Disclaimer: I own nothing here and am just doing this for fun and to ease my new-found Leverage addiction.

Now you, you're different. You fight like something's trying to get out of you.

---Jed Rucker

By the time he was in seventh grade, Eliot had lived in ten places. The shortest time in one place was four and a half months, the longest was twenty-three. Even though the names and places, streets and faces changed, most things stayed pretty much the same.

He was shorter than average and stocky. But to confuse that with fat was a serious mistake. He had ropey muscles from climbing trees, digging holes, and wrestling with his older brothers. Invariably, after a few days at a new school, a bully would come along and try to haze the new kid, which never ended well for the bully.

He was five when his daddy had called him into the garage. It was summer in Texas and the air was a thick, humid wall you had to move against. His daddy set a sweating beer can down on the workbench and crouched in front of him, explaining that it was time for him to learn how to finish a fight.

He'd been confused, but his daddy spoke so rarely, he knew he'd best listen and learn. Eliot focused on his upheld hands, letting the instructions wash over him.

When it was over, he was breathless and sweating, his arms heavy with exhaustion. Along with proper form, this lesson had been drilled into his head: he supposed wasn't to start fights, but he sure as hell was supposed to finish them.

Army brats tended to adopt one of two coping mechanisms: either they became everyone's best friend or they kept to themselves. Eliot had always opted to keep to himself. No point making friends if you were just going to move again soon. Besides, like his mama always said, when you're by yourself, you know you're in good company.

A few weeks before the end of his seventh grade school year, he was waiting for the bus when he realized he'd forgotten his permission slip for the field trip. If he didn't get it signed and turn it in the next day, he'd be sitting in the library while the rest of his class went to the amusement park.

He weighed the possible hassle and trouble of missing the bus against the certain tedium of sitting in the stuffy library. No, it wasn't even a contest. He trotted back to his locker, retrieved the permission slip, and was on his way out of the building when he heard an exasperated whine followed by a cruel laugh.

He ducked around the corner in time to see the class bully taunting a girl, holding a stack of comic books high over her head. He recognized her from his science class... Heather Clark. She sat in the back corner and talked even less than he did.

It wasn't in his nature to intervene, but the fundamental unfairness of the situation irked him. He never cared that bullies tried to pick on him because he could defend himself. But seeing a bully tormenting someone so utterly defenseless made him angry.

He wondered for half a second if he were starting a fight, but decided that no, he was just finishing someone else's fight. He punched the bully in the kidney and then elbowed him in the upper back. The comic books fell to the floor, pages fluttering on the descent before they hit the floor with a satisfying slapping noise.

The bully turned and swung wildly. Eliot dodged, then landed one well-aimed shot right in the kid's solar plexus. He staggered and Eliot hit him again in the same place. The bully put his hands up and edged away uneasily. He muttered something about it not being worth it, then walked away, quickly disappearing down the corridor.

Eliot glanced at Heather, who was staring at him, open-mouthed and dazed. She seemed okay so he ran to the bus stop just in time to catch the bus.

By the next morning, he'd already forgotten the fight, but Heather hadn't. After science class, she came over to him and stuttered her way through an awkward thank-you. He'd shrugged and said it was nothing, then walked away.

It would be overstating the case to say that Heather became his shadow. But she became a presence in his life: a conversation here, a shy smile there, borrowed comic books, shared science homework, and brief words exchanged in the lunch line.

Eliot didn't know how it happened, but he found himself looking for her in the cafeteria and sitting next to her on the bus. He liked her company. The only girls he'd really been around were his brothers' girlfriends, who chattered incessantly, giggled often and smelled like flowers. Heather wasn't like that at all.

She didn't talk just for the sake of talking. When she did talk, it was about interesting things. Like who would win in a fight between Batman and Wolverine, or how having a wookie would be much better than having a dog. She knew her way around the woods, wasn't afraid of the dark, and could climb a tree as quickly as he could.

The fact that she was a girl was easy to forget. What surprised Eliot was that he'd made a friend.

In seventh grade, Eliot started to experience an intense and surprising interest in girls. It reminded him of autumn hunting trips with his daddy. Creeping through the darkness, he'd watch that first bit of dim light filter through the bare branches and know that when the sun finally came out, everything would be different.

Right now, he could see that first bit of light: the way his pulse quickened when he saw certain girls or how he felt then they stood too close to him. He noticed that certain things could distract him entirely, like the time Vicki Talbot's top few buttons were undone and he could see the edge of her pink bra.

They'd been in English class and when the bell rang, he realized that he hadn't taken a single note, hadn't gotten the homework assignment, and didn't have a single memory of the class, except for creamy white skin and a lacy pink line.

It was exciting and terrifying and about seven other things he couldn't name. He just didn't know what would happen when daylight finally broke.

His mama always said that being observant was his special gift. Eliot would rather have been able to fly or turn invisible, but being observant was sometimes as good as reading minds. He just knew things about people sometimes.

After a few weeks of hanging out with Heather, he knew there was something wrong with her. Well, not with her, exactly, but with her family. Eliot hadn't been to her house or met her parents, but he was pretty sure the problem was her father, a salesman who traveled a lot.

Eliot was soon able to tell when he was out of town because Heather was a different person, happier and lighter. When he was home, she had a tendency to fade, her voice becoming soft and her smile going dim. She'd be distracted and anxious, terrified of being even thirty seconds late in getting home.

The day they found the purse, her dad was out-of-town. It was black with gold trim, which is what had caught Eliot's eye as he chased Heather through the woods. The gold stood out just enough against the carpet of brown oak tree leaves. He stopped and called her back, his hands on his hips as he leaned forward to look at his discovery.

She'd come back complaining that he was just trying to weasel out of their race, but had fallen silent when he'd nudged the gold trim with his sneaker. They spent a few minutes debating how a purse ended up in the middle of the woods. Heather's mind thought in terms of comic book plots and she could quickly weave a fantastic story to explain even the most mundane occurrence.

Before Heather could argue, he picked the purse up and unceremoniously emptied its contents onto the surface of a large, flat rock. An unopened package of chewing gum, a half-full box of Tic-Tacs, a small transparent case nearly bursting at the seams with makeup, a small hairbrush, a pink lighter, and a pack of Virginia Slims Menthol.

Eliot picked up the gum and tossed it to Heather, who made no effort to catch it. The pack bounced off her chest and landed in the leaves. He rolled his eyes and picked up the cigarettes, easing the cardboard top back. The smell reminded him of sore throats, stuffed up noses, and sitting on his mama's lap while she rubbed Vicks on his chest.

He eased a cigarette out of the pack and put it in the corner of his mouth, letting it dangle down like one of the guys in The Outsiders. He picked up the lighter, but Heather caught his arm, looping her hands around his elbow.

"Eliot, don't," she said, her eyes wide.

"It's no big deal," he replied, trying to shrug her off, but her grip was terrier-tight.

"Yes, it is." She yanked sharply on his arm, the surprise nearly knocking him off his feet. The cigarette slipped out of his mouth, and she stepped on it, grinding it out like it was about to start a forest fire.

"What's your problem?"

"Look, my dad....I would be in so much trouble. You can't even imagine how much trouble."

"Seeing as how we're the only ones here and your dad is out-of-town, I don't understand how he'd ever know."

"He'd know, Eliot. He'd just know. He knows everything." Her voice had taken on a desperate edge. She dropped his arm and brushed aside the contents of the purse so she could sit down on the rock. She looked like she was trying to fold in on herself, to take up as a little space as possible until finally she disappeared

"Well, there's nothing for him to know, is there?" He gently kicked her shin. She wouldn't look at him and that made him feel like an asshole.

Heather made a little sound, almost like a hiccup, and Eliot knew she was crying. He wished he'd never found that stupid purse. He didn't know how to make things right, but he had an idea, at least, of how to make things change.

"We still got a race to finish, Clark," he said, giving her a soft push. "When I win, I'm going to keep your copy of Watchmen." He took off, his strides long but slow so he could hear when she gave chase.

It took several agonizing seconds, but her competitive streak kicked in and he heard her footsteps behind him. He grinned and turned on the speed, ready to make it an interesting race.

The list of things that Eliot's daddy refused to talk about was so long, it was easier to list the things he would talk about: baseball, hunting, and dogs.

He was a good man but distant and unknowable. Sometimes, Eliot was tempted to think that his daddy preferred the company of Vida, the three-legged bluetick coonhound he'd found abandoned in the woods years earlier. But every once in a while, he'd catch a look on his daddy's face that put the fear to rest.

Eliot found himself wanting to talk to his daddy about Heather. He still didn't know what was going on inside that brick ranch house on the other side of the woods, but he knew it was wrong. He wanted to tell his daddy about it, but he knew that he couldn't. Someone else's family wasn't like a run-down car battery or a leaky faucet. It wasn't something you could just go in and fix.

Eliot also didn't know exactly what was going on inside of him. Sometimes, he'd look at Heather and he'd just see Heather, freckles scattered across her nose and green eyes that sparkled with gold in the sun. Other times, he'd look at her, and he'd see This Girl, soft blonde hair, curves, and impossibly long legs. A few times, when the bus took a corner too tightly, she slid against him and he'd had to fight to urge to put an arm around her and keep her there, breathing in the citrusy scent of her hair while his leg grew uncomfortably warm.

Eliot had a feeling that daylight was coming, and he wasn't sure what to do about it. He wanted to ask his daddy, but he couldn't find the words.

The summer before eighth grade, Eliot and Heather spent nearly every day together. They played war games in the woods and raced their bikes through the empty streets. They swam in the community swimming pool and spent time at the batting cages.

His mama made the mistake of calling them Mutt and Jeff, which made his brothers howl with laughter and debate which one was the dog. That particular incident ended with a bloody nose, a black eye, and a two-week grounding.

Those two weeks made Eliot edgy and unpleasant because they forced him to realize the hole that moving would leave in his life. The next move was inevitable, and for the first time, he hated the idea of a fresh start.

The day that he was ungrounded, Heather was waiting for him outside. She was wearing red shorts and a baseball jersey, her hair in a high ponytail to keep it off her neck. She was This Girl, for a moment, until she laughed and tossed a rock at him, the transition back to just Heather was put them back on familiar ground.

She led him into the woods, telling him about a summer tanager's nest that she'd found earlier in the week. After a short walk, she pointed up into a tree and he could see a small nest, about a quarter of the way up.

She walked to the base of a nearby tree, telling him that it was possible to climb up for a better view into the nest. She raised her arms above her head and jumped, catching the lowest branch between her fingertips. She scrambled, swaying, trying to get better purchase as her baseball jersey rode up.

Eliot saw the curve of her hips, a couple of dark freckles, and a circular scar about the size of a quarter on her lower back, just above the waistband of her shorts.

"He's just a bully," said Eliot, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

She abruptly stopped moving, hanging for a minute, her eyebrows knitted together in confusion. Then she let go, dropping lightly to her feet in front of him.

"Who?"

"Your dad. I know, Heather. I mean, I don't know everything, but I know that whatever he's doing, it ain't right."

She folded her arms and turned away, but Eliot wouldn't let her go that easily. "I can teach you how to defend yourself."

She laughed, a bitter, broken sound. "You want me to fight my dad? Look, it isn't that bad. And I've only got like four and a half years left, and then I'll be out of there."

"You know that living at home isn't supposed to feel like a prison sentence, right?"

She shrugged and looked down. He gently pried her right arm away from her body and molded her fingers into a fist. He bent her elbow and positioned her hand in front of her face. Then he did the same with her left hand, placing it a few inches below and to the side of her right.

Eliot put his hands on her hips, pointedly reminding himself that she was Heather, plain old Heather, just like always. He applied pressure lightly to get her to half-turn, explaining as he did so that she didn't want to stand straight on, that it was all about staying closed off and limiting the available target.

He kicked at her feet, goading her to put them in the proper positions, then told her to try moving a bit. She was light on her feet, graceful, and she giggled because finally all those ballet lessons her mother dragged her to were paying off.

Eliot took a few steps back and showed her the jab, how it all came from the shoulder and needed to end with a twist and a snap. He watched her mirror his movements, her forehead creased in concentration. He felt like she was flickering between Heather and This Girl, and it was nearly too much to handle, like watching the wheel spin around on a game show and having no idea where it would finally stop.

He declared her ready to practice and stepped back in front of her, holding his hands up at chest height. He instructed her to hit his hands, giving orders and directions the same way his daddy had in the garage that sweaty summer so long ago.

When she could consistently land good punches, Eliot became a moving target, dancing and weaving, holding his hands in different spots.

"No one's going to stand still and let you hit him," he said, the words coming out in uneven bursts with his breath.

Soon he stopped giving directions and just focused on blocking. She was gaining confidence, getting the hang of it. It wasn't long before he missed a block, her hand skimming off his cheekbone.

Heather stopped and apologized, but he laughed. He wasn't hurt; it had just taken him by surprise. She reached out and ran a finger lightly over his face, reassuring herself that she hadn't actually hurt him. The light touch made him shiver, and he covered it by stepping back and telling her to square up again.

She started aggressively, the jabs coming hard and fast. It took every ounce of his concentration to keep up with her. His arms were getting tired, and he decided that getting out of her range might be a better way to play it. He backed up and she moved forward effortlessly, backing him right into a tree.

Eliot dropped his hands and she did the same, but didn't step away. She was inches from him, her gaze straying from his eyes to his mouth. He was reminded of the whitewater rafting trip Uncle Randy had taken him on, when the water would sudden tumble over a line of rocks and the raft would hang for a second before dropping. That second of hanging, of not knowing what was going to happen, was the good kind of scary.

He gave her a small smile and whispered "hi," just to anchor himself. She answered, her voice matching his in softness and surprise. In that moment, she was simultaneously Heather and This Girl, and all rational thought abandoned him. Operating on a dazed autopilot, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers.

Time fell away. All there'd ever been was her soft mouth and warm hands, the whining mosquitos and warbling birds fading into the distance as they tumbled head-first into a new world. Daylight had well and truly broken.

Uncle Randy came to visit for Eliot's birthday in October. The fall day was crisp and clear, but still warm enough for a barbecue. Heather was there although she had to leave early. After lunch, Eliot followed Uncle Randy out to the yard where they lazily threw a football while they talked.

"She seems like a nice girl," said Uncle Randy as he let off a perfect spiral aimed at Eliot's chest.

He caught the ball easily, turning it over in his hands before sending it back to his uncle. "Yeah, she is."

"But?" asked Randy as reached out to grab the ball.

"But?" parroted Eliot with a hint of confusion.

"I hear a 'but' in there somewhere. She's a nice girl, but..." replied Randy as he dumped off a shovel pass for a bit of variety.

Eliot had to hustle to grab the ball before it dropped on the grass. "Oh no, she's a great girl. It's more her dad."

Randy flashed a toothy grin. "Dads....The rest of your life is going to be spent dealing with girls' dads. No guy is ever good enough for Daddy's little girl."

"I guess," shrugged Eliot. He lined his fingers up on the laces and got ready to throw the football. "But it's more complicated than that."

"You're a good kid. Just be that good kid and he'll come around eventually."

Eliot nodded and hefted the football at his uncle, who was always good for advice but this time, he seemed to be giving it from another planet. He considered explaining the situation, but it really wasn't his problem to share. Besides, things had been somewhat better recently. Her father had been traveling often, and when he was home, Eliot stayed at their place as much as possible, both of them hoping that her dad went to sleep before it was time for Eliot to go home.

Randy caught the football and walked over to Eliot. "Look, you can expect the worst of people, and never be surprised. Or you can expect the best and avoid being a miserable bastard, even if you're sometimes disappointed."

They watched silently as his daddy headed into the garage, a six-pack dangling from his hand like a string of freshly-caught fish.

"Your daddy's never been surprised in his life....well, not since he joined the army at least. But that's no way to live," said Randy. He aimed a playful cuff at his nephew's ear, which Eliot blocked and followed up with a pulled punch to his uncle's jaw.

"God, kid, you're going to be a helluva fighter when you're fully grown."

Eliot groaned. "If I ever grow."

"You will. Trust your Uncle Randy on this one."

The week before Thanksgiving, Eliot's mother sat him down for some good news/bad news. The bad news was that they'd be moving to Fort Campbell, Kentucky over winter break. The good news was that this would definitely be the final move before his daddy retired, so Eliot would be able to start and finish high school at the same place.

He'd been dreading this kind of announcement for months. Later that night, when his parents were out bowling and his brothers weren't home, he told Heather over the phone. He didn't trust himself to say the words while she was looking at him. She was distracted and edgy, which annoyed Eliot until he realized he could hear the low rumbling of her father's raised voice in the background.

"Do you want to me to come over?" he asked, his fist involuntarily clenching as the rumbling got louder.

"No, it's too late. Anyway, you're not going to be around for much longer."

Her words hurt, even though he didn't think she meant them that way. "Remember, Heather, he's just a bully. The sooner you stand up to him, the sooner he'll back off."

She sighed and he could picture the breath lifting her bangs off her forehead. "Eliot..."

He heard a pounding and then the door to her room creaked open. She dropped the phone and he heard rustling and indistinct voices as the receiver bounced and rolled on the bed. It eventually came to rest and he could hear clearly as Heather tried to stand her ground. The next sound was a sickening crack, and Eliot dropped his own phone.

He tore out of the house, clad only in sweatpants and a tank top, and headed toward her house, jumping fences and taking shortcuts. He could barely feel anything although he was dimly aware of branches hitting his face and the ground hard under his feet. He turned the corner onto her street, grabbing at the stitch in his side and feeling like his lungs might explode.

He was too late. An ambulance and police car were parked in front of the house, their revolving lights throwing sickly blue and red light over the quiet street. A knot of nosy neighbors was clustered on the sidewalk, watching as the paramedics wheeled out a stretcher, Heather small and broken in the middle of it, her mother trailing shell-shocked behind them. He was vaguely aware of the ambulance door slamming shut and the neighbors murmuring about an accident, a tragedy, such a nice girl.

Eliot could hear his blood pounding in his ears, the adrenaline and anger surging like a flash flood after a spring storm. Her father stood in front of the house, arms folded and a cigar clamped between his teeth. Eliot's field of vision narrowed and his hearing sharpened until all he could see was her father and all he could hear was his own rage.

He pushed through the neighbors and walked with purpose, intent on hurting that bastard as much and as quickly as possible. Eliot wanted to repay him tenfold for every time he'd ever laid a finger on his daughter.

Eliot struck hard and fast, making each blow count. He was dimly aware of the cigar landing against his arm, but he didn't care. He couldn't feel pain, only simmering, boiling fury. He'd never seen his hands move so fast, never felt so steady on his feet.

It wasn't long before a cop tried to catch him around the waist and haul him off, but Eliot threw an elbow and danced out of range, coming up around the side of Mr. Clark to land a heavy jab right behind his ear, followed by a hook to the chin. The man swung out wildly but Eliot was quick and certain, his reflexes honed from a lifetime of fighting his older brothers.

It took two cops to pull Eliot away and deposit him in the squad car. He slouched in the seat, leaning his head against the window as he tried to catch his breath. He realized his bare feet were cold and bleeding, and that his knuckles were bruised. The front door opened and a large cop eased into the driver's seat. Eliot looked up and met his eyes in the rearview mirror.

"It was an accident, son. Just an accident."

"Like hell," growled Eliot, not giving one damn about minding his manners.

"She fell down the stairs and hit her head. She was always a clumsy kid."

Eliot just shook his head, knowing that it was pointless to argue.

"C'mon, son. Let's get you home. She's going to be fine."

But she wasn't. And neither was he.

Eliot's daddy met them at the front door with a wordless frown that sent Eliot straight up to his room without a flicker of protest. He sat on his bed, hands folded, elbows resting on his knees, and waited. He could hear the murmur of voices from the living room, but couldn't pick up any words or even the tone. He suspected he was in trouble, but he had no way of gauging how much.

A sharp knock at the door announced his daddy's presence, and Eliot mumbled in reply, then sat up straight. His daddy walked in, dragged the desk chair across room and sat down in front of Eliot.

"You want to tell me what happened?"

Eliot didn't know where to start. He barely knew what had happened, just that seeing Mr. Clark, knowing what he'd done, had flipped a switch somewhere inside of him, lifted the gate on something fierce and vengeful that he hadn't been able to control.

"He hurt her. Bad. And it wasn't the first time."

"So you hurt him?"

Eliot looked down at his bruised knuckles, felt the circular burn on his forearm. "Yes, sir. I tried to."

His daddy nodded slowly. "Get some sleep. We'll talk about this in the morning."

He was confused and uneasy. If he was in trouble, he just wanted to know how much and what the punishment was going to be. Not knowing, having it hanging over his head, was a much worse fate.

"How much trouble am I in?"

His daddy stood up and pushed the chair back under the desk. "I don't know yet. We'll see what happens next."

The next morning, his daddy was gone before Eliot woke up. His mama fussed over him, making him breakfast and trying to get him to talk about what had happened. Her face, kind and concerned, hurt him more than angry words. He knew he'd done something wrong, and he felt a stranger inside him, a strong and angry presence.

School was a nightmare. He could hear the whispers and feel the pointed stares, but he didn't know what to do about it. He tried to ignore it, a plan that worked to some degree, but he could feel the stranger growing stronger and angrier, each hushed voice and knowing eye providing a little more fuel.

At lunch, a jerk from Eliot and Heather's science class, made the mistake of making an ill-timed joke as Eliot was passing. Without thinking, Eliot brought his tray down hard on the kid's head, then pulled him up by his shirt collar.

Like the night before, his hands were lightening fast and his feet were rock steady. Unlike the night before, he could feel pain, could feel every punch he gave and received, but it felt good, right, the way it should be. When the fight was finally broken up, Eliot was bleeding from his lip. The other kid was in much worse shape.

He waited on a hard bench outside the principal's office, the cold-pack on his lip growing warm. He'd been told he was suspended for the rest of the week and that they were calling his mother to collect him, so it was a surprise to hear the heavy thud of military boots on the linoleum.

His daddy spent a few minutes inside the office and then walked out, barely waiting for Eliot to follow him. In the car, Eliot averted his eyes and waited for his his daddy to speak, but the man's jaw stayed clenched as he started up the car and pulled out of the parking lot.

He took the first left and the next right, which puzzled Eliot since they were headed away from their house. But he kept his mouth shut. He could feel the disappointment and anger that filled the car. It took him the better part of an hour to figure out where they were headed, the destination popping into his head just minutes before they pulled into the parking lot of the state park where they'd gone hunting and fishing throughout the last year.

His daddy got out of the car and walked over to the post and rail fence that bordered the lot. He put a foot up on the bottom rail and rested his forearms against the top rail, leaning forward as his eyes swept across the forest. Eliot stood next to him uncertainly.

"Do you remember Bo?"

Eliot blinked, confused as he nodded that yes, of course he remembered. Bo had been his daddy's best hunting dog, a vicious cur who'd met a bad end after he bit one too many mailmen. Eliot had four perfectly circular scars on his calf that pretty much guaranteed he'd never forget Bo.

"Bo, when he was working, was the best hunting dog I've ever seen. But when he wasn't working, well, he was just a liability. This thing....it can work for you or it can work against you, but you're the only one who can make it work. You got that?"

"I got it." Eliot ran his hands over the rough wood of the railing, feeling the splinters digging into his skin.

"You sure? Because I promise you, I won't abide this kind of nonsense. I didn't teach you to start fights. That's not the kind of man I want you to become."

Eliot was silent.

"You can't control what happens around you. The only thing you can control is in here," said his daddy, tapping two heavy fingers on Eliot's chest, just above his heart.

The words hung in the air, a heavy chain that Eliot could slip around the thing inside of him, collaring it the same way the heavy silver pincher chain had collared Bo and kept him under control. Eliot knew he could do it, could make this thing work for him.

Maybe if he knew then the effort it would take, the constant struggle to contain it, he might have made different choices, might have found a way to let it go. But in that moment, standing in the sunlight with his daddy, he only knew that letting go would mean forgetting Heather and he couldn't do that.

He'd carry this thing inside of him and would struggle his whole life to keep it under control because he knew the type of man he wanted to be. And, more importantly, he knew the type of man he wanted to destroy.