posted by ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lmx_v3point3 at 04:42pm on 23/08/2011 under character: alec hardison, character: eliot spencer, fandom: leverage, fanfiction, leverageland, rating: pg-13, type: au, type: commentfic, type: episode response, type: pain/death/chaos
lmx_v3point3 at 04:42pm on 23/08/2011 under character: alec hardison, character: eliot spencer, fandom: leverage, fanfiction, leverageland, rating: pg-13, type: au, type: commentfic, type: episode response, type: pain/death/chaosFic: Lacking In Communication
Author: LMX
Fandom: Leverage
Pairing: Gen
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: The Iceman Job
Warnings: English profanity, idiocy and changes of nationality.
Notes:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
jendavis prompted this one too, though... well who knows if it's what was intended by the prompt. Written for the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
leverageland minibang.
AN: I mean no disrespect, offense or whatever for changing 'Fitch's' nationality in this. I did it only for the lols implicit in the complete misunderstanding.
-
Richard Trepper was a bit of a tosser. Artie Fitch had met a lot of tossers in his life, so he considered himself a bit of an authority on them. Unfortunately it wasn't knowledge he could share with Trepper, since verbal communication was beyond him and the concept of his aforementioned employer, Trepper, learning anything more complicated than middle school English was ridiculous. He was sometimes surprised the man could read and write. So Artie kept his opinions to himself, enjoyed the fun parts of his job; the good pay and the fact that a small timer like Trepper didn't draw much fire; and saved his griping for the three weeks a year he got back home in Tottenham with his sister and nephew.
The Iceman (born Richard Trepper) was the dogs bits, and he damn well knew it. He'd built his diamond reputation from the ground up, and alright some of that ground might have belonged to someone else when he started building, but it wasn't as if everything in a reputation had to be real, right? The Iceman was working on expanding his reputation in the States, slowly getting himself a couple of schemes in place, putting together a diamond-cleaning laser based on schematics his brother had mailed to him from Tel Aviv and taking careful notes on his brother's enthusiastic engineer-babble. Not that he understood any of it, but it made his spiel - the one he practised in the mirror - just that little bit more authentic. And he'd found himself a gorgeous woman to hang on his arm for special occasions. Like you might expect, the Iceman was a guy who appreciated beautiful things. Expensive diamonds, hot women who wore them well and highly muscled men to make sure no one tried to probe that reputation of his too closely.
Artie Fitch had been born mute, and it had never bothered him as much as it had bothered his parents. He had a sister who learned sign and was fluent by the time he was old enough to learn himself, and it meant he never had to join the choir or get involved with the theatre group at school, which suited him fine. There were some frustrations, but he was good at his job - beating people up - and around Tottenham and Greater London that meant he was rarely short of work. He'd been offered a job protecting Trepper in his rather speedy emigration to America following one of the simpler but more violent diamond heists he'd ever been involved in, and growing bored of London and hearing good things about Trepper's international work, he signed up. America had been a culture shock, but he'd done well out of Trepper's exploits and he'd enjoyed being able to dress up and not look like out of place. At least... not next to Trepper himself.
The Iceman knew next to nothing about Fitch, other than the fact that he was pretty good at beating people up, and he didn't talk. Danny had told him that the American fighter had lost his voice in Russia drinking poisoned vodka in a drinking competition with Fedor Emelianenko, the Russian MMA fighter. That said, Danny was known to talk a lot of shit. Still, it had seemed sensible to take a national out to America with him if he was going to hit the American market and get it dancing to his tune. The concept that Fitch couldn't share any of his local knowledge didn't really hit home until they landed in Boston and he realised the only friendly face he knew was poor company in the bar. They'd survived though, and Fitch seemed to thrive here in a way he hadn't in the UK - getting into all these posh clothes and silver jewellery like he hadn't realised he was in the diamond business now.
They'd been out there seven months when The Iceman came out of his hotel room with Rosita on his arm and found Fitch flirting with the concierge in sign, the two of them grinning like little children. The Iceman hadn't even considered that Fitch might have a way of communication other than writing shit down on scraps of paper, and it was a revelation akin to the first visit to a Walmart store. He'd forgotten about it by the time they got to the bar. Rosita had been wearing a dress that showed more cleavage than would be legal in the UK, and with his own diamond nestling there... he felt justified in forgetting everything else
---
Fic: Survival
Author: LMX
Fandom: Leverage
Pairing: GEN
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Tap Out Job (AU)
Warnings: Violence
Notes: Commentfic forreikoyazumi, who requested a Tap Out Job Reset. Written for the leverageland minibang.
AN2: At last! A fic under 500 words! ... How many points? Oh... Still 5. Shit.
-
It's pure confusion that sets in with the lethargy in his limbs - he isn't hurt enough to be moving this slowly, to be taking this many hits. He bounces up off his knee as he half-falls and catches himself, back on his feet with enough speed to defend himself from a brutal sequence and get a couple of blows in himself - weak and sluggish.
The confusion is making it hard to remember where he is, why there's a roar of screams around him as he takes a hard fist that seems to fly through his face and out the other side; throwing him to the ground, bouncing him off the floor.
The truth is he's dying here, and even if he gets this guy down, he doesn't know if there's more coming. If he can't stay upright then he can't defend them, and he can hear them screaming. They need defending. They need him. They need him to stay up. He scrambles back to his feet, every muscle in his body screaming and his knees trembling. He's got to end this now, for them.
He takes a dozen more blows before he's in position, feeling his body failing around his determination, breathing sticky and wet, eyes stinging with blood. There's a visceral click as the enemy's neck snaps and the screams only intensity. He's being dragged down by the weight of his own muscles and the throbbing his his head, and all he can hope is that there's someone else out there to keep them safe until he can open his eyes and do it himself.
Author: LMX
Fandom: Leverage
Pairing: Gen
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: The Iceman Job
Warnings: English profanity, idiocy and changes of nationality.
Notes:
jendavis prompted this one too, though... well who knows if it's what was intended by the prompt. Written for the leverageland minibang.AN: I mean no disrespect, offense or whatever for changing 'Fitch's' nationality in this. I did it only for the lols implicit in the complete misunderstanding.
-
Richard Trepper was a bit of a tosser. Artie Fitch had met a lot of tossers in his life, so he considered himself a bit of an authority on them. Unfortunately it wasn't knowledge he could share with Trepper, since verbal communication was beyond him and the concept of his aforementioned employer, Trepper, learning anything more complicated than middle school English was ridiculous. He was sometimes surprised the man could read and write. So Artie kept his opinions to himself, enjoyed the fun parts of his job; the good pay and the fact that a small timer like Trepper didn't draw much fire; and saved his griping for the three weeks a year he got back home in Tottenham with his sister and nephew.
The Iceman (born Richard Trepper) was the dogs bits, and he damn well knew it. He'd built his diamond reputation from the ground up, and alright some of that ground might have belonged to someone else when he started building, but it wasn't as if everything in a reputation had to be real, right? The Iceman was working on expanding his reputation in the States, slowly getting himself a couple of schemes in place, putting together a diamond-cleaning laser based on schematics his brother had mailed to him from Tel Aviv and taking careful notes on his brother's enthusiastic engineer-babble. Not that he understood any of it, but it made his spiel - the one he practised in the mirror - just that little bit more authentic. And he'd found himself a gorgeous woman to hang on his arm for special occasions. Like you might expect, the Iceman was a guy who appreciated beautiful things. Expensive diamonds, hot women who wore them well and highly muscled men to make sure no one tried to probe that reputation of his too closely.
Artie Fitch had been born mute, and it had never bothered him as much as it had bothered his parents. He had a sister who learned sign and was fluent by the time he was old enough to learn himself, and it meant he never had to join the choir or get involved with the theatre group at school, which suited him fine. There were some frustrations, but he was good at his job - beating people up - and around Tottenham and Greater London that meant he was rarely short of work. He'd been offered a job protecting Trepper in his rather speedy emigration to America following one of the simpler but more violent diamond heists he'd ever been involved in, and growing bored of London and hearing good things about Trepper's international work, he signed up. America had been a culture shock, but he'd done well out of Trepper's exploits and he'd enjoyed being able to dress up and not look like out of place. At least... not next to Trepper himself.
The Iceman knew next to nothing about Fitch, other than the fact that he was pretty good at beating people up, and he didn't talk. Danny had told him that the American fighter had lost his voice in Russia drinking poisoned vodka in a drinking competition with Fedor Emelianenko, the Russian MMA fighter. That said, Danny was known to talk a lot of shit. Still, it had seemed sensible to take a national out to America with him if he was going to hit the American market and get it dancing to his tune. The concept that Fitch couldn't share any of his local knowledge didn't really hit home until they landed in Boston and he realised the only friendly face he knew was poor company in the bar. They'd survived though, and Fitch seemed to thrive here in a way he hadn't in the UK - getting into all these posh clothes and silver jewellery like he hadn't realised he was in the diamond business now.
They'd been out there seven months when The Iceman came out of his hotel room with Rosita on his arm and found Fitch flirting with the concierge in sign, the two of them grinning like little children. The Iceman hadn't even considered that Fitch might have a way of communication other than writing shit down on scraps of paper, and it was a revelation akin to the first visit to a Walmart store. He'd forgotten about it by the time they got to the bar. Rosita had been wearing a dress that showed more cleavage than would be legal in the UK, and with his own diamond nestling there... he felt justified in forgetting everything else
---
Fic: Survival
Author: LMX
Fandom: Leverage
Pairing: GEN
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Tap Out Job (AU)
Warnings: Violence
Notes: Commentfic for
reikoyazumi, who requested a Tap Out Job Reset. Written for the leverageland minibang.AN2: At last! A fic under 500 words! ... How many points? Oh... Still 5. Shit.
-
It's pure confusion that sets in with the lethargy in his limbs - he isn't hurt enough to be moving this slowly, to be taking this many hits. He bounces up off his knee as he half-falls and catches himself, back on his feet with enough speed to defend himself from a brutal sequence and get a couple of blows in himself - weak and sluggish.
The confusion is making it hard to remember where he is, why there's a roar of screams around him as he takes a hard fist that seems to fly through his face and out the other side; throwing him to the ground, bouncing him off the floor.
The truth is he's dying here, and even if he gets this guy down, he doesn't know if there's more coming. If he can't stay upright then he can't defend them, and he can hear them screaming. They need defending. They need him. They need him to stay up. He scrambles back to his feet, every muscle in his body screaming and his knees trembling. He's got to end this now, for them.
He takes a dozen more blows before he's in position, feeling his body failing around his determination, breathing sticky and wet, eyes stinging with blood. There's a visceral click as the enemy's neck snaps and the screams only intensity. He's being dragged down by the weight of his own muscles and the throbbing his his head, and all he can hope is that there's someone else out there to keep them safe until he can open his eyes and do it himself.