FIC: Triangulation
Title: Triangulation
Fandom: Burn Notice
Rating: Adult
Warnings: Sex and Violence
Pairings: Michael/Fiona and Michael/Sam (and if you squint hard enough, mentions of Sam/Fiona)
Disclaimer: It's not mine, despite all the wishing I did for Christmas.
A/N: Written for Yuletide for kaizoku. Thanks to catwomyn_5, st_aurafina and katilara for the betas!
In trigonometry and geometry, triangulation is the process of finding coordinates and distance to a point by calculating the length of one side of a triangle, given measurements of angles and sides of the triangle formed by that point and two other known reference points, using the law of sines. In layman's terms, it's the art of figuring out where you are by relating to two other points of interest. In my business, it's a useful trick to know. You never know, for example, when you might get beaten unconscious in Nigeria only to wake up in Miami with a familiar and unexpected face peering down at you.
"Fi?" She smiled at me and suddenly I was in Belfast all over again. If my ribs hadn't ached badly enough that the memory of dusty Nigerian streets and angry Nigerian gun runners using my spleen as a piñata wasn't firmly centered in my mind, I might have looked around expecting to see Irish flags on the wall.
"You're a lucky man, Michael." Fiona's voice was smooth and liquid and very, very dangerous. A man would do well to take notice of that tone and proceed carefully. I had learned that the hard way.
"Where the hell am I?"
"Miami." Fi moved to sit on the bed. "I got a call from some very interesting men. Pilots, I believe... from Nigeria. They said," she got a skeptical look on her face, "that you'd 'taken ill' and I should come and pick you up at the airport."
I groaned, one hand going to my ribs, which were, I realized, bare. I was only partly dressed. I didn't think the Nigerian pilots had done that. "Company?" I asked, rolling gingerly out of the bed to look from the window. Sure enough a gray sedan was sitting across the street.
A good hint when it comes to recognize surveillance is to find a car that has too many antennas. You've either found someone listening to music from outer space - or someone who's hoping to listen to conversations in other buildings. Of course, given that I was waking up in a somewhat seedy looking hotel room, either was an option.
"Two Feds. You're not rating that high in this condition." Fi leaned back against the bed and smiled at me. "Come. Sit. Relax."
"I can't. I've been Burned, Fi." Her expression suddenly serious, she stared at me wordlessly. "And I want to find out why."
"What about the Feds?" she asked slyly, the anticipation of violence making her eyes shine.
Turning, I went to the shower. "Make a scene Fiona, one of the ones you do so well, and get those two feds off my tail. Bite one. Set one on fire." She pouted at me, but the glint in her eyes told me more clearly than words that she was enjoying this.
"You'll owe me dinner."
I grinned. I couldn't help it. Stripping out of my pants, I turned the shower on as hot as I could stand it - desperate to scrub the filth of victimization off my skin. "Fine."
She was, as she had always been, as good as gold - at least when it came to creating chaos. No one would mistake Fi for being good by any other definition. Standing in the shower with water beating down on me, I wasn't too surprised to hear her follow me into the bathroom. I didn't turn around. "Fi..."
"I'm not interested in sex with a man as beaten as you are, Michael." I couldn't help it. I turned to look at her, one eyebrow raised. She shrugged. "At least not when I didn't make the bruises." Her Irish accent made that sound far sexier than it should have, but I took a deep breath and pushed away the first stirring of desire.
"Not now, Fi."
"You'll owe me more than dinner, then." She said from where she stood peering at me from the bathroom door. As she studied me intently, I wished I'd pulled the shower door shut. Fiona laughed, reading my thoughts, and her gaze swept over me, lingering on the bruises crossing my ribs for a moment before dropping down to my groin. "I trust you won't disappoint."
Her voice carried the memories of cold nights in Belfast, echoing caves hidden under pubs and filled with guns, but mostly smoke and liquor and sweaty nights perfumed with gun powder and the scent of homemade explosives. My body betrayed me and I responded to the promise in her voice, hardening slightly. Her smile widened. "I can see that you won't."
"Fi..." I groaned and she laughed.
"I'll go and make myself useful," she purred and I grew harder. I looked at her and she tilted her head, letting her hair falling around her shoulders and frame her face. She looked beautiful and I had another moment of déjà vu. "Good bye, Michael." Her laughter lingered in the room, leaving me to finish my shower and take care of my now lingering and demanding erection.
*****************
"You know spies. A buncha bitchy little girls." Sam Axe was a man I had never anticipated seeing again. He was that rarest of beings for a spy - a friend. Of course, any spy knows that a friend is just someone who charges more to divulge information about you. He smiled at me across the table in the club house of the country club that his mistress belonged to. He looked casually at home, a bloody mary sitting in front of him, and his eyes glittering. We both knew that anything I said would make it to the ears of the FBI agents following me and currently sitting in the parking lot.
Still, I could handle a friend informing on me. A friend would say just enough to keep the feds out of my business. A friend would watch my back. That was something that Sam had always been good at - watching my back. I still couldn't go to Moscow without imagining him around every corner, "Michael, listen to me, you jackass - if you do that again, you won't have to worry about the Russians. I'll kill you myself!" I had been young and stupid and pretty sure he hadn't been serious. Still, I wasn't beyond training and I hadn't done it again.
"So, Fiona, huh?" Sam looked at me, his expression still amused but shifting subtly from what I liked to call his `sneaky' look to a more knowing one.
I smiled back, a little sheepishly. "She was my `in case of emergency' person."
"Shit, Mike, didn't anyone ever tell you that you're supposed to change that information when you break up with someone?"
"Who would you suggest I change it to?" I asked, meeting his gaze and raising my eyebrow. "You?"
He shifted uncomfortably and I laughed softly. "What?" he demanded. "I'm a better option than Fiona. I'm your friend."
"Fi's a fine choice. She's the best at tactical support and you know it."
Sam chuckled. "Tactical support, huh? Is that what you're calling it now-a-days?"
I laughed low - suggestively - under my breath and I saw Sam's eyes dilate just a little bit. "I believe you know exactly what it's called, Sam."
He released a slow breath and then the moment was over and he laughed. "Of course I do. I'm not that old. I've got women eating out of my hand."
"I've heard. A lawyer's wife, huh?" I leaned forward and pitched my voice low enough that the other patrons couldn't hear me. "And if that's the only place her mouth is going, you've lost your touch.
"Mike!" Sam's voice was smug. "I've not lost my touch." His brown eyes flashed with past echoes of snowfall and fireside pits, reminding me strongly of the scent, and taste, of vodka. It was still his liquor of choice, I'd noticed.
It was my turn to shift uncomfortably. As casually as I could, I set my napkin in my lap, but Sam had worked military intelligence and his eyes didn't miss much. He smirked at me, but he didn't say anything.
Reaching over the table, I picked up his bloody mary and drained the rest of it. Setting the glass back down with a tinkle of ice, I plucked the olive out and popped it into my mouth. Chewing it, I licked my lips and swallowed. Sam's eyes hadn't left my mouth since it closed around the straw. Standing, I shoved my hands in pockets, giving myself a little more room. "It's good to see you, Sam. I missed your dry wit."
"I missed you, too, Michael." He didn't sound amused anymore and his eyes didn't leave mine until I blinked and looked away.
It's a bad idea to be the first to walk away from any confrontation. It leaves your back open to attack. I knew this, but I still walked away first. I could feel Sam's eyes following me the entire time and I grinned even as I walked out of the front door. He'd probably fuss about it later, sounding more like a cranky old woman than a former intelligence Cold Warrior who had the reputation of being a nasty son-of-a-bitch. Still, right now I knew he was appreciating the view more than he'd let on.
*****************
I hated Miami. I hated the sun and the sun worshippers. I loathed the smell of coconut and the sound of canned reggae music made me twitch. Tourists were only slightly less annoying than Middle Eastern oil lords and their gun-toting, ostensibly religious, money worshipping body guards. Once I figured out who Burned me, I was going to owe him: first, for ruining my life, and then for the added insult of leaving me in Miami to rot.
Being a spy is mostly about patience. There is a great deal of hurrying up to wait around for days - sometimes weeks - and these long periods of boredom are often only interrupted when someone decides to try and kill you. In many ways, this is much like dealing with my mother, only with my mother, it was personal and therefore nastier. Her voice over my phone made me grit my teeth. "How did you get this number?"
"Is that anyway to talk to your mother?" I didn't have to see her to know that she had a cigarette clamped in her teeth. Rubbing my eyes, I tried to figure out how she found me so quickly. I'm still not certain that she doesn't work for a secret government operation that far outclassed my own. "And your girlfriend gave it to me."
"Ahh." Fiona. I was going to kill her. Slowly. I knew how. I spent the next several minutes alternating between the excruciating pain of suffering through one of my mother's guilt trips (she was sick, she was broke, she was bored out of her mind) and the pleasant fantasy of what I was going to do to Fiona when I had her sneaky little neck wrapped in my hands.
"Michael! Are you listening to me? Are you coming to visit me?" I winced and rubbed my eyes.
"Yes, Mother." I've been tortured before, beaten and left for dead before, fought my way out of Baghdad, Prague, Warsaw and Riyadh and still not felt the urge to scream and beg for mercy that hearing my mother's voice inspired in me. Sighing, I leaned against the counter in the crappy little room I'd rented. The booming echoing noise of the dance club downstairs was bad enough. Now, with my mother on the phone, I had to be even more careful not to disturb the various parts of the pipe-bomb that I was about to send to Dan, my handler from before I was Burned. Minus the explosives of course - I wanted answers not body parts.
"I don't understand you, Michael." Her voice burned through the cell phone in my hand. "Why don't you want to see your family?"
I bit down on my tongue, knowing even without the benefit of a mirror that my expression was neutral and calm. I'd been trained for just such an occasion. I had long ago learned that being a spy was equal parts about finding out information - and keeping certain information a secret. I didn't want to rehash old arguments that only ended in tears - hers - and guilt - mine for making her cry. I didn't want to relive the memories of what had driven me from my family - from my father - as soon as I was old enough to lie convincingly and sign up for the most dangerous job I could find. I had reasoned then, at the young age of 17-but-passes-for-18, that nothing the spy-world could throw at me would be as bad as what my father could manage. I've been tortured before, beaten and left for dead before, fought my way out of Baghdad, Prague, Warsaw and Riyadh and still believe that I made the right decision.
When it's family, it's personal and therefore nastier.
*****************
"I'm not your mother." The voice on the other end of the phone snapped me upright and into a sitting position. It was easier to think when I was sitting up. I felt safer, more able to react this way. Being caught lying down was dangerous. It's hard to defend yourself once you're already on the ground; it gives your enemy the better vantage point. And the mattress in the middle of the studio room I was staying in hardly inspired confidence in my own defensibility at the moment.
"Dan." My voice was mild and pleasant and I was smiling again. "It's been a long time, buddy."
"Do you want to tell me why I just spent the last two hours trying to explain to the FBI why someone sent me a pipe bomb without any explosives in it?" For a second, I thought about giving him the glib response that I had no use for a dead body, but I bit back the impulse. I wanted information and antagonizing him wasn't going to get me anywhere. "Who Burned me?"
I could hear him sigh and for some reason that made me tense more than anything else had. "You can't afford to antagonize the friends you have left, Michael."
"Fine. If you won't tell me, then I'll come to D.C. and find out for myself."
"Don't do that," he warned. "You're on every FBI watch list ever created. You set one foot out of Miami and they're going to eat you alive." He paused and I waited. We both knew that I could make it to D.C. if I was determined enough - if I didn't care how high the body count was.
"Stay where you are, Michael. I don't know what's going on, but it's not good." He was angry now, but I wasn't sure if it was at me or not. "I meant it when I said you need all the friends you have. Pull another stunt like this one and you'll have one less." He slammed down the phone and I turned off my cell thoughtfully.
Friends. Spies don't have many friends. Friends ask questions; friends want to know where you're going and when you'll be back; friends have a hard time letting you leave if they suspect you'll end up coming back in pieces, or not at all. I lay back down gingerly, my ribs still aching, and sighed. I was running out of ideas. Short of actually going to D.C. (and I wasn't quite desperate enough to try that yet), I didn't know how to find out why I'd been Burned.
I was a spy. It was in my blood. It was in my subconscious. I couldn't be here. I couldn't be in Miami. The Michael Westen who had lived in Miami was a boy who had been lucky to escape the first time and if he got stuck here again - he might not survive.
My phone rang again and I answered it. "Mike," Sam's voice was warm and gruff, the same as always, and I relaxed slightly. "I've got some info for you about Javier and company."
"Good." I was good. My voice was as smooth as silk and my diction was as regulated as a heartbeat. Sam paused. He wasn't better, but it's hard to lie to a liar, and we were both trained and skilled when it came to deceit.
"What happened?" I didn't answer, not sure whether I could or should trust him, not sure whether I wanted to tell him about Dan or my mother, both or neither. Silence is golden - except when it's a clanging alarm. "I'm coming over."
"Sam, no..." It was too late. The phone blipped itself into darkness and I sat back. I hadn't told Sam where I lived, but it didn't matter. He'd find me. It was in his blood. It was in his subconscious. You can't take the training out of the spy - it's why we're Burned and not fired. I was listed on Watch Lists around the world - more than Sam even, which had irritated him when he'd found out. I had two black belts, certifications on every weapon that held certifications, and knew over a hundred ways to kill a person with nothing more than my hands - and I didn't know what to do. Helplessness doesn't sit well with me. It never had.
That's why I became a spy in the first place.
*****************
Fiona let herself into my apartment. I had a gun in my hand before the sound of the first tiny click had faded and she still was in my apartment before I had her trained in my sights. "Fi. I could have shot you."
"I doubt you would have." Fiona walked towards me, all grace, sex and pent-up violence. For a minute I thought about pointing out that doubt was an ineffective shield against a 9mm handgun, but the moment passed as soon as she reached me and wrapped her arms around my waist. When she leaned over and gently kissed the bruise on my ribcage, I regretted not having dressed myself again, even as my body welcomed the attention. "Are you in the habit of eating naked?" She smirked at me and looked up into my eyes.
"When I'm hungry naked." I answered and her eyes darkened in amusement.
"And what have you been doing to make yourself so ravenous?" Her accent fell back into place, the anonymous slightly mid-Western accent she'd adopted for her time in Miami vanishing as the Irish lilt revealed her excitement.
"Laundry," I answered and she laughed, low and throaty, even as she backed away and jumped up onto the counter. She snagged the knife I'd been using to cut my sandwich and began to play with it, the edge digging into her fingertip lightly.
"And how is Sam?" she asked, not off-put at all by my evasive answer and going for the kill as always. Typical Fiona.
"Fi," I started, reaching out to take the knife from her hand. I stopped when she flipped the blade so that it pressed against my wrist. I watched, mesmerized, as she traced the tip lightly along the vein that showed through the skin. "Fiona..." My voice was softer now and she laughed again. The sultry sound was warmer than the 80 degree December heat that smothered Miami, but I shivered lightly. My reaction to her presence was obvious - I was naked - there was no way to hide it. A small part of me resented the way that Fiona always got around my defenses by, well, getting around my defenses.
I grabbed the knife handle with my other hand and tossed it into the sink. Moving to stand between her legs, I cupped her face and leaned down to kiss her, slowly, enjoying the way she felt against my mouth, enjoying the way she tasted, even enjoying the way that her hands moved to trace my bruised ribs, gentle and teasing.
Reluctantly, I stepped back and she pouted at me. Unable to resist, I reached out and brushed my thumb along her lip. "I can't do this now. I have to go to work."
"Anything fun?" She asked, her breath moving over my hand like a ghost.
"A little breaking and entering. Some safe cracking. With luck... jackpot."
Her eyes brightened. "Do you need help?"
"No. It's in and out."
She laughed and the sound curled through my gut. "You promise, Michael?"
Instead of answering, I leaned forward and kissed her again. When she groaned against my mouth, I backed away. "I have to stop," I said, leaning forward so that our foreheads touched. "If I don't, I won't be able to stop. And I have work to do."
"Don't work too hard, Michael."
"Only if it's necessary." I turned to walk away and she slapped my ass. I stopped and looked at her over my shoulder.
"What?" She smirked at me. "I didn't stop you from leaving." I stayed silent and her smile dimmed. "I never do."
"I didn't leave because I wanted to."
"You didn't say good-bye." Fi jumped down from the counter.
"I couldn't."
"Why not?" She asked, her face strangely vulnerable.
I didn't answer, choosing instead to go to my bed where I'd left my clothes and dress myself. The answer was clear. I hadn't wanted to say good-bye. A spy shouldn't allow himself to be involved. With anyone. Friends, girlfriends, mothers, lovers, brothers - they were all simply collateral damage that you put at risk. I cared and I shouldn't. Because I cared, I tried to keep them out of it.
It was a good thing I was better at my job than I was at staying uninvolved. I'd be dead. And so would the people I cared about.
*****************
I took Fi out for dinner as soon as I could. If you owe people favors long enough, it will eventually come back to bite you. Still, favors are useful. They are the currency in which all spies trade. In the business, a favor owed to you by an enemy is more valuable than the promise of all but the sincerest ally.
Sitting at dinner, with the lights and sounds of Miami as a backdrop, I drank expensive liquor and got lost in Fiona's gaze. At least I did right up until I noticed the Feds crawling through the place like cockroaches. I pointed them out to Fiona, who smiled. "Shall we shoot them?"
"I have enough problems, Fiona, without adding that to the mix."
I'll be damned if she didn't look genuinely disappointed. "What happened to your sense of adventure? In the old days..."
"The rules were different then, Fiona. I wasn't..." I gestured around. "Here."
"You're the same man no matter where you are." Fi frowned at me. "I found a new career."
I snorted softly with laughter. "I doubt that very much. A criminal is a criminal, whether it's an IRA terrorist or a mercenary."
She smiled at me, but her eyes were sharp and her smile promised retribution for the perceived slight. "I know who I am, Michael, even without a title. You'd do well to figure the same out about yourself." My smile faded and I looked down at the dinner remaining on my plate.
I had been through extensive training to learn how to become the man I was. I was not Michael Westen as much as I was the job. It was the case with a lot of spies... I'd even seen Sam go through it. I was good at a few things - tactical decisions, hand to hand combat, and I was a decent cook. When it came to my personal life, I was a mess.
Fi reached over the table and caressed my cheek. "There is nothing wrong with trying something new."
"I'm not trying something new." My voice was sharper than I'd intended and she withdrew her hand. "I'm sorry, Fi. I just... this wasn't my plan."
"That's your problem, Michael. You need to learn to roll with the punches. Being in Miami doesn't change anything except the coordinates of your location."
"It changes everything."
"Only if you let it."
"I don't know how to not let it."
Her smile this time showed no anger and I felt my blood start moving faster at the promise it held. "I can show you."
I didn't know if she could do that, but I knew that she could make me forget that I cared for a while. "I'm tempted to take you up on that offer."
"Then do." Her voice lilted softly and I nodded slowly. "Good boy, trust your instincts." She reached for the check and I half-heartedly reached out to stop her. "Stop, Michael. You can't even access your bank account. I'll pay for dinner. You'll make it up to me."
It stung to admit that she was right, but she was right. My accounts were as frozen as my travel plans. I was homeless, penniless, and if it wasn't for Sam's generosity (and his newly discovered laziness), I'd be seriously broke. I let her pick up the check.
On the ride back to my new place (in the car I had `borrowed' from a nearby lot at one of the neighboring clubs - which would be returned cleaned out and with a full tank of gas), I pondered what she had said. The truth was simple. I liked being a spy. I was good at it. I wanted to keep doing it. Maybe she was right and there was nothing wrong with trying something new, but I didn't want to try something new. I wanted to get my old job back.
And I still owed someone something for dumping me in Miami.
*****************
"This never would have happened to you in the 80s." Sam leaned back, turning his face to the sun and giving me ample opportunity to study him without his scrutiny. He looked good, if a touch softer around the middle than he had back in the old days. The Sam of the old days would never have spent an entire afternoon lying around on a beach chair at the edge of the ocean - within calling distance of the nearest country club waiter, though. Of course.
"The rules were the rules then. We had our guys - they had theirs. You didn't Burn a guy without good reason - like he showed up in old pictures with Stalin that he forgot to mention during orientation." He squinted up at me where I stood over him. "That made sense. This is bullshit."
"Hmmm." I made a noncommittal noise and Sam lifted one hand to shade his eyes as he studied me carefully.
"That sounds like woman problems."
I gave him a dirty look and he grinned. "Fiona kicked your ass again?"
"No." I snapped and he just waited. "My neighbor hired a hit man. Fiona kicked that guy's ass."
"I see." Sam looked more amused than concerned that someone had tried to kill me. "And this is a problem?"
"Well, she had to leave after that. I couldn't very well deal with an unconscious hit man and Fiona."
Sam snorted and sat up, still looking utterly relaxed. "Fess up, Mike. She got all hot and bothered and you got weird about it. You know Fiona likes that kinky, violent stuff." He shrugged, with a suggestive look. "She might have a point."
"You never liked pain that much." I bit back and he chuckled.
"True, but you didn't seem to mind it." His look was heated and knowing and I turned away from his scrutiny, growing suddenly more aware of him than I wanted to be.
"Do you think you could concentrate, please?"
"On what?"
"Take your pick. I've been Burned, you're informing on me to the FBI, and we're working on a job together, remember? Rich guy? Art thief? Your friend Javier?"
"You worry too much, Mike. That's your problem."
The comment was so similar to what Fiona had said that it struck me like a slap and I stared at him. "What?" He blinked and all traces of amusement faded away. Suddenly he looked more like the Cold Warrior that had kept me alive all those years ago. Things had been simpler then. The bad guys wanted to kill you. The good guys tried to keep you alive. And you didn't suddenly have to wonder whether the good guys were going to leave you.
"I just... I'm not sure what to do." There. The admission hurt and the look on Sam's face told me how surprised he was to hear it.
"Then you're finally facing facts." He stood up and I was surprised to re-realize that he was my height. He shrugged, reaching out with one hand to grasp my bicep. Squeezing gently, he sighed. "Things change. If you can't learn to roll with the punches..."
My head snapped up and I glared at him. "You've been talking to Fi, Sam. No wonder the two of you sound so much alike right now."
Sam looked sheepish and he shrugged, dropping his hand before reaching up to rub the back of his neck. "So?" he challenged his voice slightly belligerent.
When two of your contacts suddenly start talking amongst themselves and leave you out on purpose, it's usually a sign that things are about to be out of your control. I like controlling things - it had kept me alive too many times for me to let go of it that easily.
"Did you have a nice chat?" I asked, my voice dripping acid. "Compare techniques?"
Sam's expression changed again and he took a step forward, his face inches from mine. "Yes, as a matter of fact, we did have a nice chat. We agreed to both do our best to keep you from getting killed."
"This isn't your fight."
"Bullshit." Sam snapped. "And if you insinuate that again, I'll knock you on your ass."
"You can try."
"I might succeed!" Sam sounded indignant, but he backed away a step. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he grumbled. "I used to be good at that."
"Like you said, things change." I confess I didn't see it coming. I didn't believe he'd actually do it, but one minute I was being an ass and the next minute I was sitting on mine on the ground.
Sam looked as shocked as I felt, and he shook his hand trying to ease the sting in his knuckles. I knew they burned. I knew it, because my face burned where he'd hit me in the jaw. "Jesus! I'm sorry, Mike." He stared down at me, his expression changing rapidly from anger to concern.
He held out a hand and I took it. I had plenty of pride and it was exactly what had landed me on the ground a minute ago. I wasn't above accepting a hand up, even from the man who'd just knocked me down. Especially if that man was Sam. "I'm sorry. I was out of line."
"Yeah, you were." Sam pulled me to my feet easily, reminding me again that he was stronger than he looked. When I tried to let go, he held on. "But I shouldn't have hit you."
"Maybe I deserved it."
"You definitely deserved it." Sam's fingers rubbed lightly over the back of my hand. "But I still shouldn't have done it."
"It's okay." He stared at me like I was speaking a foreign language that he'd never heard before.
"Neither Fi nor I want to see you dead, Michael. And if that means that she and I work together, well... it wouldn't be the first time. And if that means that she and I have to get over our differences to make this work... then we will. That's what we talked about. That's all." He smiled, his expression suddenly suggestive. "We'll compare techniques later."
The gentle teasing made me release a slow breath and I relaxed. Sam loosened his grip, but he still didn't let go. I looked down at his hand, where it still held mine - where it still caressed mine. I could have pulled away, but I didn't.
I was expecting it when he kissed me. I leaned into it, not caring that he needed to shave, not caring that he tasted like vodka at 2 in the afternoon and not caring that we were standing in the middle of a beach. This was Miami. Finally, one thing this goddamned city was useful for.
*****************
Triangulation is used for many purposes, including surveying, navigation, metrology, astrometry, binocular vision, model rocketry and gun direction of weapons. But like I said, in layman's terms, it's the art of figuring out where you are by relating to two other points of interest.
I wasn't 100% sure where I was and I had no idea where I was going. But I had Fiona. And I had Sam. And somehow, between the two of them, I knew that I'd figure it out.
At least, that was the plan.
Fandom: Burn Notice
Rating: Adult
Warnings: Sex and Violence
Pairings: Michael/Fiona and Michael/Sam (and if you squint hard enough, mentions of Sam/Fiona)
Disclaimer: It's not mine, despite all the wishing I did for Christmas.
A/N: Written for Yuletide for kaizoku. Thanks to catwomyn_5, st_aurafina and katilara for the betas!
In trigonometry and geometry, triangulation is the process of finding coordinates and distance to a point by calculating the length of one side of a triangle, given measurements of angles and sides of the triangle formed by that point and two other known reference points, using the law of sines. In layman's terms, it's the art of figuring out where you are by relating to two other points of interest. In my business, it's a useful trick to know. You never know, for example, when you might get beaten unconscious in Nigeria only to wake up in Miami with a familiar and unexpected face peering down at you.
"Fi?" She smiled at me and suddenly I was in Belfast all over again. If my ribs hadn't ached badly enough that the memory of dusty Nigerian streets and angry Nigerian gun runners using my spleen as a piñata wasn't firmly centered in my mind, I might have looked around expecting to see Irish flags on the wall.
"You're a lucky man, Michael." Fiona's voice was smooth and liquid and very, very dangerous. A man would do well to take notice of that tone and proceed carefully. I had learned that the hard way.
"Where the hell am I?"
"Miami." Fi moved to sit on the bed. "I got a call from some very interesting men. Pilots, I believe... from Nigeria. They said," she got a skeptical look on her face, "that you'd 'taken ill' and I should come and pick you up at the airport."
I groaned, one hand going to my ribs, which were, I realized, bare. I was only partly dressed. I didn't think the Nigerian pilots had done that. "Company?" I asked, rolling gingerly out of the bed to look from the window. Sure enough a gray sedan was sitting across the street.
A good hint when it comes to recognize surveillance is to find a car that has too many antennas. You've either found someone listening to music from outer space - or someone who's hoping to listen to conversations in other buildings. Of course, given that I was waking up in a somewhat seedy looking hotel room, either was an option.
"Two Feds. You're not rating that high in this condition." Fi leaned back against the bed and smiled at me. "Come. Sit. Relax."
"I can't. I've been Burned, Fi." Her expression suddenly serious, she stared at me wordlessly. "And I want to find out why."
"What about the Feds?" she asked slyly, the anticipation of violence making her eyes shine.
Turning, I went to the shower. "Make a scene Fiona, one of the ones you do so well, and get those two feds off my tail. Bite one. Set one on fire." She pouted at me, but the glint in her eyes told me more clearly than words that she was enjoying this.
"You'll owe me dinner."
I grinned. I couldn't help it. Stripping out of my pants, I turned the shower on as hot as I could stand it - desperate to scrub the filth of victimization off my skin. "Fine."
She was, as she had always been, as good as gold - at least when it came to creating chaos. No one would mistake Fi for being good by any other definition. Standing in the shower with water beating down on me, I wasn't too surprised to hear her follow me into the bathroom. I didn't turn around. "Fi..."
"I'm not interested in sex with a man as beaten as you are, Michael." I couldn't help it. I turned to look at her, one eyebrow raised. She shrugged. "At least not when I didn't make the bruises." Her Irish accent made that sound far sexier than it should have, but I took a deep breath and pushed away the first stirring of desire.
"Not now, Fi."
"You'll owe me more than dinner, then." She said from where she stood peering at me from the bathroom door. As she studied me intently, I wished I'd pulled the shower door shut. Fiona laughed, reading my thoughts, and her gaze swept over me, lingering on the bruises crossing my ribs for a moment before dropping down to my groin. "I trust you won't disappoint."
Her voice carried the memories of cold nights in Belfast, echoing caves hidden under pubs and filled with guns, but mostly smoke and liquor and sweaty nights perfumed with gun powder and the scent of homemade explosives. My body betrayed me and I responded to the promise in her voice, hardening slightly. Her smile widened. "I can see that you won't."
"Fi..." I groaned and she laughed.
"I'll go and make myself useful," she purred and I grew harder. I looked at her and she tilted her head, letting her hair falling around her shoulders and frame her face. She looked beautiful and I had another moment of déjà vu. "Good bye, Michael." Her laughter lingered in the room, leaving me to finish my shower and take care of my now lingering and demanding erection.
*****************
"You know spies. A buncha bitchy little girls." Sam Axe was a man I had never anticipated seeing again. He was that rarest of beings for a spy - a friend. Of course, any spy knows that a friend is just someone who charges more to divulge information about you. He smiled at me across the table in the club house of the country club that his mistress belonged to. He looked casually at home, a bloody mary sitting in front of him, and his eyes glittering. We both knew that anything I said would make it to the ears of the FBI agents following me and currently sitting in the parking lot.
Still, I could handle a friend informing on me. A friend would say just enough to keep the feds out of my business. A friend would watch my back. That was something that Sam had always been good at - watching my back. I still couldn't go to Moscow without imagining him around every corner, "Michael, listen to me, you jackass - if you do that again, you won't have to worry about the Russians. I'll kill you myself!" I had been young and stupid and pretty sure he hadn't been serious. Still, I wasn't beyond training and I hadn't done it again.
"So, Fiona, huh?" Sam looked at me, his expression still amused but shifting subtly from what I liked to call his `sneaky' look to a more knowing one.
I smiled back, a little sheepishly. "She was my `in case of emergency' person."
"Shit, Mike, didn't anyone ever tell you that you're supposed to change that information when you break up with someone?"
"Who would you suggest I change it to?" I asked, meeting his gaze and raising my eyebrow. "You?"
He shifted uncomfortably and I laughed softly. "What?" he demanded. "I'm a better option than Fiona. I'm your friend."
"Fi's a fine choice. She's the best at tactical support and you know it."
Sam chuckled. "Tactical support, huh? Is that what you're calling it now-a-days?"
I laughed low - suggestively - under my breath and I saw Sam's eyes dilate just a little bit. "I believe you know exactly what it's called, Sam."
He released a slow breath and then the moment was over and he laughed. "Of course I do. I'm not that old. I've got women eating out of my hand."
"I've heard. A lawyer's wife, huh?" I leaned forward and pitched my voice low enough that the other patrons couldn't hear me. "And if that's the only place her mouth is going, you've lost your touch.
"Mike!" Sam's voice was smug. "I've not lost my touch." His brown eyes flashed with past echoes of snowfall and fireside pits, reminding me strongly of the scent, and taste, of vodka. It was still his liquor of choice, I'd noticed.
It was my turn to shift uncomfortably. As casually as I could, I set my napkin in my lap, but Sam had worked military intelligence and his eyes didn't miss much. He smirked at me, but he didn't say anything.
Reaching over the table, I picked up his bloody mary and drained the rest of it. Setting the glass back down with a tinkle of ice, I plucked the olive out and popped it into my mouth. Chewing it, I licked my lips and swallowed. Sam's eyes hadn't left my mouth since it closed around the straw. Standing, I shoved my hands in pockets, giving myself a little more room. "It's good to see you, Sam. I missed your dry wit."
"I missed you, too, Michael." He didn't sound amused anymore and his eyes didn't leave mine until I blinked and looked away.
It's a bad idea to be the first to walk away from any confrontation. It leaves your back open to attack. I knew this, but I still walked away first. I could feel Sam's eyes following me the entire time and I grinned even as I walked out of the front door. He'd probably fuss about it later, sounding more like a cranky old woman than a former intelligence Cold Warrior who had the reputation of being a nasty son-of-a-bitch. Still, right now I knew he was appreciating the view more than he'd let on.
*****************
I hated Miami. I hated the sun and the sun worshippers. I loathed the smell of coconut and the sound of canned reggae music made me twitch. Tourists were only slightly less annoying than Middle Eastern oil lords and their gun-toting, ostensibly religious, money worshipping body guards. Once I figured out who Burned me, I was going to owe him: first, for ruining my life, and then for the added insult of leaving me in Miami to rot.
Being a spy is mostly about patience. There is a great deal of hurrying up to wait around for days - sometimes weeks - and these long periods of boredom are often only interrupted when someone decides to try and kill you. In many ways, this is much like dealing with my mother, only with my mother, it was personal and therefore nastier. Her voice over my phone made me grit my teeth. "How did you get this number?"
"Is that anyway to talk to your mother?" I didn't have to see her to know that she had a cigarette clamped in her teeth. Rubbing my eyes, I tried to figure out how she found me so quickly. I'm still not certain that she doesn't work for a secret government operation that far outclassed my own. "And your girlfriend gave it to me."
"Ahh." Fiona. I was going to kill her. Slowly. I knew how. I spent the next several minutes alternating between the excruciating pain of suffering through one of my mother's guilt trips (she was sick, she was broke, she was bored out of her mind) and the pleasant fantasy of what I was going to do to Fiona when I had her sneaky little neck wrapped in my hands.
"Michael! Are you listening to me? Are you coming to visit me?" I winced and rubbed my eyes.
"Yes, Mother." I've been tortured before, beaten and left for dead before, fought my way out of Baghdad, Prague, Warsaw and Riyadh and still not felt the urge to scream and beg for mercy that hearing my mother's voice inspired in me. Sighing, I leaned against the counter in the crappy little room I'd rented. The booming echoing noise of the dance club downstairs was bad enough. Now, with my mother on the phone, I had to be even more careful not to disturb the various parts of the pipe-bomb that I was about to send to Dan, my handler from before I was Burned. Minus the explosives of course - I wanted answers not body parts.
"I don't understand you, Michael." Her voice burned through the cell phone in my hand. "Why don't you want to see your family?"
I bit down on my tongue, knowing even without the benefit of a mirror that my expression was neutral and calm. I'd been trained for just such an occasion. I had long ago learned that being a spy was equal parts about finding out information - and keeping certain information a secret. I didn't want to rehash old arguments that only ended in tears - hers - and guilt - mine for making her cry. I didn't want to relive the memories of what had driven me from my family - from my father - as soon as I was old enough to lie convincingly and sign up for the most dangerous job I could find. I had reasoned then, at the young age of 17-but-passes-for-18, that nothing the spy-world could throw at me would be as bad as what my father could manage. I've been tortured before, beaten and left for dead before, fought my way out of Baghdad, Prague, Warsaw and Riyadh and still believe that I made the right decision.
When it's family, it's personal and therefore nastier.
*****************
"I'm not your mother." The voice on the other end of the phone snapped me upright and into a sitting position. It was easier to think when I was sitting up. I felt safer, more able to react this way. Being caught lying down was dangerous. It's hard to defend yourself once you're already on the ground; it gives your enemy the better vantage point. And the mattress in the middle of the studio room I was staying in hardly inspired confidence in my own defensibility at the moment.
"Dan." My voice was mild and pleasant and I was smiling again. "It's been a long time, buddy."
"Do you want to tell me why I just spent the last two hours trying to explain to the FBI why someone sent me a pipe bomb without any explosives in it?" For a second, I thought about giving him the glib response that I had no use for a dead body, but I bit back the impulse. I wanted information and antagonizing him wasn't going to get me anywhere. "Who Burned me?"
I could hear him sigh and for some reason that made me tense more than anything else had. "You can't afford to antagonize the friends you have left, Michael."
"Fine. If you won't tell me, then I'll come to D.C. and find out for myself."
"Don't do that," he warned. "You're on every FBI watch list ever created. You set one foot out of Miami and they're going to eat you alive." He paused and I waited. We both knew that I could make it to D.C. if I was determined enough - if I didn't care how high the body count was.
"Stay where you are, Michael. I don't know what's going on, but it's not good." He was angry now, but I wasn't sure if it was at me or not. "I meant it when I said you need all the friends you have. Pull another stunt like this one and you'll have one less." He slammed down the phone and I turned off my cell thoughtfully.
Friends. Spies don't have many friends. Friends ask questions; friends want to know where you're going and when you'll be back; friends have a hard time letting you leave if they suspect you'll end up coming back in pieces, or not at all. I lay back down gingerly, my ribs still aching, and sighed. I was running out of ideas. Short of actually going to D.C. (and I wasn't quite desperate enough to try that yet), I didn't know how to find out why I'd been Burned.
I was a spy. It was in my blood. It was in my subconscious. I couldn't be here. I couldn't be in Miami. The Michael Westen who had lived in Miami was a boy who had been lucky to escape the first time and if he got stuck here again - he might not survive.
My phone rang again and I answered it. "Mike," Sam's voice was warm and gruff, the same as always, and I relaxed slightly. "I've got some info for you about Javier and company."
"Good." I was good. My voice was as smooth as silk and my diction was as regulated as a heartbeat. Sam paused. He wasn't better, but it's hard to lie to a liar, and we were both trained and skilled when it came to deceit.
"What happened?" I didn't answer, not sure whether I could or should trust him, not sure whether I wanted to tell him about Dan or my mother, both or neither. Silence is golden - except when it's a clanging alarm. "I'm coming over."
"Sam, no..." It was too late. The phone blipped itself into darkness and I sat back. I hadn't told Sam where I lived, but it didn't matter. He'd find me. It was in his blood. It was in his subconscious. You can't take the training out of the spy - it's why we're Burned and not fired. I was listed on Watch Lists around the world - more than Sam even, which had irritated him when he'd found out. I had two black belts, certifications on every weapon that held certifications, and knew over a hundred ways to kill a person with nothing more than my hands - and I didn't know what to do. Helplessness doesn't sit well with me. It never had.
That's why I became a spy in the first place.
*****************
Fiona let herself into my apartment. I had a gun in my hand before the sound of the first tiny click had faded and she still was in my apartment before I had her trained in my sights. "Fi. I could have shot you."
"I doubt you would have." Fiona walked towards me, all grace, sex and pent-up violence. For a minute I thought about pointing out that doubt was an ineffective shield against a 9mm handgun, but the moment passed as soon as she reached me and wrapped her arms around my waist. When she leaned over and gently kissed the bruise on my ribcage, I regretted not having dressed myself again, even as my body welcomed the attention. "Are you in the habit of eating naked?" She smirked at me and looked up into my eyes.
"When I'm hungry naked." I answered and her eyes darkened in amusement.
"And what have you been doing to make yourself so ravenous?" Her accent fell back into place, the anonymous slightly mid-Western accent she'd adopted for her time in Miami vanishing as the Irish lilt revealed her excitement.
"Laundry," I answered and she laughed, low and throaty, even as she backed away and jumped up onto the counter. She snagged the knife I'd been using to cut my sandwich and began to play with it, the edge digging into her fingertip lightly.
"And how is Sam?" she asked, not off-put at all by my evasive answer and going for the kill as always. Typical Fiona.
"Fi," I started, reaching out to take the knife from her hand. I stopped when she flipped the blade so that it pressed against my wrist. I watched, mesmerized, as she traced the tip lightly along the vein that showed through the skin. "Fiona..." My voice was softer now and she laughed again. The sultry sound was warmer than the 80 degree December heat that smothered Miami, but I shivered lightly. My reaction to her presence was obvious - I was naked - there was no way to hide it. A small part of me resented the way that Fiona always got around my defenses by, well, getting around my defenses.
I grabbed the knife handle with my other hand and tossed it into the sink. Moving to stand between her legs, I cupped her face and leaned down to kiss her, slowly, enjoying the way she felt against my mouth, enjoying the way she tasted, even enjoying the way that her hands moved to trace my bruised ribs, gentle and teasing.
Reluctantly, I stepped back and she pouted at me. Unable to resist, I reached out and brushed my thumb along her lip. "I can't do this now. I have to go to work."
"Anything fun?" She asked, her breath moving over my hand like a ghost.
"A little breaking and entering. Some safe cracking. With luck... jackpot."
Her eyes brightened. "Do you need help?"
"No. It's in and out."
She laughed and the sound curled through my gut. "You promise, Michael?"
Instead of answering, I leaned forward and kissed her again. When she groaned against my mouth, I backed away. "I have to stop," I said, leaning forward so that our foreheads touched. "If I don't, I won't be able to stop. And I have work to do."
"Don't work too hard, Michael."
"Only if it's necessary." I turned to walk away and she slapped my ass. I stopped and looked at her over my shoulder.
"What?" She smirked at me. "I didn't stop you from leaving." I stayed silent and her smile dimmed. "I never do."
"I didn't leave because I wanted to."
"You didn't say good-bye." Fi jumped down from the counter.
"I couldn't."
"Why not?" She asked, her face strangely vulnerable.
I didn't answer, choosing instead to go to my bed where I'd left my clothes and dress myself. The answer was clear. I hadn't wanted to say good-bye. A spy shouldn't allow himself to be involved. With anyone. Friends, girlfriends, mothers, lovers, brothers - they were all simply collateral damage that you put at risk. I cared and I shouldn't. Because I cared, I tried to keep them out of it.
It was a good thing I was better at my job than I was at staying uninvolved. I'd be dead. And so would the people I cared about.
*****************
I took Fi out for dinner as soon as I could. If you owe people favors long enough, it will eventually come back to bite you. Still, favors are useful. They are the currency in which all spies trade. In the business, a favor owed to you by an enemy is more valuable than the promise of all but the sincerest ally.
Sitting at dinner, with the lights and sounds of Miami as a backdrop, I drank expensive liquor and got lost in Fiona's gaze. At least I did right up until I noticed the Feds crawling through the place like cockroaches. I pointed them out to Fiona, who smiled. "Shall we shoot them?"
"I have enough problems, Fiona, without adding that to the mix."
I'll be damned if she didn't look genuinely disappointed. "What happened to your sense of adventure? In the old days..."
"The rules were different then, Fiona. I wasn't..." I gestured around. "Here."
"You're the same man no matter where you are." Fi frowned at me. "I found a new career."
I snorted softly with laughter. "I doubt that very much. A criminal is a criminal, whether it's an IRA terrorist or a mercenary."
She smiled at me, but her eyes were sharp and her smile promised retribution for the perceived slight. "I know who I am, Michael, even without a title. You'd do well to figure the same out about yourself." My smile faded and I looked down at the dinner remaining on my plate.
I had been through extensive training to learn how to become the man I was. I was not Michael Westen as much as I was the job. It was the case with a lot of spies... I'd even seen Sam go through it. I was good at a few things - tactical decisions, hand to hand combat, and I was a decent cook. When it came to my personal life, I was a mess.
Fi reached over the table and caressed my cheek. "There is nothing wrong with trying something new."
"I'm not trying something new." My voice was sharper than I'd intended and she withdrew her hand. "I'm sorry, Fi. I just... this wasn't my plan."
"That's your problem, Michael. You need to learn to roll with the punches. Being in Miami doesn't change anything except the coordinates of your location."
"It changes everything."
"Only if you let it."
"I don't know how to not let it."
Her smile this time showed no anger and I felt my blood start moving faster at the promise it held. "I can show you."
I didn't know if she could do that, but I knew that she could make me forget that I cared for a while. "I'm tempted to take you up on that offer."
"Then do." Her voice lilted softly and I nodded slowly. "Good boy, trust your instincts." She reached for the check and I half-heartedly reached out to stop her. "Stop, Michael. You can't even access your bank account. I'll pay for dinner. You'll make it up to me."
It stung to admit that she was right, but she was right. My accounts were as frozen as my travel plans. I was homeless, penniless, and if it wasn't for Sam's generosity (and his newly discovered laziness), I'd be seriously broke. I let her pick up the check.
On the ride back to my new place (in the car I had `borrowed' from a nearby lot at one of the neighboring clubs - which would be returned cleaned out and with a full tank of gas), I pondered what she had said. The truth was simple. I liked being a spy. I was good at it. I wanted to keep doing it. Maybe she was right and there was nothing wrong with trying something new, but I didn't want to try something new. I wanted to get my old job back.
And I still owed someone something for dumping me in Miami.
*****************
"This never would have happened to you in the 80s." Sam leaned back, turning his face to the sun and giving me ample opportunity to study him without his scrutiny. He looked good, if a touch softer around the middle than he had back in the old days. The Sam of the old days would never have spent an entire afternoon lying around on a beach chair at the edge of the ocean - within calling distance of the nearest country club waiter, though. Of course.
"The rules were the rules then. We had our guys - they had theirs. You didn't Burn a guy without good reason - like he showed up in old pictures with Stalin that he forgot to mention during orientation." He squinted up at me where I stood over him. "That made sense. This is bullshit."
"Hmmm." I made a noncommittal noise and Sam lifted one hand to shade his eyes as he studied me carefully.
"That sounds like woman problems."
I gave him a dirty look and he grinned. "Fiona kicked your ass again?"
"No." I snapped and he just waited. "My neighbor hired a hit man. Fiona kicked that guy's ass."
"I see." Sam looked more amused than concerned that someone had tried to kill me. "And this is a problem?"
"Well, she had to leave after that. I couldn't very well deal with an unconscious hit man and Fiona."
Sam snorted and sat up, still looking utterly relaxed. "Fess up, Mike. She got all hot and bothered and you got weird about it. You know Fiona likes that kinky, violent stuff." He shrugged, with a suggestive look. "She might have a point."
"You never liked pain that much." I bit back and he chuckled.
"True, but you didn't seem to mind it." His look was heated and knowing and I turned away from his scrutiny, growing suddenly more aware of him than I wanted to be.
"Do you think you could concentrate, please?"
"On what?"
"Take your pick. I've been Burned, you're informing on me to the FBI, and we're working on a job together, remember? Rich guy? Art thief? Your friend Javier?"
"You worry too much, Mike. That's your problem."
The comment was so similar to what Fiona had said that it struck me like a slap and I stared at him. "What?" He blinked and all traces of amusement faded away. Suddenly he looked more like the Cold Warrior that had kept me alive all those years ago. Things had been simpler then. The bad guys wanted to kill you. The good guys tried to keep you alive. And you didn't suddenly have to wonder whether the good guys were going to leave you.
"I just... I'm not sure what to do." There. The admission hurt and the look on Sam's face told me how surprised he was to hear it.
"Then you're finally facing facts." He stood up and I was surprised to re-realize that he was my height. He shrugged, reaching out with one hand to grasp my bicep. Squeezing gently, he sighed. "Things change. If you can't learn to roll with the punches..."
My head snapped up and I glared at him. "You've been talking to Fi, Sam. No wonder the two of you sound so much alike right now."
Sam looked sheepish and he shrugged, dropping his hand before reaching up to rub the back of his neck. "So?" he challenged his voice slightly belligerent.
When two of your contacts suddenly start talking amongst themselves and leave you out on purpose, it's usually a sign that things are about to be out of your control. I like controlling things - it had kept me alive too many times for me to let go of it that easily.
"Did you have a nice chat?" I asked, my voice dripping acid. "Compare techniques?"
Sam's expression changed again and he took a step forward, his face inches from mine. "Yes, as a matter of fact, we did have a nice chat. We agreed to both do our best to keep you from getting killed."
"This isn't your fight."
"Bullshit." Sam snapped. "And if you insinuate that again, I'll knock you on your ass."
"You can try."
"I might succeed!" Sam sounded indignant, but he backed away a step. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he grumbled. "I used to be good at that."
"Like you said, things change." I confess I didn't see it coming. I didn't believe he'd actually do it, but one minute I was being an ass and the next minute I was sitting on mine on the ground.
Sam looked as shocked as I felt, and he shook his hand trying to ease the sting in his knuckles. I knew they burned. I knew it, because my face burned where he'd hit me in the jaw. "Jesus! I'm sorry, Mike." He stared down at me, his expression changing rapidly from anger to concern.
He held out a hand and I took it. I had plenty of pride and it was exactly what had landed me on the ground a minute ago. I wasn't above accepting a hand up, even from the man who'd just knocked me down. Especially if that man was Sam. "I'm sorry. I was out of line."
"Yeah, you were." Sam pulled me to my feet easily, reminding me again that he was stronger than he looked. When I tried to let go, he held on. "But I shouldn't have hit you."
"Maybe I deserved it."
"You definitely deserved it." Sam's fingers rubbed lightly over the back of my hand. "But I still shouldn't have done it."
"It's okay." He stared at me like I was speaking a foreign language that he'd never heard before.
"Neither Fi nor I want to see you dead, Michael. And if that means that she and I work together, well... it wouldn't be the first time. And if that means that she and I have to get over our differences to make this work... then we will. That's what we talked about. That's all." He smiled, his expression suddenly suggestive. "We'll compare techniques later."
The gentle teasing made me release a slow breath and I relaxed. Sam loosened his grip, but he still didn't let go. I looked down at his hand, where it still held mine - where it still caressed mine. I could have pulled away, but I didn't.
I was expecting it when he kissed me. I leaned into it, not caring that he needed to shave, not caring that he tasted like vodka at 2 in the afternoon and not caring that we were standing in the middle of a beach. This was Miami. Finally, one thing this goddamned city was useful for.
*****************
Triangulation is used for many purposes, including surveying, navigation, metrology, astrometry, binocular vision, model rocketry and gun direction of weapons. But like I said, in layman's terms, it's the art of figuring out where you are by relating to two other points of interest.
I wasn't 100% sure where I was and I had no idea where I was going. But I had Fiona. And I had Sam. And somehow, between the two of them, I knew that I'd figure it out.
At least, that was the plan.