An Encyclopaedia of Amusements

alright buckle up motherfuckers, i’m about to school y’all about this wonderful show called Leverage.

let’s start with the premise: they’re a bunch of criminals who come together to work as a team and to “pick up where the law leaves off.” aka: they do illegal shit to legally take out the bad guys, i.e. framing/ruining the reputation of/revealing actual law-breaking by embezzling rich politicians, dirty cops, corporations doing secret shit on the down-low, etc.

each episode is a different bad guy they need to take down for doing something terrible, and each episode they come up with a different scheme to take them out. the team consists of: the hacker, the hitter, the grifter, the thief, and the mastermind behind all their plots. they’re all thieves at one point or another, they all grift, and they all contribute to the plan, but these are their Roles. i’ll go more in-depth on the characters in a sec.

now, i know what you’re thinking already: “wow bruh this show must be edgy af, being about actual criminals doing super illegal shit???” bUT NO. THIS SHOW COULD HAVE BEEN SO DARK BASED ON THE CONCEPT, BUT IT’S LITERALLY THE NICEST, MOST ENJOYABLE SHOW EVER.

it’s also SERIOUSLY unproblematic????? like to unrealistic levels. like Nate’s alcoholism is treated with respect and not just something he “gets over,” but despite his issues, he’s held accountable for when he’s a dick, Parker is pretty clearly neurodivergent and she’s never!! forced to be anything else!!!! anyway i could go on and on.

so let’s meet the gang.

this is Nate Ford:

he’s the mastermind, he’s brilliant and the genius behind each of their convoluted plans. he’s a jerk sometimes, and grouchy, but he’s got good reason, and he NEVER crosses over into “angsty white man justifies his assholery because of his Issues.” he used to work for an insurance company tracking down criminals and thieves before A Thing happened and he became the Dad of a group of them. he makes bad life choices, so i relate. also his son died and he has a rad ex-wife and he struggles with alcoholism. we love him.

this is Sophie Devereaux:

she’s the grifter. she’s a great actress but only when she’s breaking the law it’s a running gag. she’s terrible on an actual stage l m a o. she’s the Mom of the group, and she and Nate are lowkey flirting the entire show. she tells it like it is, but is v compassionate. sassy af. british af. would probably console you about your husband leaving you before stealing your rare artifacts. high-class which shows in the fact that she was primarily an art thief before joining the team. i wouldn’t trust her with my jewelry, but i’d tell her all my secrets, and tbh that’s the best summary of her character that you’ll get.

this is Eliot Spencer:

hooooooooooo boy. where do i begin to describe Eliot Spencer? wel, for starters, he’s the “hitter” of the group aka he beats people up when they can’t sneak their way in or out of a place. or when things go wrong. he’s super fucking badass oh my god??? like i’m pretty sure there’s maybe only one or two times in the ENTIRE. SHOW. that he can’t win a fight?? he also has a Super Secret Dark Past bc he used to be a hitman for hire, which he regrets deeply and is happy to have changed bUT AGAIN!! IT’S NOT A WHITE MALE ANGST THING. he isn’t obsessed with attoning for his actions and his scenes aren’t eaten up with Angst and Melodrama. he also has anger issues, but again, it’s not the same stereotype that you’re used to. he controls it, and he never takes it on on anybody who doesn’t deserve it (aka the bad guys). he gets around with women but he’s not sexist?? he cares about his partners.

also he’s a hardcore chef and will Fite You about food. anyway Eliot is basically the Broody White Man With Dark Past trope turned on it’s head. he’s lovable and sarcastic and could kill a man but would prefer to make you an Omelette Du Fromage or some shit.

this is Alec Hardison, aka My Son:

this is my baby. he’s a nerd and a geek and I Would Die For Him. he’s basically everything that’s good and pure in the world. the epitome of a cinnamon roll. he’s sweet and gentle and wouldn’t hurt a fly–unless that fly is a corrupt ceo personally doing dirty business, in which case that motherfucker is going down with the help of his epic hacking skills. btw did i mention he’s the hacker? yeah. he’s super fucking smart and his sense of humor could rival the sahara desert in dryness. he always makes star trek references and he has a gr8 fashion style and he irritates Eliot to no end, lmao. #platoniclifepartners, tbh. did i mention he’s the sweetest person ever? no? he is.

this is Parker:

she’s the thief, and predictably, she loves money and expensive things. tbh she’d probably stab you faster than anybody else on the team would (and has) but also she is smol and needs to be protected. she’s a killer rabbit. she’s an oddball and in the beginning, most of the others don’t know what to make of her, but they grow used to her. she’s nd af, probably autistic, and Does Not Understand Socialization. same, Parker, same. guess what? she’s never forced into acting like somebody she’s not!! when she has to be the grifter for the con job and interact with people, she’s patiently coached by Sophie, who never belittles or mocks her, and explains it in ways she can understand. she’s weird and i love her.

did i mention how unproblematic this show is? i did? well too fucking bad because i’m gonna say it again: this show is so unproblematic. like what i already said with Nate’s addiction and Parker’s neurodivergence, but wAIT! THERE’S MORE. 

Eliot hates guns–detests them–and won’t use them, he’s like constantly grabbing the mooks’ guns and unloading them and tossing them somewhere and it’s basically a huge trigger for him. and it’s always respected. also there’s scenes where like in the middle of a job Parker has to change into a costume and neither of men who are attracted to her–Eliot and Hardison–sneak a peak at her. they both look away during that shit and there is like, never any gross sexist jokes about it. or other things. i love it. also any romantic relationship that develops takes season of growth and shit. there’s nothing particularly Gay, but while heterosexual, it’s not Het.

the recurring antagonist is played by Mark Sheppard, a character called Sterling, who is basically a lawful good Crowley.

also one time they stole an entire country. 

Leverage is fucking rad, and the concept is amazing and it coulda been so edgy and shit, but it’s literally so pure and sweet and friggin hilarious and about a bunch of people becoming a family and you need to watch it, my friend. now.

I keep thinking about a relationship that lasted over 6,000 years, a relationship that did not just change the parties involved, it shaped them. 

Two beings that would die for another, and perhaps even more telling, would LIVE for one another. Who would stand together, against heaven and hell and all their armies and have faith that it is enough.

Who trust in themselves, in their relationship and the world that they create between the two of them, enough to KNOW that what they are doing is not just the Right thing, but the Correct thing. 

I keep thinking about the moments, big and small. Of favors done and promises kept. Of thousands of years of single moments, built into a lifetime, into a hundred lifetimes. 

I keep trying to put it into words, the kind of love that reshapes the world. The kind of love that defies reality itself to separate them. 

I keep trying to apply the same shipping laws I have been applying for over half my life now, the kind that says a happily ever after comes with a kiss, a touch, a fade to black, heavy with implication, and I can’t.

Maybe it’s the ace in me. 

Maybe it’s me, maybe I feel a kinship to angels and demons, to the kind of love that is true and real and deep, and doesn’t need to be bound in touch.

But I can’t help but think that, with everything they have done together, all the things they have done for and with one another, a kiss is the least important. 

Every step, every mark of a relationship has been charted between them. They have clasped hands and defied heaven and hell to stand against them both, and came out victorious. 

The therapist nodded. She wasn’t taking notes, simply leaning back in the comfortable chair across from him, and she was always doing something with her hands. It’s crocheting today, she says she’s making a baby blanket for a friend. Sometimes it was origami, or knitting, sometimes she’d be sewing, and once she was doing some kind of leather work. Braiding something for some reason. 

He’d sat on about every chair and couch in the room before settling on the overstuffed couch. He could sit sideways and not look at her react, or sit up, or whatever. Sometimes he didn’t want to see her face when he said something, and sometimes he had to. 

“Was there anybody who did?” she asked. Her voice was smooth and soothing. She was paying attention to her work, but also paying attention to him. She said that if she’s writing it makes some people nervous, but if she’s doing something else then the conversation feels more casual, even if it’s not.

Every once in a while, she got this look on her face that he suspected means he said something extremely interesting (or upsetting, or whatever) and was trying not to show it, but it never showed in her voice. He liked that about her. 

He nodded. “When I was younger, we had this nanny. I used to just call her Nanny, I don’t remember if I ever knew her name. She was Scottish. She was real weird, but she’d spend as much time with me as I liked. She was always there, if the gardener wasn’t.”

“A gardener as well?” 

He nodded. “He always had time for me. No matter what. He’d drop whatever he was doing to talk to me. He was from… I don’t remember. Very rural, this fellow.” He thought about it. “I don’t know what happened to them. I think they left to do other things, not too long before my eleventh birthday. I never saw them again. He was kind of boring, sometimes, but he always talked to me like I was the most important person he ever saw.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “Nanny would too, actually. I sometimes think that they’re why I’m, you know, not as fucked up as I could be. That just knowing I could go find the gardener and he’d tell me what the rabbits were doing today, whatever he was doing, that I could tell him about… whatever. Or Nanny. She used to tell me to smite my enemies, I was never sure how to take it.” 

It was just a moment and gone, a single expression of sheer bafflement, which made Warlock laugh a little.

So I’m going to suggest taking this therapist and turning her into Linda Martin, Psychiatrist.

Like, I don’t think it should be an aromantic-exclusive option, or a plan B when you and your best friend are still single at 40 and want to take yourselves out of the dating market.

I’ve heard it mostly as that backup plan, that “if I don’t find anyone, I’ll just marry Trish haha”, and I don’t think that’s even what I’m talking about normalizing. That’s a secondary outcome, seen as “giving up” on finding “real love”, and even if a pair of friends go for it, it’s plagued with this general feeling of “sub par”.

What I mean is that marrying a best friend (or having a committed intimate or emotional platonic relationship) should be seen as just as worth doing as marrying someone you’re in love with. It should be normal for teenagers to try as many committed friendships as they do romantic relationships. It should be normal for someone to say “this is my best friend and if everything works out, maybe we’ll move in together later” or “Trish and I have been roommates for two years now. We’re considering adopting soon, or Trish might carry a child!”

And as an aromantic person, it shouldn’t be strange for me to say “I prefer friendship to romance”. People should hear that and nod their heads like “that’s understandable. John feels the same.”

Hell, I see so many people expressing that they prefer their friends’ company to their romantic partner’s. “My friends understand me better and I think treat me better” and they’re expected to go home to this person, to marry and have kids with this person. It’s bizarre to me. Your platonic feelings for your friend aren’t inferior to your romantic feelings for your boyfriend, and if one of them treats you better than the other, I think you should probably rethink which one is your primary partner.

I also find it strange that it’s not more common in poly spaces for a friend to be considered a legitimate “partner”. In a world where friendships were just as likely to bloom into life partnerships as romantic relationships, I think polyamory would be much more commonplace. “I committed to Josephine about a year ago and now we own a home, but I fell in love with Joe about six months ago and we’re all trying to make it work.” Josephine shouldn’t have to worry about her partner leaving her for Joe just because their bond is romantic and therefore the “sensible” relationship to choose over the other.

I’m just ranting at this point, but I reiterate: committed friendships should not be seen as strange and “sad”, but as a legitimate option for a lifetime commitment. Not just for aromantics like myself, but for everyone. It should just be normal.

“Also, there’s Clint,” Bruce adds. “I don’t know where he’s gone.”

“I don’t really need t… uh.” Bucky trails off in the middle of his sentence when he sees the blond man in his underwear wandering over to the kitchen.

It’s not just that he’s not wearing clothes but also that his underwear consists of very tight, very short boxer briefs in a shade of neon purple. His ass is… impressive, Bucky notes distantly. They all stare at his back collectively as he seemingly ignores them, heading straight for the coffeepot. He reaches up and Bucky sees more scars than he has himself, lacing up and down his body and catching the sunlight.

“Clint,” Natasha says, exasperated. She doesn’t receive an answer and Bucky watches as the blond man tips the entire pot up and starts drinking it. Huh. He’s thought about doing that a few times, but he’d been under the impression it wasn’t allowed.

Then he turns around and Bucky feels like his internal organs drop out on the floor.

Harry Potter: Oops, sorry about that.

Crowley: No, it was my fault, don’t worry about it.

Public: *stares at the two men making strange hissing noises at each other*

The young man and Crowley turned as one and hissed at the person, who suddenly remembered an urgent and important errand elsewhere and ran off to sort it.

Then they turned back towards each other. The young man scratched the back of his head. “Um, this is awkward,” he said, in English, “I don’t run into this often. On the street. Or… Ever. Actually.” He had casually laid a hand on his hip, and Crowley was suddenly sure that there was a wand concealed in that pocket. 

Crowley remembered that it was very common in England for serpent speech to be considered a trait of evil. Which, well… anyway. “It’s not common,” Crowley allowed. “Special circumstances all around, I’m sure.” He tried to think of a good way to defuse the situation. “Fancy a pint?”

The young man looked relieved. “Yeah.”

“Crowley,” he said, offering a hand.

“Harry.”

“C’mon, I know a pub nearby. First round’s on me.” 

If Harry was surprised by being led to the Cauldron Bottom, he didn’t show it. It was one of the few wizard pubs not attached to Diagon Alley in London- they were a growing population, but still unusual. It was middle of the afternoon and there were a few regulars at the bar, but it was otherwise quiet. 

Crowley nodded to the one-eyed barkeep, who nodded back, and then gave a friendlier wave to Harry. “Evenin’, Mr. Crowley, Mr. Potter,” she said. 

“Room in the back open, Jane?” Harry asked. “We’ve got some business to discuss.” 

Jane nodded. “Usuals for ya both?”

They nodded.

“Go on back, I’ll be right there.” 

They met on accident, as many a great things happen, while using a spell and a mirror to try and get a hold of Dorothy in Oz. Instead, they saw a bookshop and a man in a cream suit on the other side of the normally reflective surface.

“Oh, hello. What have we here?”

Sam, Dean, and Cas all shared a look of confusion. It was called magic for the simple fact it wasn’t an exact science and they’d possibly taken a wrong turn*.

“Um, hi,” Sam tried. “W-we’re looking for- or, well, were trying to get ahold of Dorothy? Baum?”

The man wasn’t listening, fingers trailing the edges of the mirror on his side. “How fascinating. Enchanted, yes, of course. Incredible.” He grinned. “Humans are so brilliant, don’t you think?” Flushing, he had the sense to look abashed. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry. I’m being rude. My name is Aziraphale. Owner of this bookshop. You were looking for… which book?”

“No,” Dean stated, voice flat and making the other man’s smile falter. “A person. Dorothy Baum. Hero of Oz. Witch killer.”

“Angel,” another voice on the other side of the mirror called out, “who are you talking to?”

“O-oh, well,” a lanky figure all swagger and a black suit stepped into view, “it’s most curious, actually.”

He tipped his head forward, yellow, slitted eyes peering at them over the sunglasses he hadn’t removed upon coming indoors**. “Bloody enchanted mirror is what it is, Angel. How long have you had this?”

“Oh, there was a wonderful little market held at the park–”

The man with red hair straightened, pointing to them. “Are they from your side? They’re not mine.”

Aziraphale wrung his fingers, looking quite worried. “I don’t think they’re from either side, actually. I don’t even think they’re from here.”

Yellow eyes flicked to them. “Oh, that’s worse. That’s not just an enchanted mirror, then.” He whipped around to the other man. “Are you telling me you accidentally ended up with some sort of ancient celestial artifact and didn’t realize?”

“Well, I was certainly drawn to it. I-I simply thought it was because it was so lovely…”

“Bugger all, Angel. You better hope your side doesn’t find out or they’ll show up to collect it. Last thing we need is those patsies thinking we’re dealing in black market artifacts***.” He sneered, coming forward, face nearly to the glass as he inspected it. “They’ll start getting all nosy.”

“I wouldn’t touch it, dear,” warned Aziraphale, hands outstretched. “I don’t want it to hurt you. Or worse. Oh dear, that would be dreadful.”

Dean’s mouth was twisted, arms folded. “I have so many questions.”

“Oh?” asked the man with yellow eyes. “What about?”

“What kind of munchkin are you?”

He straightened, indignant and baffled. He looked at Aziraphale. “The bloody hell is he talking about?”

“I-I’m honestly not sure, you see. They asked about Dorothy. You know, the one from Oz. And I thought they were inquiring about the books, but–”

“They use a magic mirror for a little shopping when they could just watch the movie? Nah.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam interrupted. They turned their heads. “We were trying to reach our friend Dorothy Baum. Are you not in Oz?”

The man in black threw his head back on a bark of laughter, but Aziraphale looked even more flustered.

“Oz? Heavens, no. We’re in England****.” He scowled at the other man. “Crowley, dear, I do wish you’d stop laughing. It’s very rude.”

Sam, Dean, and Cas all straightened. “Crowley?!”

Both Crowley and Aziraphale snapped their attention to the mirror. Crowley’s eyes narrowed in a look that wasn’t so much confusion as it was suspicion. It was a look he often wore.

“Where did you fellows say you were from?”

“Earth. Adjacent,” Dean said.*****

Crowley’s posture relaxed and he flopped into a chair with a wave of his hand. “Well, that explains the wrong number.”

Castiel moved closer to the mirror. “Are you a demon, as well?”

Yellow eyes slid his way. “That’s generally what happens when an angel falls. Gotta say, demons certainly look, well… practically normal in your world. It’s almost boring.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale chastized.

Cas straightened with a glare. “I’m an angel of the lord.”

Crowley brightened and slapped Aziraphale’s sleeve with the back of his hand. “See? They are from your side!”

The blond man watched them with a wary and most perplexed expression. “I believe more proper introductions may be in order… My name is Aziraphale, owner of this bookshop. In England. Which, I think, I already mentioned now I say it. Oh dear. I am, er, well, a Principality and the Angel of the Eastern Gate.”

“Formerly,” added Crowley.

“Dear,” said Aziraphale with patient exasperation, “I haven’t been officially notified of a demotion since, well…”

The demon grinned at him, head lolled back. “Since we saved the world from Heaven and Hell’s total muck up of The ineffable Plan? Their failed Armageddon they’re pretending never happened? I’m just glad they’ve decided to ignore us.” He popped up from the chair, straightening his suit and dusting it off. “Anthony J. Crowley– not at your service.“ He jerked his thumb at Aziraphale. “I generally go where the angel goes. Demon and one of the Fallen.”

Aziraphale made a small noise, looking quite bothered, and shifted awkwardly. “Not so much fallen as having, well, ‘sauntered vaguely downward’?” he tried, voice pitched with uncertainty he’d remembered the words right.

Crowley gave him a grin both toothy and incredibly fond to the point of making the three on the other side of the mirror feel awkward, as displays of public affection often do.

“That’s my angel.”

Clearing his throat, Dean looked away. “Uh, yeah. Wrong number. Sam, how do we hang up?”

Aziraphale brightened and raised a hand. “Oh, I can help.”

He snapped his fingers and the mirror returned to its regular appearance of a perfectly normal wall decoration displaying their reflections.

With the phone call ended, parties on both sides shared a moment of confusion over what had just taken place, and then promptly decided it was time for lunch.

–

*As is often the case when men drive and no one is willing to admit the error, causing a great deal more trouble than had a simple conversation been had, wrongs admitted, and perhaps utilization of a map.

**As he was want to do in order to hide his rather inhuman eyes. It was something most others found quite pretentious, had Crowley been at all bothered to notice or care.

***They both had, in fact, been dealing in black market deals and backroom miracles practically since the Garden and had done quite well at it. While Crowley considered it part of his job and thought nothing of it, Aziraphale was a bit more bothered and contented himself that having a job– of sorts– and income, well, it was practically a sign of how well he’d acclimated to life on Earth, which was part of his job while assigned there, anyway.

****Crowley and Aziraphale had gone to Oz together after the French Revolution in search of cravats and crepes to Aziraphale’s heart’s content. It was the first of many holidays they took together.

*****Dean was incorrect. They were, in fact, five worlds over and to the left.

“1450 italy? does it look like I have the time to dye you wool? nO. YOU’RE GOING TO THE 1980s”

“Upper middle class?!?!? You told me upper class! FUCK YEAH THERE’S A DIFFERENCE!!!”

“How about kimoNO.”

“Look me in the eyes. I do not care what you want. This is the 1500s. You absolutely cannot wear trousers.”

“Another court gown?? Here’s a novel idea: go as a peasant for once in your life. Why do you do this to me? You’re fucking sadists that’s why.”

“Don’t mind me, I’ll just be up all night hand painting silk.”

Give me two friends who have to keep biting their tongue to not introduce the other as “my best friend,” because wow, this person really is my best friend but what if I’m not theirs, and best is such a strong word, and will they be offended, and I don’t want to slip up they’re so cool

Give me a completely platonic boy/girl duo who sees each other as brother and sister but not wanting to say so, because that’s a really unusual thing to do, and in so many movies those relationships turn into a romance, and what if people think we’re faking it to “hide our feelings,” but wow I’m really not attracted to them and they’re like a sibling to me

So you know how dwarves have that thing with beards? What if that’s not just a cultural standard or mere coincidence? What if there’s a reason?

See, dwarves like to dig a lot. They build underground homes, and there’s nothing more rewarding to them than digging up some gems or valuable metals. But chipping away at all that rock and disturbing all that earth kicks up a lot of dust and dirt. If you do that every day without proper breathing protection (which Ancient Dwarves probably didn’t have much access to) all those particles are going to build up in your lungs. It’s a phenomenon we see with real miners too; eventually, they develop a host of respiratory-related problems and even lung cancer.

Now, if only dwarves had some sort of natural protection against all that fine dust. If only they had some sort of filter in front of their mouth an nose…

It also suggests that some of the dwarven durability reflected in their tabletop game Constitution bonuses are because they have built-in HEPA filters.

Also, that their beards may be a microscopic ecosystem with unique species of lice, etc. living within their beards that would feed on the spores and microbes caught within it.