Burn Notice Fic: Dead Man's Party Crasher
Posted to burnnotice
Title: Dead Man's Party Crasher
Pairing/Characters: Michael/Fiona, OC
Rating: PG13
Spoilers: Pilot
Summary: She's so good he doesn't even realize she's the contact at first
Notes/Warnings: Read the disclaimer on my LJ
Meeting a new contact can be an ordeal for a spy. People operating outside the law tend not to trust easily. Some will just send a car for you, some will throw a bag over your head and drive you around for an hour to make sure you can't find them again and others will just assume you're a plant and send someone to shoot you. Generally speaking, getting roughed up for a couple of hours during an interrogation to make sure you're not a spy is a good thing. Survive and you're in.
Then there are wildcards - people who don't do what's expected. Setting a meet right where a crime is about to go down - for example - isn't fun, but it does put people in a position where they have to bolt or join with the guilty party: one good way of ruling out a plant.
Of course, when someone decides to crash the party? That's when things get complicated.
The glow of a cigarette came out of the darkness attached to a gruff and wizened middle-aged Irishman.
"You Michael?" he asked, coughing up half a lung afterwards.
"Might be." Michael stood still, waiting for the man to size him up, doing the same himself.
"What kind of man doesn't know his own name?" the man scoffed, voice whisky rough.
"I know a lot of things," Michael said, cagey. Not knowing who the IRA was sending to meet him was problematic. He couldn't afford to piss this guy off, but he also couldn't show his hand in case he wasn't the contact or in case it was a test.
"Do you now?" The man came closer, tossing his cigarette butt away into the dank dark alley behind them. "Come into my office then." He took several steps into the alley until he was fully enclosed in shadow.
Michael followed cautiously, walking slowly to let his eyes adjust after standing beneath the streetlight he'd been told to wait next to for the last fifteen minutes.
Even in the darkness of the alley, Michael could see the tiny glint of a knife in the man's hand. Instinct told him to fight, to attack, to get the upper hand and protect himself from harm. Training told him to let the man make his move, see if his intent was to kill or to scare.
He'd barely stepped into the darkness when the man grabbed him, shoved him up against the nearest building and brought the knife to his throat.
Michael easily brought his hand up during the maneuver to guard his neck from the blade, but otherwise let the man take control - or at least made it look like he was in control.
"You're working for those sons of bitches in Ulster, aren't you?" the man spat out, his accent even thicker in anger.
Before Michael could answer, a lilting female voice came from the street.
"Yoo hoo!" A tipsy looking woman, wobbling in high heels - either a bar floozy or a prostitute, it was hard to tell in this neighborhood - was peering into the alley. "Oi there lads! You seen very tall young man come by here? The boyfriend ran out of the pub for a pack o' smokes a while ago and now he's gone missing."
"Get lost whore!" the Irishman spat out, distaste clear.
The woman let out a long stream of profanity in Irish Gaelic as she came storming into the alley. The man pulled the blade away from Michael's neck to point it at her, but before he could complete the movement, she'd grabbed him by the arm, expertly disarmed him and flipped him onto his back aiming a large semi-automatic pistol in his face.
"That'll teach you to insult a lady," she mocked. She pulled a zip tie out of her purse and tossed it at Michael who caught it easily, still blinking at the woman as he crouched down to pick up the man's knife. "I'm going to have to teach you a lesson." She gestured with the gun. "Up!"
The man rose, keeping his hands up, walking slowly out of the alley at gunpoint. She directed him to the streetlight pole and backed him up against it before nodding to Michael.
Michael pulled the man's hands behind the pole and zip tied them together.
"You kill me there'll be hell to pay, bitch!" the man yelled.
"Oh, I'm not going to kill you," she said, her voice artificially sweet. "Can't learn your lesson if you're dead, can you?" She started to unbutton the man's shirt then put her hand out to Michael. "Knife." He put it hilt first in her hand, careful to move slowly and stay where she could see him. She used the knife to cut open his undershirt and expose his lily-white beer belly and barely haired chest.
"What the hell?" the man protested, squirming ineffectually against his bonds.
The woman just rummaged in her purse and brought out a bright red lipstick. Swiveling it up with a devilish grin she began to write on the man's bare skin.
Michael shifted just enough to see what she wrote and couldn't hold back a laugh. 'Man U Rules' wouldn't get him killed, but any local footballers or hardcore fans reading it that would definitely see red in more ways than one.
"Nice," he said, nodding in appreciation.
"Thank you," she said brightly, admiring her work, before turning her attention to the man. "Stay out of our business," she told him, her tone suddenly dark and threatening. "Because this? Is only fun once. You know what else is fun? Playing with my sniper rifle."
She turned on her heel and walked off, steady on her feet, with a little spring in her step even.
Michael caught up to her about twenty yards later and walked alongside her until they reached a short bridge over the local river. The woman stopped and threw the lipstick as far as she could into the fast moving deep water.
Satisfied with her throw, she headed for a little two-seater sports car parked on the other side of the bridge.
"So you're Michael," she said conversationally, as if they'd met under perfectly normal circumstances.
"That's me," he said, clearly no need for subterfuge. "And you are?"
"Fiona," she said, turning as they reached the car, unlocking it with her key fob remote. "And you?" She smiled at him and Michael felt a little jolt inside - trouble. "You owe me a lipstick."
He reached down and opened the door for her with a flourish.
"I'd happily buy you ten," he said, flashing her his best smile.
She smirked as she went to get inside, a little spark passing between them at the proximity of their bodies.
"A man after my own heart."
-|-
Title: Dead Man's Party Crasher
Pairing/Characters: Michael/Fiona, OC
Rating: PG13
Spoilers: Pilot
Summary: She's so good he doesn't even realize she's the contact at first
Notes/Warnings: Read the disclaimer on my LJ
Meeting a new contact can be an ordeal for a spy. People operating outside the law tend not to trust easily. Some will just send a car for you, some will throw a bag over your head and drive you around for an hour to make sure you can't find them again and others will just assume you're a plant and send someone to shoot you. Generally speaking, getting roughed up for a couple of hours during an interrogation to make sure you're not a spy is a good thing. Survive and you're in.
Then there are wildcards - people who don't do what's expected. Setting a meet right where a crime is about to go down - for example - isn't fun, but it does put people in a position where they have to bolt or join with the guilty party: one good way of ruling out a plant.
Of course, when someone decides to crash the party? That's when things get complicated.
The glow of a cigarette came out of the darkness attached to a gruff and wizened middle-aged Irishman.
"You Michael?" he asked, coughing up half a lung afterwards.
"Might be." Michael stood still, waiting for the man to size him up, doing the same himself.
"What kind of man doesn't know his own name?" the man scoffed, voice whisky rough.
"I know a lot of things," Michael said, cagey. Not knowing who the IRA was sending to meet him was problematic. He couldn't afford to piss this guy off, but he also couldn't show his hand in case he wasn't the contact or in case it was a test.
"Do you now?" The man came closer, tossing his cigarette butt away into the dank dark alley behind them. "Come into my office then." He took several steps into the alley until he was fully enclosed in shadow.
Michael followed cautiously, walking slowly to let his eyes adjust after standing beneath the streetlight he'd been told to wait next to for the last fifteen minutes.
Even in the darkness of the alley, Michael could see the tiny glint of a knife in the man's hand. Instinct told him to fight, to attack, to get the upper hand and protect himself from harm. Training told him to let the man make his move, see if his intent was to kill or to scare.
He'd barely stepped into the darkness when the man grabbed him, shoved him up against the nearest building and brought the knife to his throat.
Michael easily brought his hand up during the maneuver to guard his neck from the blade, but otherwise let the man take control - or at least made it look like he was in control.
"You're working for those sons of bitches in Ulster, aren't you?" the man spat out, his accent even thicker in anger.
Before Michael could answer, a lilting female voice came from the street.
"Yoo hoo!" A tipsy looking woman, wobbling in high heels - either a bar floozy or a prostitute, it was hard to tell in this neighborhood - was peering into the alley. "Oi there lads! You seen very tall young man come by here? The boyfriend ran out of the pub for a pack o' smokes a while ago and now he's gone missing."
"Get lost whore!" the Irishman spat out, distaste clear.
The woman let out a long stream of profanity in Irish Gaelic as she came storming into the alley. The man pulled the blade away from Michael's neck to point it at her, but before he could complete the movement, she'd grabbed him by the arm, expertly disarmed him and flipped him onto his back aiming a large semi-automatic pistol in his face.
"That'll teach you to insult a lady," she mocked. She pulled a zip tie out of her purse and tossed it at Michael who caught it easily, still blinking at the woman as he crouched down to pick up the man's knife. "I'm going to have to teach you a lesson." She gestured with the gun. "Up!"
The man rose, keeping his hands up, walking slowly out of the alley at gunpoint. She directed him to the streetlight pole and backed him up against it before nodding to Michael.
Michael pulled the man's hands behind the pole and zip tied them together.
"You kill me there'll be hell to pay, bitch!" the man yelled.
"Oh, I'm not going to kill you," she said, her voice artificially sweet. "Can't learn your lesson if you're dead, can you?" She started to unbutton the man's shirt then put her hand out to Michael. "Knife." He put it hilt first in her hand, careful to move slowly and stay where she could see him. She used the knife to cut open his undershirt and expose his lily-white beer belly and barely haired chest.
"What the hell?" the man protested, squirming ineffectually against his bonds.
The woman just rummaged in her purse and brought out a bright red lipstick. Swiveling it up with a devilish grin she began to write on the man's bare skin.
Michael shifted just enough to see what she wrote and couldn't hold back a laugh. 'Man U Rules' wouldn't get him killed, but any local footballers or hardcore fans reading it that would definitely see red in more ways than one.
"Nice," he said, nodding in appreciation.
"Thank you," she said brightly, admiring her work, before turning her attention to the man. "Stay out of our business," she told him, her tone suddenly dark and threatening. "Because this? Is only fun once. You know what else is fun? Playing with my sniper rifle."
She turned on her heel and walked off, steady on her feet, with a little spring in her step even.
Michael caught up to her about twenty yards later and walked alongside her until they reached a short bridge over the local river. The woman stopped and threw the lipstick as far as she could into the fast moving deep water.
Satisfied with her throw, she headed for a little two-seater sports car parked on the other side of the bridge.
"So you're Michael," she said conversationally, as if they'd met under perfectly normal circumstances.
"That's me," he said, clearly no need for subterfuge. "And you are?"
"Fiona," she said, turning as they reached the car, unlocking it with her key fob remote. "And you?" She smiled at him and Michael felt a little jolt inside - trouble. "You owe me a lipstick."
He reached down and opened the door for her with a flourish.
"I'd happily buy you ten," he said, flashing her his best smile.
She smirked as she went to get inside, a little spark passing between them at the proximity of their bodies.
"A man after my own heart."
-|-