagine what Hardison and Eliot would say?"
"Now that we've agreed on that, did you want to go out for dinner, cook, or skip dinner and head straight to bed?" Maggie set her wine glass down, still almost full. There were some things she never wanted to think about. That was one of them. In fact, that was at the top of her list.
"Much as I love the idea of heading straight to bed, I'm famished," said Sophie. She sighed with regret and swirled her wine in its glass.
"Then let's go out." Maggie stood and waited for Sophie to stand, which she did after one more sip of her wine. "Someplace so extravagant that you won't be tempted to answer your phone when Hardison and Eliot call."
"Yeah, that'd send my blood pressure through the roof," said Sophie, her voice wry. She huffed out a sigh. "It won't last forever, you know."
She wasn't just talking about waiting for Eliot and Hardison to call. Then again, Maggie had known that Sophie leaving was part and parcel of getting involved with an itinerant art thief. "Until then, at least we can have dinner."
***
When she woke up the next morning, Sophie was gone. There was nothing left in the condo to say she'd been there except a note that tucked into Maggie's purse. There was no signature, of course, but the handwriting was an elegant cursive script, one that was recognizable from at least a dozen cases she'd worked with Nate over the years.
Dearest Maggie:
Until next time. Try not to get in trouble in Russia again, darling. Fabergé makes everyone want to come beating down your door.
She could probably pull some strings and arrange an after-hours, private showing at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. She was in the middle of putting together that exhibit of Russian art, and a dinner for the museum's wealthiest patrons was sure to make the board of directors happy.
It was all for perfectly legitimate purposes, of course, but if she timed it so that it happened the next time Sophie was in town, all the better.
Maggie smiled.
--end--
Author: havocthecat
Fandom: Leverage
Rating: PG
Pairing: Maggie Collins/Sophie Devereaux, with a side of Maggie/Nate and Sophie/Nate
Characters: Maggie Collins, Sophie Devereaux
Spoilers: Set between 2.14, The Three Strikes Job, and 2.15, The Maltese Falcon Job, and has mild spoilers for The Maltese Falcon Job.
Summary: It won't last forever, but they plan on having a good time while they can.
Author's Notes: The list of people to blame for Leverage fic gets longer and longer. Thank you to tinylegacies and ariestess for betareading, and to celli and lyssie for being evil, devious, and encouraging.
***
As Maggie stepped into her condo, she heard Sophie's voice, loud and strident, and watched her pace back and forth across the living room, her heels clicking on the floor.
"No, Parker." Sophie had one hand up, like she was in the same room and gesturing to Parker. "No, you may not put cyanide in Nate's whiskey. For one thing, it's traceable. For another, I'd really prefer it if Nate didn't end up dead."
Maggie blinked. She wasn't going to ask how Sophie knew which poisons were untraceable.
"Absolutely not." Sophie paused, listening to whatever Parker was saying. "Yes. Yes, that you can do. With my blessing."
Right. She could wait until Sophie was off the phone to indulge her curiosity. Even if it killed her. Maggie took off her coat and hung it up in the closet, then walked through the living room and into the kitchen, where she studied the small wine rack she kept there. A nice shiraz, nothing they'd drink too fast, sounded promising.
"Tell Hardison not to do anything rash. Eliot either." Sophie's footsteps got louder as she walked toward the kitchen. Maggie hadn't even been sure Sophie had seen her walk in.
Maggie waved, corkscrew in one hand and wine bottle in the other, as Sophie walked in.
Sophie gave her a relieved look, and then leaned against the wall. "No, Tara won't leave all of you hanging. No, trust me, that's not a good idea either." She paused. "I miss you too. No, no, I'm not. Give my love to Hardison and Eliot."
"Problems with Nate?" asked Maggie, just after Sophie snapped her untraceable, disposable phone shut. Sometimes Maggie wondered about her predilection for getting involved with criminal masterminds, but it wasn't something she could bring up with her therapist.
Sophie's reply was an unintelligible groan. She collapsed into a seat at the table and gave Maggie a pleading, frustrated look. "I hate that man sometimes."
"What'd he do this time?" asked Maggie, ignoring Sophie's protestations of hatred and turning back to the wine bottle. If anyone could relate to how Sophie felt about Nate, it was Maggie. She twisted the corkscrew and popped open the wine, then poured out two glasses.
When Maggie turned back around, Sophie had her head pillowed in her arms. Maggie would have thought Sophie was asleep, but she stuck one hand out. Her voice was muffled, since she was talking more to the table than to Maggie. "Do you really want to know?"
Maggie put one glass into Sophie's hand, then sat down next to her at the table. "It's not as if I can't guess. I was married to the man, after all."
"Don't remind me," groaned Sophie. She sat up and took a drink. "It's a little weird, don't you think, the two of us?"
"I've been trying not to think about it," said Maggie dryly. She slumped back in her seat. "For God's sake, Sophie, I'm sleeping with the woman my ex-husband chased across Europe for ten years. Did he ever cheat on me?"
"What?" asked Sophie, her eyes widening. She made a motion as if to brush her hair out of her eyes. "No. God, no. He never would have--"
"I could always tell when he was close on your trail," said Maggie. She shrugged. "He was more obsessed about catching you than anyone else."
"Shame he never turned me in," said Sophie, smirking at Maggie over the rim of her wine glass.
"We're never telling him about us," said Maggie.
"Absolutely not," said Sophie. She looked more shocked than when Maggie had asked if Nate had ever cheated on her. "None of them. Can you imagine what Hardison and Eliot would say?"
"Now that we've agreed on that, did you want to go out for dinner, cook, or skip dinner and head straight to bed?" Maggie set her wine glass down, still almost full. There were some things she never wanted to think about. That was one of them. In fact, that was at the top of her list.
"Much as I love the idea of heading straight to bed, I'm famished," said Sophie. She sighed with regret and swirled her wine in its glass.
"Then let's go out." Maggie stood and waited for Sophie to stand, which she did after one more sip of her wine. "Someplace so extravagant that you won't be tempted to answer your phone when Hardison and Eliot call."
"Yeah, that'd send my blood pressure through the roof," said Sophie, her voice wry. She huffed out a sigh. "It won't last forever, you know."
She wasn't just talking about waiting for Eliot and Hardison to call. Then again, Maggie had known that Sophie leaving was part and parcel of getting involved with an itinerant art thief. "Until then, at least we can have dinner."
***
When she woke up the next morning, Sophie was gone. There was nothing left in the condo to say she'd been there except a note that tucked into Maggie's purse. There was no signature, of course, but the handwriting was an elegant cursive script, one that was recognizable from at least a dozen cases she'd worked with Nate over the years.
Dearest Maggie:
Until next time. Try not to get in trouble in Russia again, darling. Fabergé makes everyone want to come beating down your door.
She could probably pull some strings and arrange an after-hours, private showing at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. She was in the middle of putting together that exhibit of Russian art, and a dinner for the museum's wealthiest patrons was sure to make the board of directors happy.
It was all for perfectly legitimate purposes, of course, but if she timed it so that it happened the next time Sophie was in town, all the better.
Maggie smiled.
--end--