Leverage Fic: Tourist Attraction
Apr. 20th, 2009 09:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
switch842Title: Tourist Attraction
Summary: Eliot walks into a bar in Paris. Eliot/Sophie
Word Count: 647
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine. Not real. Please don't sue. I have no money anyway.
A/N: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
comment_fic. Original prompt from ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
noteveryday: "Leverage, Eliot/Sophie, 'I don't have a white horse, but you can come along for the ride'." Original thread is here.
Please leave any feedback/comments at my fic journal.
PARIS 2001
Eliot Spencer walks into the first bar he sees after getting off the train. He had given himself three days off for a job very well done and decided to spend it in Paris. He'd always wanted go (so, he was a bit of a romantic) and, well, it was on the way from London to Madrid. Who was he to argue with geography?
He steps into the bar, blinded momentarily with the switch from glaring mid-day sun to dimly lit interior and breathes deeply in the cold breeze blowing from the air conditioner. His eyes adjust and he walks up to the bar ordering a whiskey with a beer chaser in broken French.
"Merci," he tells the bartender and turns to survey the rest of the crowd after throwing back the whiskey. It's still fairly early and it's not too crowded. The jukebox is crooning some sappy French ballad, but Eliot is hoping he won't be hanging around here long enough for that to get annoying. He just about gives up on his perusal when he spots a brunette sitting at a booth in the far corner surreptitiously wiping at her eyes.
He hates seeing women cry.
There should never be any reason for a woman to cry. Well, no sad reason. Tears of joy were something else, even if he doesn't entirely understand them. But these were definitely sad tears. Sighing, Eliot picks up his beer and goes to talk to her.
"Please don't cry," he says in stilted French.
"Oh, I speak English," the woman replies with a sniff. "And I'm not crying. My eyes are just tearing from all the dust in here."
"I'm sure they are," Eliot says gently. "Either way, you mind if I join you?"
"Oh, sure," she says gesturing to the chair across from her. "American?"
"Yes, ma'am. Name's Eliot," he introduces himself, holding out a hand. "Is that British I hear?"
"It is, yes. How do you do?" she says shaking his hand briefly. "So, what bring you to Paris?" she asks taking a sip of her drink.
"Just passing through on my way to Madrid. You?"
"Oh, just in town on some business."
"And I take it that didn't go so well?"
"Oh, you could say that," she says shifting awkwardly to lean forward slightly, getting the weight off her bad shoulder.
Eliot notices the move and becomes concerned. "Are you all right?" he asks. The only thing worse than seeing a woman crying was seeing a woman in pain. And since the crying tended to go hand in hand with the pain, well, Eliot doesn't stand a chance, really.
"I'm fine," she says waving him off. "There was just this guy…"
"Some guy hit you?" he says getting aggravated. There was no reason to ever hit a woman.
"Not exactly. And, well, I kind of got one over on him first," she says smirking.
"Are you sure everything's fine?"
"I'm positive," she says with a smile. "And there is still the possibility for things to go better later this week, so all is not lost."
"All right. If you're sure. But if you want me to kick his ass, just say the word."
"I'm sure you could, cowboy. But I assure you that won't be necessary. You can leave your white horse locked up for now."
"It's been a long time since I've had a horse to ride on," Eliot says with a smirk. "I'm not the white knight I used to be."
"More of a black king?" she says, a twinkle in her eye like she knows exactly what kind of man he is.
"Something like that."
Eliot decides he likes this woman. Even if he never gets her name or even a phone number when she leaves three days later he doesn't care. He never did end up seeing much of Paris.
Summary: Eliot walks into a bar in Paris. Eliot/Sophie
Word Count: 647
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine. Not real. Please don't sue. I have no money anyway.
A/N: Written for
comment_fic. Original prompt from noteveryday: "Leverage, Eliot/Sophie, 'I don't have a white horse, but you can come along for the ride'." Original thread is here.Please leave any feedback/comments at my fic journal.
PARIS 2001
Eliot Spencer walks into the first bar he sees after getting off the train. He had given himself three days off for a job very well done and decided to spend it in Paris. He'd always wanted go (so, he was a bit of a romantic) and, well, it was on the way from London to Madrid. Who was he to argue with geography?
He steps into the bar, blinded momentarily with the switch from glaring mid-day sun to dimly lit interior and breathes deeply in the cold breeze blowing from the air conditioner. His eyes adjust and he walks up to the bar ordering a whiskey with a beer chaser in broken French.
"Merci," he tells the bartender and turns to survey the rest of the crowd after throwing back the whiskey. It's still fairly early and it's not too crowded. The jukebox is crooning some sappy French ballad, but Eliot is hoping he won't be hanging around here long enough for that to get annoying. He just about gives up on his perusal when he spots a brunette sitting at a booth in the far corner surreptitiously wiping at her eyes.
He hates seeing women cry.
There should never be any reason for a woman to cry. Well, no sad reason. Tears of joy were something else, even if he doesn't entirely understand them. But these were definitely sad tears. Sighing, Eliot picks up his beer and goes to talk to her.
"Please don't cry," he says in stilted French.
"Oh, I speak English," the woman replies with a sniff. "And I'm not crying. My eyes are just tearing from all the dust in here."
"I'm sure they are," Eliot says gently. "Either way, you mind if I join you?"
"Oh, sure," she says gesturing to the chair across from her. "American?"
"Yes, ma'am. Name's Eliot," he introduces himself, holding out a hand. "Is that British I hear?"
"It is, yes. How do you do?" she says shaking his hand briefly. "So, what bring you to Paris?" she asks taking a sip of her drink.
"Just passing through on my way to Madrid. You?"
"Oh, just in town on some business."
"And I take it that didn't go so well?"
"Oh, you could say that," she says shifting awkwardly to lean forward slightly, getting the weight off her bad shoulder.
Eliot notices the move and becomes concerned. "Are you all right?" he asks. The only thing worse than seeing a woman crying was seeing a woman in pain. And since the crying tended to go hand in hand with the pain, well, Eliot doesn't stand a chance, really.
"I'm fine," she says waving him off. "There was just this guy…"
"Some guy hit you?" he says getting aggravated. There was no reason to ever hit a woman.
"Not exactly. And, well, I kind of got one over on him first," she says smirking.
"Are you sure everything's fine?"
"I'm positive," she says with a smile. "And there is still the possibility for things to go better later this week, so all is not lost."
"All right. If you're sure. But if you want me to kick his ass, just say the word."
"I'm sure you could, cowboy. But I assure you that won't be necessary. You can leave your white horse locked up for now."
"It's been a long time since I've had a horse to ride on," Eliot says with a smirk. "I'm not the white knight I used to be."
"More of a black king?" she says, a twinkle in her eye like she knows exactly what kind of man he is.
"Something like that."
Eliot decides he likes this woman. Even if he never gets her name or even a phone number when she leaves three days later he doesn't care. He never did end up seeing much of Paris.
