Archive of Our Own ^beta

In the team’s defence, they had no reason to believe the mark was telling the truth about having magic spells up their sleeve. People really do get that rich off corruption and exploitation alone. Rich people really can be bonkers enough to make the kinds of threats they can’t possibly carry out. It was Quinn who’d loudly, joyfully, and with much breaking of noses messed up their operation the first night of the job, so it’s Quinn the spell targets.

The switch takes place overnight, and without fanfare. You can't just vanish a person without something balancing the scales.

So. Quinn first. He wakes up alone, which is probably best for everyone, and with no fogginess, hypodermic marks, or new bruises suggesting anyone got the better of him. Five minutes into searching the loft he’s found a wardrobe of perplexing clothes all in his size and a driving licence with his face on it; ten minutes out in the wider world and he’s running into people who seem to know him, but not any him he’s played on a job before. That puts things squarely in Weird territory. Trying to get in contact with the team or anyone else via their emergency numbers, and getting only silence, solidifies it: he’s on his own for this one. That’s okay. He can deal.

The boyfriend’s getting under his skin, though. He’s had employers who acted like they owned him before, and as a rule he liked to make it clear they didn’t before jumping ship. But infiltrating the life of a stranger without yet holding all the cards makes it important not to act rashly, so he puts up with the words and light touches—at least, until he does some digging into boyfriend’s affairs and figures out what happened the previous night. This guy’s a creep, but he’s not a professional, and Quinn’s already traced the murdered college student back to him.

The boyfriend’s dead by afternoon. Quinn hides the body well, in case he needs it later.

That’s one problem sorted. Another one: people keep approaching him and being friendly in really strange ways. He knows flirting! He does! This flirting is just so obvious and people keep making really kinky requests like they already know he’s gonna be happy to fulfil them, and it’s just awkward for everyone when he isn’t. It’s almost worse when they’re not asking for a sex thing at all—at least as far as he can tell. One dude makes an attempt to steer him out the door, saying something about about a ‘regular client’ and already being late, and Quinn has to break the guy’s pinky finger to get him to stop. He rather doubts it’s his kind of client, after all.

So he’s kept on his toes, and he’s got a mental list of people he’s pretty sure aren’t threats, and a list of people he’s scoping out to be safe, and yes, there’s overlap. Easy enough for him to get started on. He’s packing some basics to set up a base somewhere more private, except—

—the police want to talk to him. About the murder he didn’t even do. They come sniffing around while he’s still trying to escape yet more of Anton’s acquaintances—he’s almost tempted to bite them just to shut them up at this point, except that usually leads to screaming—and that’s a problem too.

He does have a plan to get out of here. It involves only minimal risk of injury or discovery. But when he skids out the back door with a rifle case slung over his shoulders, he narrowly avoids colliding with someone who greets him with apparent relief—and his counterpart’s name. He assesses quickly: forty or so, artfully curly hair, expensive jewellery, eyes bright with alarm but no fear. She’s extended her hand, but she’s unarmed and careful not to touch him. Interesting. She picks up on his urgency and offers him a ride, and he’s in need of one so he takes it, hoping against all hope that she doesn’t make things weird.

She doesn’t. She’s a bit puzzled by him, for sure, but maybe she’s been expecting something like this because she’s more than happy to let him set up in her fancy apartment—one her husband doesn’t know about—even if she keeps casting him worried glances. Worried questions, too, when he’s checking the apartment’s security and getting his rifle set up. He’s a little too busy calculating the best way to deal with this mess to properly pick up on all the hints his host (a Ms Amanda Leven, according to the ID he sneaked a look at on the way here) has been dropping—about how much she really appreciates his company, how he never seemed to be entirely happy with Virgil, how he’ll always be welcome here if he needs a place to stay.

Meanwhile, the Leverage team haven’t actually figured out what’s up yet. They’re busy with the job. Sophie isn’t staying with them for long (something about an art exhibition and an old friend and a limited window of opportunity; Parker asked her to bring something back for them, and it didn’t sound like she meant from the gift shop) but she’s apparently thrilled that 'Quinn’ is practising his grifting. She keeps throwing him Proud Team Mum looks about it.

Anton, after the first thirty minutes or so of sheer confusion and picking up on the general weirdness that is the Leverage crew when they’re around people they trust, figured switching on the charm was a good way to stay Not Murdered while he figures out what the fuck is going on. He’s spent some time in criminal circles, but that was nothing like this. And every now and then someone will make some quip or ask a question about his teeth and then immediately (because they’re full steam ahead on the con) be called elsewhere for lockpicking or punching or doing a character voice over the phone. It’s sheer luck they haven’t needed him yet. Anton is sweating.

But the team reckon it’s Quinn, right, no matter how weird he’s being, so they aren’t too worried when he’s left to fend off some hired muscle alone; they’re a bit perplexed when he lets them take him captive, but hey, it’s not like it’s the first time he’s waited to get into a better position before striking. It’s not like it’s the first time he’s taken his comms out on the job, either. Is he still sulking about the alias Hardison picked for him last week?

It takes them seeing Anton through the security footage, tied to a chair and scared, to realise something has gone very wrong.

Hardison says, “Shit.” Parker frowns at the screen, trying to piece this together. There’s a sharp intake of breath behind them, and by the time they both look up, Eliot’s gone. Hardison swears again.

Anton is having a terrible day while also having to deal with the fact that these people—not the ones who tied him up to ask questions he doesn’t know the answer to, but the bizarrely competent criminals who seem to think he’s someone else and made him heart-shaped waffles for breakfast—are treating him so… nicely. It’s disconcerting. It might almost be welcome. And he’s going to die here, and he can’t even flirt his way out of it (he absolutely tried), and then the terrifying guy with the long hair is right here too. By the time Anton remembers his name Eliot’s knocked out all his captors and is disarming the last gun and Anton’s having a not-so-small oh shit moment that has almost nothing to do with fear.

Eliot sizes him up while he crouches and sees to the ropes. “You’re not Quinn,” he says, and Anton stiffens in the chair. Eliot’s eyes flick back up. “We’re not gonna hurt you, kid. Just need to get you out of here, then we’ll figure this out. I’ve got him,” he adds, sounding suddenly irritated, and Anton realises with a surge of sheepishness that the thing he was handed earlier was probably for communication. He fishes it out of his pocket as soon as he’s got a hand free. When they’ve reached the hallway—Eliot gesturing for Anton to stay behind him—his words unstop, and he feels a smile settling easily into place.

“When we get out,” he says, warm and honey-sweet like he’s approaching someone in a club just for the joy of it, and Eliot flicks a glance back at him, expression incredulous, “maybe we don’t need to figure things out just yet.” Eliot makes a disbelieving noise while, over the comms, Hardison matches it with a strangled cough and Parker thumps him audibly on the back. Anton’s just pleased he’s finally having an effect on someone. Then some more armed trouble rounds the corner, and Eliot refocuses on the task at hand.

So they learn a valuable lesson about not believing marks’ threats. They hadn’t taken it seriously—they were justified in not taking it seriously. But just this once there’s a spell to track down and figure out before they can finish the job, and in the time it takes for Hardison’s algorithm to find the relevant bits in the relevant texts, they get to know Anton a little better.

At least, Hardison gets to know Anton a little better, becoming more and more diplomatic with everything he finds out. Eliot mostly makes unimpressed noises about Anton’s boyfriend and confessed criminal history. (Anton never expected to be this embarrassed that selling party drugs is his biggest offence.) Parker seems unsure whether to watch him from a distance or sneak closer in an attempt to examine his teeth, with her fingers, again. It’s all… deeply weird. It’s not awful. At least, aside from the moment he gets halfway to hitting on Parker and both the other two go alert and he suddenly feels like a lamb before the wolves—Anton misread her curiosity, alright, he’s not at his best right now—it’s not awful.

Quinn doesn’t figure out what’s going on. He has a great time once he’s free of his admirers, thrown in the deep end with the police on his tail (thrown off his scent, now, with a few tricks and a quick relocation of the boyfriend’s body and Amanda calling in some sort of rich person favour to speed the investigation along.) And he got to kill someone who was rude to him without having to feel bad about it. He’s pretty sure that garden-variety murderous creeps are fair game even by his team’s standards. So it’s cool. It’s hitter enrichment. It’s a long, absurdly realistic fever dream and he is decidedly not dwelling on the possibility of never getting to see his friends again. It’s fine.

Amanda orders fancy takeout with fancier cocktails, and gives him space like she thinks he needs it, and he nicks a book from her collection to keep himself distracted while the murder investigation plays itself out. It’s probably not going to be to his taste. Then between one paragraph and the next he’s back at the Leverage base, quite abruptly, bringing with him one plate of Pad Thai and one copy of Dark Delights: The Vampyr’s Kiss, and he’s not sure why the others are laughing at the sight of him—or struggling not to, in Hardison’s case—but he’s pretty sure he ought to be more annoyed about it. It’s good to see them again, alright. It’s… a relief to know they were working on getting him back.

And Anton goes back to his life. Specifically, he goes back with: a few tips on how to avoid getting caught for minor crimes (after he promised to avoid certain types); a recipe jotted down by Eliot at Parker’s urging (they were really good waffles); and the dawning realisation that he can maybe expect to be treated better by people who claim to like him. Apparently even if they’re criminals.

He comes back to: the horribly dawning realisation that he’s partly responsible for at least one murder and sort of knew it was headed that way; one dead creep of a now-ex-boyfriend, which he has mixed feelings about; and an ex-client who was always sweet to him, who he was always sweet on though he didn’t feel safe admitting it, and who seems convinced they’re already navigating the new terrain of I’m Not Paying You To Bite And/Or Fuck Me Anymore as equals. Who already seems to think he’s staying here. Who seems to assume he’ll be staying here alone until he feels an odd tug of tenderness and invites her to stay the night with him.

…also, y'know, the rifle. He’s going to have fun figuring out what the hell to do with that without getting in touch with his shadier friends. Sadly, they’re not the type to make him breakfast or rescue him from dangerous situations.

He wakes the next morning with a familiar knot of dread inside his ribcage, a heavy grey thing as inevitable as weather, until he smells a familiar perfume and opens his eyes to Amanda’s curls spilling across a silk pillowcase. The dread loosens inside him like a sigh. He spends a few minutes watching her sleep before getting up and finding the recipe to make them both waffles.

He burns them a little, but it’s worth the effort to hear her laugh.

Quinn never lives down the doppelganger incident. It shouldn’t really surprise him to find out that the team took pictures. When he realises that one of them made its way to Hardison’s Nana (accidentally, Hardison swears), and she now has a framed picture of the team including Not-Quinn with his smile turned up to eleven and his kittyfangs on display, Quinn briefly considers murder. Possibly of his counterpart.

He doesn’t follow through. More satisfying to take a few lessons from Hardison, do a little photoshopping, then break into Nana’s house in the middle of the night instead.