Fic: Cashing In
Cashing In
By PaBurke
Summary: Sometimes you stumble onto a shortcut.
Universes: Burn Notice (Season 1) and SG1 (Season 9)
Disclaimer: Not mine
Rating: G
“Can I buy you a drink, Westen?” the college boy asked. He held a bottle of ice cold bottled water in each hand.
Michael blinked. He had felt eyes on him for the last couple hours, but had never considered the feds having someone with decent camouflage tracking him. The boy was just one of thousands Spring Break visitors. Even if Michael had seen the boy several times over the last week (and he probably had), it would not have dawned on the ex-spy that this was his tail. The boy even knew him well enough to offer water and not some kind of alcohol. “How do you know me?” Michael asked as he accepted the water.
“You remember Jack O’Neill?”
Michael had to think back a bit. “Air Force. Retired over a decade ago.” As the events of that particular FUBAR were remembered, he saw the physical similarities. “Family?”
The boy shrugged. “Pretty much. Any way, when some people tried to use me to get to him, he gave me a list of people I could trust. You were on that list. But Jack said that I might be able to find you anywhere but Miami. Funny, huh?”
Michael was still wary. The boy could be telling the truth, or he could be letting Michael make incorrect assumptions. “Unavoidable circumstances,” he murmured.
“Burn notice,” the boy said as if discussing the weather. “Why the hell didn’t you call up Jack and cash in your favor?”
“He’s retired,” Michael was still reeling from the boy causally putting together the spy history.
“He’s a general in the Pentagon,” the boy countered. He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and pressed a speed dial number. He handed the phone to Michael. “All you have to do is press send.”
Michael put down his water and stared at the phone display. The number was definitely to a Pentagon office and ‘Jack’s Office’ was the label given to it. After all the trouble he’d gone through, was it really this easy? He pressed send.
The boy pulled the phone back towards him, though Michael could easily hear it ring. A stranger picked it up. “Jack,” he asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, Davis,” Jack told the stranger. “An old friend of Jack’s is calling his marker.”
There was a pause, as if someone was checking a schedule. “I’m patching you through.”
“Thanks Davis.”
Another pause, then, “Jack? What the hell is going on? You are supposed to be safe and having a vacation in Miami. That implies that you stay out of trouble.”
“Michael Westen is here.”
This pause was shorter. “In Miami?”
“Hey, O’Neill,” Michael called out.
“Westen,” there was a dramatic sigh, as if he expected no better. “You got a burn notice, didn’t you?”
“Yes. I need to find out who put one out on me and why.”
“I’ll see what I can find out. Where do you want it delivered?”
Michael rattled off his home address.
“I’ll shake some trees and see what drops out. I’ll have a better idea in forty-eight hours. Jack, you staying there that long, or do I need to find a currier?”
“I’ll do it,” Jack offered.
“Good. The two of you stay out of trouble if it’s at all possible. I don’t like the idea of the two of you in the same city. It’s like putting up a massive lightening rod in the middle of a hurricane.”
“Gee thanks, Jack,” the boy said as he terminated the connection. Jack offered Michael his hand again. They shook, Michael more bemused than anything else. “I’ll see you in forty-eight hours,” he promised. And then he walked away.
Michael drank his water and hoped that this nightmare was almost over.
*
By PaBurke
Summary: Sometimes you stumble onto a shortcut.
Universes: Burn Notice (Season 1) and SG1 (Season 9)
Disclaimer: Not mine
Rating: G
“Can I buy you a drink, Westen?” the college boy asked. He held a bottle of ice cold bottled water in each hand.
Michael blinked. He had felt eyes on him for the last couple hours, but had never considered the feds having someone with decent camouflage tracking him. The boy was just one of thousands Spring Break visitors. Even if Michael had seen the boy several times over the last week (and he probably had), it would not have dawned on the ex-spy that this was his tail. The boy even knew him well enough to offer water and not some kind of alcohol. “How do you know me?” Michael asked as he accepted the water.
“You remember Jack O’Neill?”
Michael had to think back a bit. “Air Force. Retired over a decade ago.” As the events of that particular FUBAR were remembered, he saw the physical similarities. “Family?”
The boy shrugged. “Pretty much. Any way, when some people tried to use me to get to him, he gave me a list of people I could trust. You were on that list. But Jack said that I might be able to find you anywhere but Miami. Funny, huh?”
Michael was still wary. The boy could be telling the truth, or he could be letting Michael make incorrect assumptions. “Unavoidable circumstances,” he murmured.
“Burn notice,” the boy said as if discussing the weather. “Why the hell didn’t you call up Jack and cash in your favor?”
“He’s retired,” Michael was still reeling from the boy causally putting together the spy history.
“He’s a general in the Pentagon,” the boy countered. He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and pressed a speed dial number. He handed the phone to Michael. “All you have to do is press send.”
Michael put down his water and stared at the phone display. The number was definitely to a Pentagon office and ‘Jack’s Office’ was the label given to it. After all the trouble he’d gone through, was it really this easy? He pressed send.
The boy pulled the phone back towards him, though Michael could easily hear it ring. A stranger picked it up. “Jack,” he asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, Davis,” Jack told the stranger. “An old friend of Jack’s is calling his marker.”
There was a pause, as if someone was checking a schedule. “I’m patching you through.”
“Thanks Davis.”
Another pause, then, “Jack? What the hell is going on? You are supposed to be safe and having a vacation in Miami. That implies that you stay out of trouble.”
“Michael Westen is here.”
This pause was shorter. “In Miami?”
“Hey, O’Neill,” Michael called out.
“Westen,” there was a dramatic sigh, as if he expected no better. “You got a burn notice, didn’t you?”
“Yes. I need to find out who put one out on me and why.”
“I’ll see what I can find out. Where do you want it delivered?”
Michael rattled off his home address.
“I’ll shake some trees and see what drops out. I’ll have a better idea in forty-eight hours. Jack, you staying there that long, or do I need to find a currier?”
“I’ll do it,” Jack offered.
“Good. The two of you stay out of trouble if it’s at all possible. I don’t like the idea of the two of you in the same city. It’s like putting up a massive lightening rod in the middle of a hurricane.”
“Gee thanks, Jack,” the boy said as he terminated the connection. Jack offered Michael his hand again. They shook, Michael more bemused than anything else. “I’ll see you in forty-eight hours,” he promised. And then he walked away.
Michael drank his water and hoped that this nightmare was almost over.
*