Burn Notice Fic: Eire
Posted to burnnotice
Title: Eire
Pairing/Characters: Michael, Fiona, OCs
Rating: PG13
Spoilers: Pilot
Summary: How Michael met Fiona in Ireland
Notes/Warnings: Read the disclaimer on my LJ
As a spy, quick jobs are ideal: get in, get out, leave before the explosives go off.
But sometimes the people you're going in after are a little reticent to accept newcomers. Considering these are the kind of people who'd just as soon put a bullet in your head rather than waste time asking questions, it's a good idea to start out your exposure to them as someone innocuous. Then, if you can build up their trust over time with a few well placed acts of law breaking - preferably ones where it only looks like people get hurt - then you can weasel your way in and fulfill your mission.
But that means deep cover and deep cover means saying goodbye to at least months if not a year of your life.
Spies tend to dislike deep cover, but they dislike being dead more, so when the assignment warrants taking the time to not get dead, you take the time.
And sometimes that time is spent in Ireland.
-|
Nursing a pint in a pub is a good way to blend in. Amateurs start out many an op looking like a local this way. Joining in on a bar fight? Pros know that's an instant in. You just have to make sure to pick the right side.
Michael ducked his head as a chair went flying over it.
"Oi!"
He ducked again as an Irishman flew over him.
He let loose a stream of Gaelic curse words and leaped into the fray, taking care to cause pain but not real injury, pulling his punches to keep from looking the blackbelt with hands trained to kill that he was.
"Can't a bloke enjoy a quiet pint without the lot of you rabble rousers stirring things up?"
With a strong shove he pushed an opponent - dizzy from repeated blows - making him crash into his compatriot, both of them tumbling to the floor in a heap.
"You handle yourself pretty good." He knew the appraising voice from behind him was the man whose side he'd jumped in on - the man who would be his in to the Irish gunrunners.
Michael turned around, shrugging. "Couple of pansy asses. Not much of a challenge," he scoffed. "Just wanted them to shut the bloody hell up." He turned and left Alastair Blackwell standing there and went back to his barstool, picking up his pint as if he'd never left it.
This was key. He couldn't introduce himself to Alastair; that would be too obvious. But if he had as keen an eye as a recruiter as word on the street had it, he'd be coming over to ask Michael's name.
It was a tense minute before Alastair pulled up a chair beside him, leaving the beaten men to slink, shamed, from the bar.
"Name's Blackwell. Alastair Blackwell. Folks call me Blackie. Seems I owe you a drink, my friend."
Blackie held out his hand and Michael shook it amicably.
"Michael Corley."
"An American? Sounds like it from your accent."
Michael shrugged. "Parents were born and raised in Dunkirk. My dad sent my mom to stay with relatives in the US so I'd be born on US soil." He took a drink of his beer. "Growing up surrounded by Irish relations? You can bet the kids at school had a field day making fun of my accent. Figured I'd get the same ass kicking here for sounding too American as I did back home for sounding too Irish." He drained the last of his beer. "Can't bloody win."
Blackie gestured to the bartender. "Another round for us here."
The bartender put a beer down in front of both of them and Michael raised his glass to his companion.
"Slainte."
"Slainte," Blackie responded, taking a long drink then smacking his lips in satisfaction. "Well, you've done me a right favor there. I warrant I'd have had quite a time with those blokes if you hadn't been my wingman."
Michael shrugged again. "They were being loud and obnoxious. They needed to be shown the door and the bartender clearly wasn't sending them on their way."
"Dunkirk, eh? What parts?"
"Eastern part of town, near the hills," Michael told him, calmly drinking his beer. This was crucial; he was being tested to make sure he was who he said he was.
"Ah! Near the creek then."
Michael frowned. "Creek's more west than anything - almost center of town. You ever been to Dunkirk?"
"Not as of late, no." A lie.
"It's gone to crap," Michael said bitterly. "Rogan's mill closed down and it's just standing there, decaying - only good for the kids from St. Helen's to throw rocks at on their way home from school. They paved over Harper's Green just before my last trip. Now it's got some bloody discount store on it - like there aren't enough of those on Market Street." He shook his head, stopping himself. "Sorry, mate. You don't even know the place and I'm bitching about it like I owned it or something."
"A bitch and moan goes good with a pint," Blackie said, raising his glass. "Got to have some excuse to drink, eh?" He started ticking off the reasons on his fingers. "Somebody died, somebody broke your heart, your team lost at football, bloody Englishmen..."
"And the ever popular, I've got a hangover, I might as well drink if off," Michael added, lifting his glass before taking a sip.
"There you are!" Blackie exclaimed. "Best reason ever." He stopped to take a drink. "So if the family's from Dunkirk, what brings you to Dublin?"
"My grandfather passed away - didn't last but a few weeks after my grandmother died - and since no one knows what happened to my father after he shipped my mom off to the states, they left me everything. Figured I'd come and see about making a go of the business. I've got a dual passport, my mom died last year, nothing holding me there. So I figured why not come check it out."
"You like Ireland so far."
"I liked it growing up," Michael said. "It always seemed so much more friendly. People didn't just lock themselves away in their cars and houses. They came out and talked to their neighbors - knew their names." His face darkened. "It just pisses me off that the English had to come in and ruin it."
"Not a fan of the United Kingdom?"
"United my arse. It's more 'here's the parts we conquered that we didn't blow when we were the great and powerful British Empire!'" Michael's voice was dripping with sarcasm.
"I hear you." Blackie clinked his glass with Michael's. "These are sorry times, I tell you."
Michael drained the last of his beer and rose off his chair.
"Well, thanks for the beer, mate." He shook Blackie's hand in farewell. "I've got a date with a solicitor to sign some papers and make myself a business owner."
"What's the name of the place?" Blackie asked, also rising.
"Nolan's. It's a restaurant supply firm - sells to restaurants, pubs, caterers..." He shrugged. "People have to eat and at least this way I don't have to worry about what kind of food is in or out - I just sell to other businesses."
"Or you will once you sign those papers."
Michael huffed.
"Not really looking forward to two hours of legal mumbo jumbo, but you got to do what you got to do..." He nodded his head to Blackie in farewell. "Nice to meet you."
"Likewise." Blackie tipped his glass to him and Michael walked out. Even if Blackie didn't follow it was a first good contact. He could work with this.
He stepped out onto the shadowed lane, the narrow street quiet of cars as he began to walk away.
They fell into step behind him as soon as he cleared the building the pub was in. He had a feeling the two cowards would use a divide and conquer method to get their payback, figuring he and Blackie would be more vulnerable alone.
Still he was feeling charitable. He wouldn't kill them for being annoying, though he wasn't against some hospitalization to keep them out of his way a while.
He moved into the street; the sidewalk was too narrow for a good fight. The two men followed.
"Michael! Behind you!"
It was clearly Blackie's voice warning him - a good sign.
He spun around, not even bothering to act surprised, to find one man had a stick in his hand. The other seemed content to do battle with his bare fists.
The only problem was how to keep it from looking too easy.
He let them rush him, if only to use their momentum against them, sending the stick-wielder headfirst into a parked car.
The second only needed a kick to get him where he wanted him, a punch to dizzy him on his feet and a well placed boot to ensure he'd be hobbling around on a cast for the next two months.
Stick man recovered enough to come at him again. Michael, wanting to show off a bit, grabbed the fist coming at him, broke a few bones in it, then slammed his head into another car.
This time he wasn't going to recover anytime soon.
"Bloody hell, boy! You sure showed those two what for!"
Blackie made a show of applauding Michael's fighting skills as he joined him, surveying the damage.
The clapping hands were joined by a second pair, walking up the street towards them.
It was a woman: slender and lean, but tough and wiry, beautiful but with an expression that showed she brooked no nonsense, with long brown hair that floated behind her like a royal cape, one that proclaimed her queen with no man above her.
"Very nice there," she complimented him, taking in first the bodies on the ground then him from head to toe - taking her time as if there was nothing wrong with her sizing him up. "And who's this one then?" The question was directed at Blackie, but her eyes were on Michael, defiant and proud.
"This here is Michael Corley," Blackie told her. "Good man in a fight, eh?"
The corner of Michael's mouth briefly quirked up in a half smile. The woman's did the same, as if they'd come to some sort of understanding, a sort of mutual respect that could only come when two warriors acknowledged each other's prowess.
"Michael, this is an associate of mine - name of Fiona."
Anyone who thinks spies are boy scouts has watched too many movies. The reality lies somewhere between the letter of the law and James Bond. While handlers are careful not to tell you to screw someone on behalf of your country, everyone knows it happens. The thing is, every once in a while you do it because you actually feel something, not because that person is advantageous to your mission.
That's when the danger comes in - get too close and it gets ugly.
But spies? We're risk takers. And sometimes the risk feels like it just might be worth it.
Michael's half smirk returned and stayed put. Hers did too. This time they really were in understanding.
"Hello, Fiona."
-|-
Title: Eire
Pairing/Characters: Michael, Fiona, OCs
Rating: PG13
Spoilers: Pilot
Summary: How Michael met Fiona in Ireland
Notes/Warnings: Read the disclaimer on my LJ
As a spy, quick jobs are ideal: get in, get out, leave before the explosives go off.
But sometimes the people you're going in after are a little reticent to accept newcomers. Considering these are the kind of people who'd just as soon put a bullet in your head rather than waste time asking questions, it's a good idea to start out your exposure to them as someone innocuous. Then, if you can build up their trust over time with a few well placed acts of law breaking - preferably ones where it only looks like people get hurt - then you can weasel your way in and fulfill your mission.
But that means deep cover and deep cover means saying goodbye to at least months if not a year of your life.
Spies tend to dislike deep cover, but they dislike being dead more, so when the assignment warrants taking the time to not get dead, you take the time.
And sometimes that time is spent in Ireland.
-|
Nursing a pint in a pub is a good way to blend in. Amateurs start out many an op looking like a local this way. Joining in on a bar fight? Pros know that's an instant in. You just have to make sure to pick the right side.
Michael ducked his head as a chair went flying over it.
"Oi!"
He ducked again as an Irishman flew over him.
He let loose a stream of Gaelic curse words and leaped into the fray, taking care to cause pain but not real injury, pulling his punches to keep from looking the blackbelt with hands trained to kill that he was.
"Can't a bloke enjoy a quiet pint without the lot of you rabble rousers stirring things up?"
With a strong shove he pushed an opponent - dizzy from repeated blows - making him crash into his compatriot, both of them tumbling to the floor in a heap.
"You handle yourself pretty good." He knew the appraising voice from behind him was the man whose side he'd jumped in on - the man who would be his in to the Irish gunrunners.
Michael turned around, shrugging. "Couple of pansy asses. Not much of a challenge," he scoffed. "Just wanted them to shut the bloody hell up." He turned and left Alastair Blackwell standing there and went back to his barstool, picking up his pint as if he'd never left it.
This was key. He couldn't introduce himself to Alastair; that would be too obvious. But if he had as keen an eye as a recruiter as word on the street had it, he'd be coming over to ask Michael's name.
It was a tense minute before Alastair pulled up a chair beside him, leaving the beaten men to slink, shamed, from the bar.
"Name's Blackwell. Alastair Blackwell. Folks call me Blackie. Seems I owe you a drink, my friend."
Blackie held out his hand and Michael shook it amicably.
"Michael Corley."
"An American? Sounds like it from your accent."
Michael shrugged. "Parents were born and raised in Dunkirk. My dad sent my mom to stay with relatives in the US so I'd be born on US soil." He took a drink of his beer. "Growing up surrounded by Irish relations? You can bet the kids at school had a field day making fun of my accent. Figured I'd get the same ass kicking here for sounding too American as I did back home for sounding too Irish." He drained the last of his beer. "Can't bloody win."
Blackie gestured to the bartender. "Another round for us here."
The bartender put a beer down in front of both of them and Michael raised his glass to his companion.
"Slainte."
"Slainte," Blackie responded, taking a long drink then smacking his lips in satisfaction. "Well, you've done me a right favor there. I warrant I'd have had quite a time with those blokes if you hadn't been my wingman."
Michael shrugged again. "They were being loud and obnoxious. They needed to be shown the door and the bartender clearly wasn't sending them on their way."
"Dunkirk, eh? What parts?"
"Eastern part of town, near the hills," Michael told him, calmly drinking his beer. This was crucial; he was being tested to make sure he was who he said he was.
"Ah! Near the creek then."
Michael frowned. "Creek's more west than anything - almost center of town. You ever been to Dunkirk?"
"Not as of late, no." A lie.
"It's gone to crap," Michael said bitterly. "Rogan's mill closed down and it's just standing there, decaying - only good for the kids from St. Helen's to throw rocks at on their way home from school. They paved over Harper's Green just before my last trip. Now it's got some bloody discount store on it - like there aren't enough of those on Market Street." He shook his head, stopping himself. "Sorry, mate. You don't even know the place and I'm bitching about it like I owned it or something."
"A bitch and moan goes good with a pint," Blackie said, raising his glass. "Got to have some excuse to drink, eh?" He started ticking off the reasons on his fingers. "Somebody died, somebody broke your heart, your team lost at football, bloody Englishmen..."
"And the ever popular, I've got a hangover, I might as well drink if off," Michael added, lifting his glass before taking a sip.
"There you are!" Blackie exclaimed. "Best reason ever." He stopped to take a drink. "So if the family's from Dunkirk, what brings you to Dublin?"
"My grandfather passed away - didn't last but a few weeks after my grandmother died - and since no one knows what happened to my father after he shipped my mom off to the states, they left me everything. Figured I'd come and see about making a go of the business. I've got a dual passport, my mom died last year, nothing holding me there. So I figured why not come check it out."
"You like Ireland so far."
"I liked it growing up," Michael said. "It always seemed so much more friendly. People didn't just lock themselves away in their cars and houses. They came out and talked to their neighbors - knew their names." His face darkened. "It just pisses me off that the English had to come in and ruin it."
"Not a fan of the United Kingdom?"
"United my arse. It's more 'here's the parts we conquered that we didn't blow when we were the great and powerful British Empire!'" Michael's voice was dripping with sarcasm.
"I hear you." Blackie clinked his glass with Michael's. "These are sorry times, I tell you."
Michael drained the last of his beer and rose off his chair.
"Well, thanks for the beer, mate." He shook Blackie's hand in farewell. "I've got a date with a solicitor to sign some papers and make myself a business owner."
"What's the name of the place?" Blackie asked, also rising.
"Nolan's. It's a restaurant supply firm - sells to restaurants, pubs, caterers..." He shrugged. "People have to eat and at least this way I don't have to worry about what kind of food is in or out - I just sell to other businesses."
"Or you will once you sign those papers."
Michael huffed.
"Not really looking forward to two hours of legal mumbo jumbo, but you got to do what you got to do..." He nodded his head to Blackie in farewell. "Nice to meet you."
"Likewise." Blackie tipped his glass to him and Michael walked out. Even if Blackie didn't follow it was a first good contact. He could work with this.
He stepped out onto the shadowed lane, the narrow street quiet of cars as he began to walk away.
They fell into step behind him as soon as he cleared the building the pub was in. He had a feeling the two cowards would use a divide and conquer method to get their payback, figuring he and Blackie would be more vulnerable alone.
Still he was feeling charitable. He wouldn't kill them for being annoying, though he wasn't against some hospitalization to keep them out of his way a while.
He moved into the street; the sidewalk was too narrow for a good fight. The two men followed.
"Michael! Behind you!"
It was clearly Blackie's voice warning him - a good sign.
He spun around, not even bothering to act surprised, to find one man had a stick in his hand. The other seemed content to do battle with his bare fists.
The only problem was how to keep it from looking too easy.
He let them rush him, if only to use their momentum against them, sending the stick-wielder headfirst into a parked car.
The second only needed a kick to get him where he wanted him, a punch to dizzy him on his feet and a well placed boot to ensure he'd be hobbling around on a cast for the next two months.
Stick man recovered enough to come at him again. Michael, wanting to show off a bit, grabbed the fist coming at him, broke a few bones in it, then slammed his head into another car.
This time he wasn't going to recover anytime soon.
"Bloody hell, boy! You sure showed those two what for!"
Blackie made a show of applauding Michael's fighting skills as he joined him, surveying the damage.
The clapping hands were joined by a second pair, walking up the street towards them.
It was a woman: slender and lean, but tough and wiry, beautiful but with an expression that showed she brooked no nonsense, with long brown hair that floated behind her like a royal cape, one that proclaimed her queen with no man above her.
"Very nice there," she complimented him, taking in first the bodies on the ground then him from head to toe - taking her time as if there was nothing wrong with her sizing him up. "And who's this one then?" The question was directed at Blackie, but her eyes were on Michael, defiant and proud.
"This here is Michael Corley," Blackie told her. "Good man in a fight, eh?"
The corner of Michael's mouth briefly quirked up in a half smile. The woman's did the same, as if they'd come to some sort of understanding, a sort of mutual respect that could only come when two warriors acknowledged each other's prowess.
"Michael, this is an associate of mine - name of Fiona."
Anyone who thinks spies are boy scouts has watched too many movies. The reality lies somewhere between the letter of the law and James Bond. While handlers are careful not to tell you to screw someone on behalf of your country, everyone knows it happens. The thing is, every once in a while you do it because you actually feel something, not because that person is advantageous to your mission.
That's when the danger comes in - get too close and it gets ugly.
But spies? We're risk takers. And sometimes the risk feels like it just might be worth it.
Michael's half smirk returned and stayed put. Hers did too. This time they really were in understanding.
"Hello, Fiona."
-|-