crossover fic 3 (HLxBurn Notice)
Sorry for the nuclear meltdown yesterday. Now back to our regularly scheduled program.
Drabble for mmapmaker (Burn NoticexHL) Prompt: Michael Westen thinks tourists MacLeod and Pierson might be more than what they seem.
The Men In Long Coats
When you're a retired spy, even if forcibly retired, it's an illusion made up by the film industry that you move to some paradise island or play roulette in Monte Carlo until your sunset years. In fact, as the number of years a spy is actually retired increases, so does the probability that he'll be seen by the wrong person, and then exponentially the probability that he'll soon no longer be retired, but rather, dead.
Sam doesn't count. And also, Sam is deceptively good at hiding.
So when I saw the two of them walking across the street to the club that just happened to be next to my apartment, I was naturally curious. The kind of curious that revolves around firearms and homemade flashbangs. This was unfortunate because I'd just opened a yogurt.
"Oh, for me?" Fi said, sauntering up to the table and peering into the yogurt. "Blueberry, my-what?"
I moved so that only a bit of my body was exposed in the window and I could reach the gun in the drywall. "Nothing," I mumbled. I should know, and have always secretly known, that this tactic doesn't work on women. Any woman.
"Are we having guests?" she said softly, spooning yogurt into her mouth and turning the spoon over in her mouth so that the curve slid out over her tongue in a way that I might have found profoundly interesting if I wasn't sure that someone hadn't hired a hit on me.
The two gentlemen were gesturing and conferring with their heads close, but their backs together, hands loose to their sides, just in case they needed to reach inside their coats.
See, that's the thing folks: if you're hired to do a hit in a warm climate, you still need to blend in more than you need to carry guns. That's why cartels like explosions; they're loud and messy, but you don't have to carry fifteen pounds of bulky machinery on you at all hours to do it. And you don't need a jacket to conceal anything, because by the time anybody's going to pay attention to you, that fifteen pounds of C4 is wired to your hit's Lexus.
I might have had time to be insulted that these guys were that amateur. Or I would have, but Fi peered over my shoulder, then backed away slowly and set the yogurt on the counter.
"Those," she murmured, "would be…" And then she slid out the door.
I tucked the flash bang in my pocket. "Would be what, Fi?" I called. "Would be what?"
The fact is that her sentence had a lot of endings, and most of them were ones I wouldn't like. Example: "those would be the gun runners I'm working for," or "those would be the IRA guys I met back in 1992 who taught me how to make napalm." Or maybe 'this is my ex-boyfriend who is magnificently hung and has a sexy accent."
And since she was bolting down the stairs, there was no way I could stop her from getting to them before me. If they were here on business and not pleasure, then I Fi could be in harm's way. Then again, the several women's size 7 ½ imprints left in my chest still begged to differ.
I would still rather be safe than sorry. Or her be safe than me sorry, or preferably, us all safe and not so much with the sorry.
The first thing you do when meeting people you've never seen before, but whom you anticipate having to note in the future, like on a toe tag or a report, is name nameless people. It's stupid to give them real names, or eventually you'd run out of them, or just forget and repeat something. You can't afford to have a lexicon of adversaries and allies all named Steve. No-go with something simple. The long haired man was tall and swarthy, a little MI5, a little KGB. I dubbed him Tall Man. The other one was a pale, gentile kind of Mossad. I called him The Thin Man. Names would replace these when I learned them. In the mean time, they could be prefaced with "Fi's" and "Miami."
I stuffed one hand in my pocket and the other by my side, strolling down the steps into the courtyard, where the men had ducked in away from the club. Finally Tall Man spotted Fi. He looked glad to see her, a definite plus. Sort of. Yes. Maybe. This was the part where I audibly sighed.
"Duncan!" Fi exclaimed, throwing her arms around Tall Man's neck. The Thin Man shoved his hands into his pockets and tried to look somewhere else, but I saw his eyes move down my body and Fiona's looking for bulges and other things.
Duncan sort of hugged her, his arms drawing up to her sides, but unsure if he should touch her back or not. It couldn't have been because of me, but then, when his eyes met mine I realized that yeah, that was me. I shrugged. These audible sighs were coming in handy.
"Duncan, this is Michael. He's a friend. Michael, meet Duncan, also a friend." Fi didn't really let go of Duncan, but rather slung her arm around his waist and performed her best J.Crew catalogue impersonation. Duncan didn't seem too keen on letting go either. I wasn't an idiot. In fact, I was pretty sure that I wouldn't still be alive if I had been an idiot; I didn't exactly bag groceries for a career.
Duncan waved to his friend. "This is Adam. Adam, this is Fiona."
One of the things about being in the post cold war information technology business is that you can get intel on anyone for the right amount. Even if all you have are a first name and a zodiac sign, eventually someone is going to have the info you want for a price. Providing people with just your first name does make it harder, but not impossible. Giving your first name is like the great 'fuck you' of intel gathering, as in 'fuck you, go work for it.'
I was willing to do a little work.
"Michael," Fi purred, tucking the strap of her blouse up higher on her shoulder, where it fell down immediately. "I have a bit of business I have to attend to, so if you don't mind…"
I think I might have shrugged again. "Don’t do anything I wouldn't do." It was a broad enough scope to allow for all sorts of trouble, but still manage to rein in other behaviors. But the last time Fi had listened to me was, oh wait.
I exchanged looks with Adam, and mentally filed away hair and eye color, a height estimate, and possible nationalities, though to be honest, that didn't matter much these days. Everyone was whoring himself or herself out to whatever causes more than they were loyal to any one group. Outsourcing wasn't just rampant in the tech sector.
Fi dragged her friend away, Adam following them with one last glance in my direction. I hated last glances. They usually meant something I didn't want to have come back and bite me on the ass.
Drabble for mmapmaker (Burn NoticexHL) Prompt: Michael Westen thinks tourists MacLeod and Pierson might be more than what they seem.
The Men In Long Coats
When you're a retired spy, even if forcibly retired, it's an illusion made up by the film industry that you move to some paradise island or play roulette in Monte Carlo until your sunset years. In fact, as the number of years a spy is actually retired increases, so does the probability that he'll be seen by the wrong person, and then exponentially the probability that he'll soon no longer be retired, but rather, dead.
Sam doesn't count. And also, Sam is deceptively good at hiding.
So when I saw the two of them walking across the street to the club that just happened to be next to my apartment, I was naturally curious. The kind of curious that revolves around firearms and homemade flashbangs. This was unfortunate because I'd just opened a yogurt.
"Oh, for me?" Fi said, sauntering up to the table and peering into the yogurt. "Blueberry, my-what?"
I moved so that only a bit of my body was exposed in the window and I could reach the gun in the drywall. "Nothing," I mumbled. I should know, and have always secretly known, that this tactic doesn't work on women. Any woman.
"Are we having guests?" she said softly, spooning yogurt into her mouth and turning the spoon over in her mouth so that the curve slid out over her tongue in a way that I might have found profoundly interesting if I wasn't sure that someone hadn't hired a hit on me.
The two gentlemen were gesturing and conferring with their heads close, but their backs together, hands loose to their sides, just in case they needed to reach inside their coats.
See, that's the thing folks: if you're hired to do a hit in a warm climate, you still need to blend in more than you need to carry guns. That's why cartels like explosions; they're loud and messy, but you don't have to carry fifteen pounds of bulky machinery on you at all hours to do it. And you don't need a jacket to conceal anything, because by the time anybody's going to pay attention to you, that fifteen pounds of C4 is wired to your hit's Lexus.
I might have had time to be insulted that these guys were that amateur. Or I would have, but Fi peered over my shoulder, then backed away slowly and set the yogurt on the counter.
"Those," she murmured, "would be…" And then she slid out the door.
I tucked the flash bang in my pocket. "Would be what, Fi?" I called. "Would be what?"
The fact is that her sentence had a lot of endings, and most of them were ones I wouldn't like. Example: "those would be the gun runners I'm working for," or "those would be the IRA guys I met back in 1992 who taught me how to make napalm." Or maybe 'this is my ex-boyfriend who is magnificently hung and has a sexy accent."
And since she was bolting down the stairs, there was no way I could stop her from getting to them before me. If they were here on business and not pleasure, then I Fi could be in harm's way. Then again, the several women's size 7 ½ imprints left in my chest still begged to differ.
I would still rather be safe than sorry. Or her be safe than me sorry, or preferably, us all safe and not so much with the sorry.
The first thing you do when meeting people you've never seen before, but whom you anticipate having to note in the future, like on a toe tag or a report, is name nameless people. It's stupid to give them real names, or eventually you'd run out of them, or just forget and repeat something. You can't afford to have a lexicon of adversaries and allies all named Steve. No-go with something simple. The long haired man was tall and swarthy, a little MI5, a little KGB. I dubbed him Tall Man. The other one was a pale, gentile kind of Mossad. I called him The Thin Man. Names would replace these when I learned them. In the mean time, they could be prefaced with "Fi's" and "Miami."
I stuffed one hand in my pocket and the other by my side, strolling down the steps into the courtyard, where the men had ducked in away from the club. Finally Tall Man spotted Fi. He looked glad to see her, a definite plus. Sort of. Yes. Maybe. This was the part where I audibly sighed.
"Duncan!" Fi exclaimed, throwing her arms around Tall Man's neck. The Thin Man shoved his hands into his pockets and tried to look somewhere else, but I saw his eyes move down my body and Fiona's looking for bulges and other things.
Duncan sort of hugged her, his arms drawing up to her sides, but unsure if he should touch her back or not. It couldn't have been because of me, but then, when his eyes met mine I realized that yeah, that was me. I shrugged. These audible sighs were coming in handy.
"Duncan, this is Michael. He's a friend. Michael, meet Duncan, also a friend." Fi didn't really let go of Duncan, but rather slung her arm around his waist and performed her best J.Crew catalogue impersonation. Duncan didn't seem too keen on letting go either. I wasn't an idiot. In fact, I was pretty sure that I wouldn't still be alive if I had been an idiot; I didn't exactly bag groceries for a career.
Duncan waved to his friend. "This is Adam. Adam, this is Fiona."
One of the things about being in the post cold war information technology business is that you can get intel on anyone for the right amount. Even if all you have are a first name and a zodiac sign, eventually someone is going to have the info you want for a price. Providing people with just your first name does make it harder, but not impossible. Giving your first name is like the great 'fuck you' of intel gathering, as in 'fuck you, go work for it.'
I was willing to do a little work.
"Michael," Fi purred, tucking the strap of her blouse up higher on her shoulder, where it fell down immediately. "I have a bit of business I have to attend to, so if you don't mind…"
I think I might have shrugged again. "Don’t do anything I wouldn't do." It was a broad enough scope to allow for all sorts of trouble, but still manage to rein in other behaviors. But the last time Fi had listened to me was, oh wait.
I exchanged looks with Adam, and mentally filed away hair and eye color, a height estimate, and possible nationalities, though to be honest, that didn't matter much these days. Everyone was whoring himself or herself out to whatever causes more than they were loyal to any one group. Outsourcing wasn't just rampant in the tech sector.
Fi dragged her friend away, Adam following them with one last glance in my direction. I hated last glances. They usually meant something I didn't want to have come back and bite me on the ass.