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jedibuttercupT; Leverage x Expendables 3. 1500w, for ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
intoabar. Eliot Spencer meets Galgo.
There was something to be said for knowing that the other shoe was never, ever going to drop.
Title: A Very Distinctive Storyteller
Author: Jedi Buttercup
Disclaimer: The words are mine; the worlds are not.
Spoilers: Leverage and The Expendables 3 (post-canon for both)
Notes: For the "Ficathon Goes Into a Bar" challenge, for the prompt, "Eliot Spencer goes into a bar and meets... Galgo (The Expendables)!"
Summary: There was something to be said for knowing that the other shoe was never, ever going to drop. 1500 words.
Eliot Spencer had spent a lot of time as a merc after he'd left the Army, working for one country or private entity after another. It hadn't all been standing around in embassy basements or retrieving high-value items or individuals; he'd done his share of time in the mud and the blood, too. A lot less of it after he'd left Moreau and put down his guns, and it had pretty much dwindled to a downtime hobby after he'd taken that fateful job from Victor Dubenich, but he still kept in touch with his contacts in that world.
So while he didn't recognize the man in the dark clothes and grey knit hat who'd walked into the brewpub while Eliot was waiting for a new Leverage International client, he did recognize the body language, the way the man casually eyed the lines of sight and exits once inside, and most of all, the very distinctive forearm tattoo. The skull, the raven, and the ten-letter word beneath them.
Eliot casually reached up and tapped his earbud. This wasn't Louisiana; Barney Ross' crew of operators usually did black jobs for US alphabet agencies overseas, and the man had his own private hangar on the Gulf, so there should be no professional reason for any of his guys to pass through Portland. And given the way the Expendable had given him a deliberate nod and started making his way through the tables toward Eliot's booth in the back, it wasn't a coincidental encounter, either.
"Parker?" he said, gruffly. "Gonna need you to send someone else out for the client; looks like something has followed me home."
"Problem?" Parker replied, voice crisp in his ear as she cued in immediately on his unease. The softer emotions still occasionally tied her up in knots, but when it came to team-related matters, she'd grown into the mastermind role like she'd been born for it.
Eliot did another quick scan of the interior of the brewpub, just to make sure he hadn't missed anything. No one was at the top of their game a hundred percent of the time, even them, especially when things had been going smooth. But no; he recognized maybe two-thirds of the others as regulars, and none of the strangers had the kind of build, posture, or situational awareness he'd expect of another merc.
"I don't think so; looks like just one of 'em. Maybe keep an ear out, though? And check the alley camera."
"Got it. I'll send Amy out with some Mouth Crime. Hardison'll take the client."
"Thanks, Parker." He made brief eye contact with one of the cameras he knew she was watching from the back room, then tipped his chin at the mercenary as the man reached his table.
"Is anyone sitting here?" The accent was distinctively Spanish; probably ex-military, like most mercs, just not the same military Eliot had started out in. The smile and gesture toward the bench seat opposite him were unexpectedly friendly, though.
As wary as he was of being approached out of the blue, that did not seem like the smile of a man who was looking at a target. Not too bright, not too smug, just genuine cheerfulness. "All yours," he replied, keeping his hands clear on the table just the same. "Got a name to go with it?"
"You may call me Galgo," the merc replied as he slid into the seat. "And you are Eliot Spencer."
That wasn't his current official alias, which definitely suggested the Expendable was there for Eliot himself, not for the Robin Hood style heist crew he, Parker, and Hardison had spent most of their time running since Nate and Sophie 'retired'. The agencies who usually contracted with the likes of the Expendables were also the types who still tapped Eliot for the occasional high-risk retrieval job; they never bothered pretending he was a new person every time he changed covers.
"You're a little out of your territory, Galgo," Eliot replied with a wry smile, nodding his thanks to Amy as the waitress approached with the promised beers. "This ain't New Orleans."
Eliot had finally talked Parker out of the rename she'd wanted for Bridgeport Brewpub's signature IPA, 'Thief Juice'; she'd retaliated by always referring to it as 'Mouth Crime', regardless of what the menu board said or who she was talking to. But whatever it was called, it was crisp, refreshing, and a polite way to occupy a dangerous man's hands in the name of hospitality.
"Of course not," Galgo replied effusively, accepting the glass. "This is Portland! Wonderful place, Portland, with the roses, and the bridges, and the very, very many kinds of beer-- oh; this is good!" He paused to take a sip, smile widening in appreciation. "Not just a cover for you, I think? It is good to keep busy between jobs; I have a friend or two who could benefit from such a hobby. But a man in our line of work could hardly get anything done if he never left his territory."
Considering where he'd crossed paths with Ross and company in the past, Eliot could excuse the assumption. Luckily, the CIA had never received authorization to send a team into San Lorenzo while he was on Moreau's payroll, or it might have been a more direct confrontation than that glancing encounter, years later. As it was, though, even if they were expanding the team – as Galgo's fresh tattoo implied – they had no reason to approach him.
"Not in that line of work anymore," he said, firmly.
Galgo's expression stilled, the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes smoothing out, and he suddenly looked at least a decade older. The firm muscles, fluid gait, and constant good humor had belied the frosting of grey in his dark hair, but a solemn weight of experience had crept into his gaze. "Once you have been the bridegroom of Death, she does not so easily release you. But I can certainly understand what a man might do for his team."
He looked toward the other side of the pub, where Hardison was just settling into a booth, waving to the worn-looking young couple who'd been supposed to meet Eliot. He didn't stare, though, just gave a faint, knowing smile, then turned back to his beer. "Take myself; the best team member I ever knew? His name was Torres...."
The guy waxed on enthusiastically for several more minutes, long enough to make Eliot wonder what the hell Ross had been thinking, sending him. Before Leverage, Eliot had never exactly been known for his social patience; years of adjusting to Hardison had given him a certain fond tolerance for that level of bullshit, but that wasn't exactly common knowledge.
"Sounds like a great group of guys," he interjected, when the guy paused to take a breath. "But I don't think you came here just to shoot the shit."
"Ah, no," Galgo replied, apologetically. "But on our last job, we made the acquaintance of a General Flores? He asked that we find his friend Eliot Spencer, share a beer, and tell him a story."
Flores? That meant San Lorenzo. And a certain detention facility known as The Tombs.
"Moreau," he said, jaw working as he clenched his fists on the table.
"Men such as him are always useful to a certain type of person," Galgo agreed. "He was smuggled out months ago, rebuilding his business. But this time, he was not so well protected...."
He launched into the story as eagerly as he'd chatted about his old teammates, gesturing expansively as Eliot breathed his way through the tension brought up by the reminder of his past. It helped that he still had Parker in his ear; she wasn't the hacker Hardison was, but they'd all cross-trained each other enough by now that she was able to verify the high points of Galgo's story on the fly. Eliot sensed Nate's hand in the fact that they hadn't heard about Moreau's escape before the Expendables got involved, but aside from that, the sheer enthusiasm in Galgo's tale and confidence in Parker's analysis were settling some part of him that had remained on edge ever since the conclusion of his team's San Lorenzo adventure. There was something to be said for knowing that the other shoe was never, ever going to drop.
Eliot drained his own glass as he listened, waved Amy down for a refill for them both, and let himself relax into the conversation. Man was a damn fine storyteller; Ross had known what he was doing after all.
"Tell the rest of your team," he said when the tale ran down to its viscerally satisfying ending, "that I'll send a case their way. And thanks, man; I appreciate it."
Galgo shook his hand with a smile. "You have good friends," he said.
"That I do," Eliot agreed, glancing at the camera again, then over to where Hardison was finishing up with the client. "That I do."
(x-posted @ intoabar and AO3)
intoabar. Eliot Spencer meets Galgo.There was something to be said for knowing that the other shoe was never, ever going to drop.
Title: A Very Distinctive Storyteller
Author: Jedi Buttercup
Disclaimer: The words are mine; the worlds are not.
Spoilers: Leverage and The Expendables 3 (post-canon for both)
Notes: For the "Ficathon Goes Into a Bar" challenge, for the prompt, "Eliot Spencer goes into a bar and meets... Galgo (The Expendables)!"
Summary: There was something to be said for knowing that the other shoe was never, ever going to drop. 1500 words.
Eliot Spencer had spent a lot of time as a merc after he'd left the Army, working for one country or private entity after another. It hadn't all been standing around in embassy basements or retrieving high-value items or individuals; he'd done his share of time in the mud and the blood, too. A lot less of it after he'd left Moreau and put down his guns, and it had pretty much dwindled to a downtime hobby after he'd taken that fateful job from Victor Dubenich, but he still kept in touch with his contacts in that world.
So while he didn't recognize the man in the dark clothes and grey knit hat who'd walked into the brewpub while Eliot was waiting for a new Leverage International client, he did recognize the body language, the way the man casually eyed the lines of sight and exits once inside, and most of all, the very distinctive forearm tattoo. The skull, the raven, and the ten-letter word beneath them.
Eliot casually reached up and tapped his earbud. This wasn't Louisiana; Barney Ross' crew of operators usually did black jobs for US alphabet agencies overseas, and the man had his own private hangar on the Gulf, so there should be no professional reason for any of his guys to pass through Portland. And given the way the Expendable had given him a deliberate nod and started making his way through the tables toward Eliot's booth in the back, it wasn't a coincidental encounter, either.
"Parker?" he said, gruffly. "Gonna need you to send someone else out for the client; looks like something has followed me home."
"Problem?" Parker replied, voice crisp in his ear as she cued in immediately on his unease. The softer emotions still occasionally tied her up in knots, but when it came to team-related matters, she'd grown into the mastermind role like she'd been born for it.
Eliot did another quick scan of the interior of the brewpub, just to make sure he hadn't missed anything. No one was at the top of their game a hundred percent of the time, even them, especially when things had been going smooth. But no; he recognized maybe two-thirds of the others as regulars, and none of the strangers had the kind of build, posture, or situational awareness he'd expect of another merc.
"I don't think so; looks like just one of 'em. Maybe keep an ear out, though? And check the alley camera."
"Got it. I'll send Amy out with some Mouth Crime. Hardison'll take the client."
"Thanks, Parker." He made brief eye contact with one of the cameras he knew she was watching from the back room, then tipped his chin at the mercenary as the man reached his table.
"Is anyone sitting here?" The accent was distinctively Spanish; probably ex-military, like most mercs, just not the same military Eliot had started out in. The smile and gesture toward the bench seat opposite him were unexpectedly friendly, though.
As wary as he was of being approached out of the blue, that did not seem like the smile of a man who was looking at a target. Not too bright, not too smug, just genuine cheerfulness. "All yours," he replied, keeping his hands clear on the table just the same. "Got a name to go with it?"
"You may call me Galgo," the merc replied as he slid into the seat. "And you are Eliot Spencer."
That wasn't his current official alias, which definitely suggested the Expendable was there for Eliot himself, not for the Robin Hood style heist crew he, Parker, and Hardison had spent most of their time running since Nate and Sophie 'retired'. The agencies who usually contracted with the likes of the Expendables were also the types who still tapped Eliot for the occasional high-risk retrieval job; they never bothered pretending he was a new person every time he changed covers.
"You're a little out of your territory, Galgo," Eliot replied with a wry smile, nodding his thanks to Amy as the waitress approached with the promised beers. "This ain't New Orleans."
Eliot had finally talked Parker out of the rename she'd wanted for Bridgeport Brewpub's signature IPA, 'Thief Juice'; she'd retaliated by always referring to it as 'Mouth Crime', regardless of what the menu board said or who she was talking to. But whatever it was called, it was crisp, refreshing, and a polite way to occupy a dangerous man's hands in the name of hospitality.
"Of course not," Galgo replied effusively, accepting the glass. "This is Portland! Wonderful place, Portland, with the roses, and the bridges, and the very, very many kinds of beer-- oh; this is good!" He paused to take a sip, smile widening in appreciation. "Not just a cover for you, I think? It is good to keep busy between jobs; I have a friend or two who could benefit from such a hobby. But a man in our line of work could hardly get anything done if he never left his territory."
Considering where he'd crossed paths with Ross and company in the past, Eliot could excuse the assumption. Luckily, the CIA had never received authorization to send a team into San Lorenzo while he was on Moreau's payroll, or it might have been a more direct confrontation than that glancing encounter, years later. As it was, though, even if they were expanding the team – as Galgo's fresh tattoo implied – they had no reason to approach him.
"Not in that line of work anymore," he said, firmly.
Galgo's expression stilled, the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes smoothing out, and he suddenly looked at least a decade older. The firm muscles, fluid gait, and constant good humor had belied the frosting of grey in his dark hair, but a solemn weight of experience had crept into his gaze. "Once you have been the bridegroom of Death, she does not so easily release you. But I can certainly understand what a man might do for his team."
He looked toward the other side of the pub, where Hardison was just settling into a booth, waving to the worn-looking young couple who'd been supposed to meet Eliot. He didn't stare, though, just gave a faint, knowing smile, then turned back to his beer. "Take myself; the best team member I ever knew? His name was Torres...."
The guy waxed on enthusiastically for several more minutes, long enough to make Eliot wonder what the hell Ross had been thinking, sending him. Before Leverage, Eliot had never exactly been known for his social patience; years of adjusting to Hardison had given him a certain fond tolerance for that level of bullshit, but that wasn't exactly common knowledge.
"Sounds like a great group of guys," he interjected, when the guy paused to take a breath. "But I don't think you came here just to shoot the shit."
"Ah, no," Galgo replied, apologetically. "But on our last job, we made the acquaintance of a General Flores? He asked that we find his friend Eliot Spencer, share a beer, and tell him a story."
Flores? That meant San Lorenzo. And a certain detention facility known as The Tombs.
"Moreau," he said, jaw working as he clenched his fists on the table.
"Men such as him are always useful to a certain type of person," Galgo agreed. "He was smuggled out months ago, rebuilding his business. But this time, he was not so well protected...."
He launched into the story as eagerly as he'd chatted about his old teammates, gesturing expansively as Eliot breathed his way through the tension brought up by the reminder of his past. It helped that he still had Parker in his ear; she wasn't the hacker Hardison was, but they'd all cross-trained each other enough by now that she was able to verify the high points of Galgo's story on the fly. Eliot sensed Nate's hand in the fact that they hadn't heard about Moreau's escape before the Expendables got involved, but aside from that, the sheer enthusiasm in Galgo's tale and confidence in Parker's analysis were settling some part of him that had remained on edge ever since the conclusion of his team's San Lorenzo adventure. There was something to be said for knowing that the other shoe was never, ever going to drop.
Eliot drained his own glass as he listened, waved Amy down for a refill for them both, and let himself relax into the conversation. Man was a damn fine storyteller; Ross had known what he was doing after all.
"Tell the rest of your team," he said when the tale ran down to its viscerally satisfying ending, "that I'll send a case their way. And thanks, man; I appreciate it."
Galgo shook his hand with a smile. "You have good friends," he said.
"That I do," Eliot agreed, glancing at the camera again, then over to where Hardison was finishing up with the client. "That I do."
(x-posted @ intoabar and AO3)
no subject
Date: 2021-06-14 11:47 pm (UTC)