Burn Notice fanfiction Victor/Michael
Title: "Compare and Contrast: How Michael Learned to Live with Victor"
Pairing: SLASH Victor/Michael
AU (Victor and Michael escape Carla and are hiding out.)
Please comment!
Michael noticed him staring into the empty cereal box. Victor's face bore the strain of almost showing no emotion.
So even the cereal brings up old traumas, Michael narrated to himself, as he often did when he needed to feel in control. Good thing I didn't make a joke about his eating habits.
But Victor was just as observant as he was. He looked at Michael with a quick smirk, and said, "Good thing there's more in the pantry. You know, the best thing about facing death every day is that you never feel that pressure to eat like a grown-up."
"Sure."
"Oh. Right. Sorry, yogurt boy," Victor said as he opened the pantry door.
"We should save provisions so we can lay low when we get to Cuba."
"I bet you're huge fun on vacations."
"Not a vacation, Victor."
"Tropical island, no outside contact, nothing to do but sit on the beach - sounds like a vacation to me.... You do understand no outside contact, big guy?"
Damn, Michael thought. Of course he picked up on my reaction. Spending months in cramped quarters with someone as good at reading people as I am? Maybe better? Not going to be fun. He remembered a question Fiona once asked: "Why do you always have to be in control? Why do you always get to draw the line that says how close people can get?"
"Seriously, Michael, no contact --"
"Victor, would you want to piss Fiona off?"
Victor responded with the face of the defeated. "I assume you have protocols to avoid detection."
"I'll need to use a public phone to call a newpaper. Nothing will lead to us." The want ads are a great way to pass along messages if all your mail is illegally searched by a possibly-clandestine organization. But they only work if someone is there to look.
Victor sighed as he left the extra cereal untouched and climbed up the ladder to the deck. "Fine, we'll take a day trip."
Ah, yes. Travelling a day to find a phone. The pleasures of laying low.... But he would have to tell Fiona that he was alive. Fiona could tell Sam and Mom. His mother would actually be safer not knowing anything, but Fi would tell her anyway, even if he asked her not to. Sam would gripe but respect his wishes, but Fi had very clear rules about which kinds of cruelty she deemed acceptable and which she did not.
A bit like Victor, Michael thought with a smile. Okay, if I ever start to worry that I can't work with a sandy-haired, unpredictable, violent, angry, damaged, lunatic, I'll remember working with Fi. Sweet, sexy Fiona, who made him think of "clinically insane" as a term of endearment.
He climbed up to the deck to chat, to build a little more trust, just in case Victor got antsy and started to think about killing him in his sleep. His gut trusted Victor, but his brain told him to keep watching him. But when he got up there, he found Victor silently crying while looking at the stars.
And of course, when he saw Michael, he smirked, knowing his words would be transparent but saying them anyway. "You know I only told you about my family to mess with your head. So you would feel bad when you killed me. So your two seconds of hesitation might give me a tiny opportunity to catch you off guard and go for your jugular."
"And why do you think that would work?"
"You're a softie. Everyone knows it."
"Really." Michael gave his I'm-pretending-to-be-calm-but-really-I-could-crush-you-at-any-second face.
Victor just smiled. "Not saying you're not lethal, big guy. Terrible enemy to have, really. But your so-called "clients"? Saving the world one dumbass at a time? That's just gooey and adorable."
"I guess some dumbasses are more compelling than others."
"Yes, the indignity of being one of your dumbass clients is one I hope to forget with large amounts of tequila and rum. With a cherry. No, a pineapple slice."
"Unlimited alcohol but no phones? Where exactly in Cuba are we headed?"
"Okay, technically, we're going to Costa Rica."
"And when were you going to tell me?" Michael seethed but reminded himself, Still less crazy than many of the people in your life.
"When you noticed."
"When I noticed and then assumed you were betraying me?"
"I like seeing how people react to things."
Michael resisted the urge to jab Victor in his bandaged wound from where Carla's bullet grazed him. Still less crazy than many of the people you actually love.
"You wouldn't hit a guy who's been shot, would you? Or are you just upset because you miss your honey?"
Great. He's definitely better at reading people than I am. This is going to be terrific.
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That night, as Michael got ready to sleep, Victor walked in and said, mockingly, "Come one honey, don't go to bed mad."
Michael had done his best to lay down the law in terms of game-playing and withholding vital information. He expected more argument from Victor along the lines of "Who put you in charge/This is my boat and my hideout plan/ I'm not one of your pals you can just order around." Instead he just got an amused smirk and seemingly sincere assurances that he only said Cuba in case they got taken before they left port.
"You're injured. I'll take the floor." Michael moved a pillow to the wooden floorboards.
"How chivalrous." That earned him a dirty look. "No really, we're adults. We can share a bed, Michael. Just make sure you don't roll around a lot. Or lay your weary head on my bullet wound. Or hog the covers. Seriously, I hate that."
Michael hesitated, but he had to admit that the floor looked cold and hard. And in most cultures, men would share beds while travelling out of sheer necessity. It would be kind of frat-boy to refuse.
So he put the pillow back on the bed and that night he slept as motionlessly as he could so as not to jostle Victor or his injured shoulder. Victor was also still when he slept, and made no noise. But four separate times, he suddenly sat up, got out of bed, and went up on deck for several minutes. Michael could just barely make out his sobbing but thought better of going up there again.
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They sat in the sun. They wore cool sunglasses. They walked barefoot along the shore. They chipped away at Victor's impressive hideout stash of fine liquers. Victor's bandages came off relatively quickly.
They snuck into town one night to use a phone and pilfer groceries. They did not have his brand of yogurt.
They agreed to do nothing that would attract attention. The hideout was so removed there weren't any people who could become clients. They played cards if they were feeling amiable. They went smimming, separately. They occasionally caught seafood for dinner. They read decade-old Time Magazines. They listened to an old phonograph -- yes, a phonograph -- play two Nina Simone records and one Pet Shop Boys record. The rest of Costa Rica lived in the 21st Century, but not Victor.
At night they slept in the same bed and never touched each other.
Until one night when Victor started to get up to do his usual weeping on the back porch.
Michael, always the light sleeper, felt him move and grabbed him firmly by the waist.
"Michael, let go," he said, emotionlessly..
"No."
"Michael, let go now." With menace this time. Michael became alert. He's wounded. He makes smartass comments and is gratified when you laugh. He smiles like a kid when he catches a fish. But if he wanted, he could kill you with a pencil if you let your guard down.
But Michael decided to persist. "Come back to bed Victor." He didn't pull Victor back but he held his grip steady.
Victor started a threat - "Michael - "
"Just this once, Victor. Lie down. Come back to bed."
Victor stared at him, bewildered. Like the day Michael told him that he would be his client. Like the day Michael risked his own life to get Victor away form Carla's men. Michael wondered for a second if this wasn't the time -- the time when his gut would be wrong, when reaching out to Victor would come back to bite him, in a big and dangerous way.
But Victor lay back down, and put his fingers to his face, and let his tears flow. He wouldn't make a sound in front of Michael, but he didn't turn away.
Michael moved closer and leaned over to Victor's ear. "I'm not going to try to force you to talk about it."
"Damn right you're not."
And they said nothing to each other the rest of the night, but they lay awake and silent and still.
*****************************************************************************
The next night, when Victor got up to go to the porch, he hesitated. But Michael didn't stop him, even though it was clear he was awake.
But after a few minutes alone on the porch, Michael came out and sat next to him.
"I don't need your pity, Weston."
"It's not pity. And since when do you call me Weston?"
Victor half-smiled. And then his impulsive side showed, for the first time since the boat.
"What if I were Fiona?"
"What?"
"What would you do, Michael, if I were Fiona?" He looked at Michael with watery eyes, desperate but hesitant.
Michael held his gaze for a moment. Then he slowly moved his arms around Victor and gently closed them. He leaned close so Victor's forehead rested on his cheek. He ran his hand down the back of Victor's head.
Victor cried in his arms that night.
The next day they both pretended nothing had changed.
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This was the same response they had three weeks later, after they had sex for the first time. They got caught in the rain and had to take off their clothes, and Victor kissed him. Michael started it, though, they both knew. Michael had to admit it to himself. For all Victor's flirtatious comments, Victor had never tried to turn it physical until Michael looked at him that night. He didn't bother it hide it; he gazed at Victor with the cumulation of all the emotion and all the desire of their entire relationship. He wanted Victor, and he knew that Victor could see it, but Michael didn't look away.
And Victor looked surprised. Then moved. He looked genuinely moved.
And then he kissed Michael. And they started groping and moaning, and it wasn't exactly gentle but it wasn't rough either. And they finished quickly, but not embarrassingly so.
And then they forgot about it. They were stranded together, with nobody else in sight, and they admired each other professionally. They had a lot in common. They had an emotional bond. So they used each other to resolve their needs. No problem.
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A week later, they were sitting on the beach. Michael was flipping through a magazine. "Dan Quayle turned a sitcom mom into a national issue? That's stupid. I'm glad I was in an equatorial prison at the time."
"I think we should have sex again."
"What?"
"Tonight. Let's do something creative. Try not to be so vanilla this time, big guy." Victor got up and walked back into the house.
Crazy. But still less crazy than Fi.