Burn Notice - This Ain't a Scene, It's a Goddamn Arms Race - Westen/Sark (PG-13)
I'm sure many of you will see the below title and either shriek with glee or run away in horror. The story it contains is not bandom in anyway *shudders violently* it's just a shout-out to my girl, ethrosdemon who has suddenly decided to pick up the mantle of FoB so she can whack me with it. For antheia who was having a rough week.
Burn Notice f/Alias
Post-S1 finale
Michael Westen/Julian Sark; Michael Westen/Fiona Glenanne (implied) (PG-13)
This Ain't a Scene, It's a Goddamn Arms Race
There are only two yoghurts in the refrigerator, both of which are lemon. Julian sighs; he hates lemon yoghurt. Michael knows he hates lemon yoghurts. That's probably why Michael bought them -- to be spiteful. The shrew probably likes them -- but that's not a conducive thought to today's reconciliation -- because that's what's going to happen today, reconciliation. As soon as Julian finds a spoon.
Six forks, eighteen knives, and the only spoon is dirty.
Oh, Michael. You make an agency disavow their spy and the spy just goes to pieces. There's not even any wine.
At the very least Julian would think Michael would have a bottle of Château Pétrus hidden away for a moment like this. Or maybe that's Julian thinking like a boyfriend -- expecting consideration from someone he loves -- loved.
Quite.
Michael really didn't give him any choice, and that Irish harridan forced his hand. The multiple attempts at murder were just for the attention. Julian has wanted Michael damaged and confused, with his back against the wall, and that glint in his eyes that he got when Julian wasn't listening to him about knife-play not being foreplay. Julian wanted Michael where he belonged -- by his side. This wasn't by his side. This was living in a cracked-out whorehouse that tried to pretend it was loft. There were flowers in the teapot and the coffee was instant.
Julian had wanted Michael malleable -- not insane. Of course between the two of them that was a very fine line -- if it existed at all.
Julian took off his jacket, draped it over one of the mismatched chairs and set to making things right. First there were the dishes, none of which matched (obviously), so he threw them all out of the window and called on one of his underlings to do something about this travesty. And to do some food shopping as well. And then there was the matter of the bed. Julian inspected the bed linens closely. Water stains, pubic hairs -- still sleeping naked his Michael then -- they smelled of sweat and musk and something unidentifiable.
That was unacceptable.
Shaking his head, Julian grabbed the mattress, flipped it on its side and then dragged it out the front door. There was no point in carrying it down the stairs when he could just push it over the railing. Five minutes later it was joined by the box spring, and later, by some of the more unfortunate furniture.
Julian found the container of gasoline under the sink, where all the most useful household items were kept; it was between the duct tape and something Julian presumed was nitroglycerin.
While Julian was in the yard setting the whole debacle on fire, his mobile rang. "Yes?"
"We have him," a clear female voice replied calmly.
Julian grinned toothily as a man walked past with his dog, eying the bonfire warily. "Just spring cleaning," he called cheerily.
"Spring cleaning in July?" the woman replied down the line. Her timbre of amusement evident. "How subversive."
"Quite." The flames from the fire were nearly as high as the door of Michael's loft and for a moment, Julian thought about smoke damage, but that was nothing really. Not at the moment.
"Have him back here by half-five," Julian said after a moment. "Take the scenic route. I expect the furniture and the crockery will be here by then."
"The scenic route inside a tractor trailer." A pause. "As you wish," the woman replied and rang off.
Julian watched the flames burn Michael's new life for quite some time. He unbuttoned the second button of his linen shirt under the oppressive heat, waiting until the flames began to ash and smolder. When he was satisfied, he turned and went back in the house.
He gave Michael credit for a choosing a quality neighborhood. He had just set a bonfire in Miami in the middle of July. Not once had someone come around to see if the warehouse was burning down. Not a fire engine in sight. A man could get up to quite a bit in this sort of place.
Julian Sark met Michael Westen in Pakistan. It was an arms deal. Most things that Julian did post-The Covenant were arms deals. They were plentiful and paid well; that was all Julian cared about. Well, he cared about that and fine clothing, and good holidays, and not getting sunburned, and not getting killed -- but money seemed to sort out most of those.
As for Michael, well, at some point he got between Julian and a contact he was supposed to meet, so Julian punched him in the throat and stepped on his chest, more than prepared to put a bullet in his head. Except that Michael grinned. He had a scar next to his left eye and he laughed when Julian pointed a gun at his head; Julian was suitably amused. And possibly a little intrigued. It had been a long time since he had met anyone who amused him, so he let Michael live.
Six months later it was autumn in Prague. The leaves were golden, the air in the city was crisp, and Julian was fleeing from a deal that hadn't gone sour inasmuch as it had just gone messy. Being shot was always a messy business, and his shoulder let him know as much on a regular basis. Still, Prague was one of the last places he expected to walk down a winding footpath and have his legs yanked out from underneath him--literally.
From his vantage point on the cobblestones, Julian could see blinding white teeth and a very nice Brioni suit. The sunglasses were a strange sort of rust shade, and when their owner removed them, Julian's nostrils flared.
"Mr. Sark, you should be more careful where you step," the man said. "You never know who might be lurking around the corner, ready to take advantage of an injured man."
Julian propped himself up on his elbows, his shoulder protesting loudly. "I'm afraid your intelligence is faulty, Mr. Westen," he mocked. "I'm not injured in the slightest."
Michael crouched down, his body blocking out a good deal of the daylight. He smelled of spices and sandalwood and cashmere. Julian liked his overcoat quite a bit. "If I push you right about here," Michael's hand came to rest over the healing bullet wound in Julian's left shoulder and he twitched. "Would you continue to lie to me?"
Julian cocked his head to the side. "That depends on what I get for telling the truth."
Michael grinned that toothy smile that Julian remembered. His teeth were entirely too white. "You wouldn't know the truth if it shot you."
"Oh, wouldn't I?
At this Michael withdrew a rather large handgun and used it to poke Julian in his other shoulder. "Are you sure about that?"
Julian rolled his eyes. "Mr. Westen, if we're going to continue flirting in this shameless manner, can we at least move somewhere with fewer rocks poking into my lower back?"
Michael's gun went back into hiding, and he helped Julian up. "Your place or mine?" he asked.
The only saving grace in Michael's home that Julian can find is the bath. It's a claw-footed monstrosity, completely anachronistic to its surroundings. Julian can only assume that Michael 'borrowed' it from some four-star European hotel. It vaguely reminds Julian of that holiday they took at the Burj Al Arab in Dubai.
It wasn't a holiday in the proper sense of the word as they never left the hotel room, but there really wasn't any need to with the sex and the chess board and the view and the bathroom large enough for a small army. It was not, however, a honeymoon, despite whatever sly remarks Michael had made, even though Julian quite likes the memory of Michael wandering around in linen pants and talking about BASE jumping from the balcony. It's kept him company many nights when a lesser man might've done something foolish, like putting out a burn notice on his lover, because he got wind of some less than appropriate relations between him and an Irish toothpick.
That's neither here nor there now, and Julian wrinkles his nose as he picks through the clothing that Michael keeps on a garment rack in the bathroom. Fine for steaming purposes, but if this is all Michael owns in the entire world now that's a bit appalling.
Naturally, there is no underwear. Julian has yet to meet a male spy who actually wears underwear. They carry it during travel for appearances, but Julian doesn't actually know anyone who puts it on.
He rolls up the sleeves on one of Michael's oxfords as he's leaving the bathroom, and the stairs creak perilously as he descends back into the space that Michael now calls home. There have been some improvements in his short rule as dictator: there's a larger bed now than when Julian went upstairs to shower, with six sets of Pratesi sheets lying on top of what is no doubt a prohibitively priced duvet. There are pots on the stove, and Julian can see new crockery on the shelves. The faint scent of burning mattress lingers slightly in the air, and oh, there's also his ex-boyfriend, tied up, hooded and sitting on a chair in the middle of it all.
Julian can see the way Michael's listening to his movements, the twitch of his shoulders in his shirt and the faint tilt of the head, and he smiles softly to himself. You can take the spy out of the organization, but once a spy, you'll be paranoid for life.
In fact, he circles Michael, once, twice, three times, and then turns and goes counter clockwise, just because he can.
Julian has thought about this moment for the last five months. He really thought he would be more melodramatic; he thinks he's been most charitable actually. He can just imagine Michael rolling his eyes underneath the hood, so he pauses right behind Michael and leans forward, blowing softly against where the hood covers Michael's neck.
Michael snaps to attention so quickly Julian can feel the shifting vertebrae in his own spine. "I suppose the time for grand gestures is over," Julian announces, pulling the hood from over Michael's head and stepping several feet back.
Sure enough, Michael's chair spins hard enough that he winds up on his back, feet still tied to the legs, blue eyes glinting up at Julian. "Hello, Michael," Julian says casually, tossing the hood over his shoulder. "Did you miss me?"
Michael sucks in his cheeks and narrows his eyes. He's leaner than Julian remembers, but the black shirt is tight in all the right places. "You know, most exes settle their differences in court," Michael says. "One bankrupts the other, takes the dog and marries the nanny."
Julian slides his hands into the pockets of the trousers he's "borrowed". They're rather threadbare. Michael needs new clothing; Julian will have to see to that. He sighs, loudly; he's so put-upon. "Yes, well, I would have taken the dog, but you ran off with the nanny and upset me so badly, I ran the dog over instead."
Michael scowls, trying to turn himself from the position he's in. Julian can see his eyes taking in the new bed and the lack of furniture. "You redecorated? Is Martha Stewart coming by?"
"Your bed was appalling," Julian steps forward assertively. "I have no idea what rubbish bin you pulled out of it; it might've been tainted or full of Irish whores." It occurs to him that his bare feet are entirely too close to Michael's chair at the exact second that Michael manages to propel the chair onto it's side, smashing one of Julian's toenails. The blood flows immediately.
Julian scowls as he looks down at his injury and the victorious gleam in Michael's eyes. "Weren't you the one who always said you didn't consider fighting foreplay?" he complains, momentarily imitating a flamingo to wipe the blood on the calf of his other leg.
"If you untie me, I can kill you and then we can have all the foreplay you want." Michael gives Julian his most winning smile. This smile used to end with sex involving duct tape or a new shiny gun, now it's just all teeth.
Julian circles Michael slowly. His toe is smearing his DNA on the floorboards -- but at this point it's not as though there's anything left to hide. "You really do need to calm down, you're getting all flushed and excited. You're going to give me the wrong impression."
Michael snorts. "You are a wrong impression, Julian."
Julian makes a soft-tsking noise and crouches down just above Michael's head. "I thought you liked that about me."
Michael's snort of derision says plenty. "You know, it's funny, you dropping by today of all days, because today, I was supposed to meet the people who burned me. Only instead of covert groups and governments, I get you, which leads me to think that maybe you're the one who burned me, and Julian, you really don't want me to think that."
Julian leans forward, baiting Michael expectantly. "And why don't I want you to think that?"
"Remember how you reacted when you thought I'd left you for Fiona?"
"Nobody was even using that warehouse I blew up. Or that boat," Julian says blithely. "I'm sure the village wanted to rebuild that schoolhouse anyway, it was a mess."
"Julian, tell me you didn't do this." Michael's voice is flat and even. That's never a good sign with Michael.
Julian shakes his head and stands up. ""You're the one who told me to always tell the truth -- and I'm tracking blood all over your flooring," he says conversationally as he makes his way back to the kitchen. This time when he opens the refrigerator there are ten different kinds of yoghurt. And three kinds of beer. There's also meat, fruit, juice, and a large container of spinach pasta. Much better.
He's reaching for a container of vanilla yoghurt, when the refrigerator door is slammed on his arm. It's an excruciating pain. Good. Fractured, not destroyed.
"I was wondering how long it would take you to get free," he grits out, the pressure the door is exerting on his arm with Michael's body weight behind it is making him see spots.
"Tell me you didn’t do this, Julian." Michael's breathing against the crown of Julian's head, ruffling his hair. There's a strange timbre to Michael's voice, but Julian's never heard him plead for anything in his life.
"I don’t know what 'this' is," Julian says softly. "Also, can I at least get the yoghurt out first? I went through all the trouble to make sure you were fed, I should at least be able to enjoy the fruits of those labors."
"You burned me." Something else cracks in Julian's forearm. That's unpleasant. That's very unpleasant.
"You left me," Julian retorts, tasting the blood in his mouth as he struggles with the pain. "What did you expect me to do? Just get over it?"
Julian's vision blacks out briefly when Michael opens the door, but it comes back quite forcefully when Michael grabs him by his presumably fractured arm and drags him back into the living area.
Julian only stumbles because of the bleeding toe that's now gone numb and his arm. His spine would complain when Michael slams him against a piece of wood, but it has to wait its turn in the queue.
When the duct tape comes out, all Julian can do is laugh.
Julian can feel Michael scowling behind him as he duct tapes Julian's arms behind his back and around the pillar he's against. The pain is extraordinary. Foreplay was never like this before. At least not with Michael.
"You don't mind if I sit down, do you?" Julian says, slumping down to the floor without an invitation.
Michael stands over him disapprovingly, holding his ever present roll of duct tape. "You're supposed to stand so I can tape you upright."
"My toe hurts," Julian complains. "And you broke my arm."
"You put out a burn notice on me," Michael snaps. "What did you think I was going to do, give you a blow job and let you fuck me up the ass?"
Julian's mouth can't help but turn upwards at the corners.
"You did," Michael doesn't impress easily, but Julian's getting that sense from him right now. Or maybe that's incredulous. His forearm really fucking hurts. "You really fucking thought that this would make things better."
Julian doesn't shrug; shrugging is bad form. "Not better," he concedes, "just different. You don't belong with her."
"I was never with her!" Michael kicks him in the thigh.
"That hurt!" Julian protests.
"You want something to hurt?" Michael stalks out of Julian's line of sight and Julian gets a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. If you can identify the catch on a Glock by sound alone, you've been a spy too long.
Sure enough, Michael comes back and stands over him, pushing the barrel of the Glock into his forehead. "You burned me. You lost me my job. I have no money. I have no 401K. I don't even have a fucking passport!"
Julian can't tilt his head back with the pillar behind him. Instead he stares at the space between Michael's crotch and his knees. There's a very obvious disturbance in Michael's jeans "You said you didn't get off on violence as foreplay!" Julian says accusingly.
His head jerks to the side as Michael pistol whips the side of his head. Things are much less stressful with Julian lying on the floor anyway, although his arm is in such a position that it's possible he'll be sick. Hopefully he’ll be sick all over Michael’s shoes.
His vision goes cloudy when Michael crouches down and says something that sounds like, "I said I loved you too, but you didn't hear that either."
But Julian could have misheard him, because this is when he blacks out.
A couple of years ago Julian Sark became the guest of the United States government for several things which he didn't do. There were many things that Julian was guilty of, but none of them were what he was accused of doing at that particular moment in time. After his release, he went home to England to visit his family and to reconsider his career trajectory.
While reconsidering this trajectory, Julian took a few freelance jobs, because he had to make money. Julian had once inherited $800 million dollars from his absentee father, but then he'd had to use that inheritance to buy his own life, so he wasn't completely solvent, hence the freelancing. It was during this freelancing in Pakistan that he met Michael Westen. Six months later, in Prague, he met Michael again.
They spent a week holed up in a lovely chateau talking weaponry, gossiping about joint contacts and fucking on every available surface. Three weeks after that, Michael showed up at Julian's flat in London and Julian let him in.
Giving Michael his own key was the same as tattooing Julian's name on his forehead as far as Julian was concerned. So when Michael disappeared one night, presumably on assignment, Julian thought nothing of it. Michael didn't write. He didn’t call. No strange postcards arrived. No random signals appeared in the newspaper or on message boards. Nothing randomly blew up in the world. No great heists were carried out, and Julian began to worry.
Julian was very much not equipped for worrying.
So he went back to work. Not the freelance kind but the kind where there was a parent corporation and there were umbrella branches and you had people to report to. People gave you assignments. They sent you to Slovakia and Berlin and Brussels and Mumbai. They sent you to IRA guerrilla camps. They found your lover when you'd thought he was dead.
This sort of thing tends to make people angry. Even spies.
So Julian got angry. And things blew up. And some people died. But not Michael, because Julian had a special gift for him.
And this is indirectly how Julian has ended up in Michael Westen's bed. Again. A bed which he paid for he might add. Or he would add if he wasn't exhausted, and his arm wasn't in an air cast, and Michael wasn't sitting on the bed next to him with a gun in his lap and a book in his hand. The Bourne Ultimatum. How droll.
"I didn't know you could read." Julian's voice is raspy and his head throbs. Michael turning a page in his book is like gun fire in Julian's skull.
"You probably have a concussion," Michael says amiably. "And your arm is definitely broken."
"And don't forget you smashed my toe." Julian tries to wriggle his toe under the weight of the duvet and it occurs to him that he's not wearing any clothing. "Where is my clothing? Did you take advantage of me in my helpless state?" he inquires idly.
"Those were my clothes you ruined, and no, you just wish I had."
Julian sighs deeply. "You really don't find me attractive anymore, do you? That possibly hurts more than my arm."
"Not when you've burned me and you're covered in blood."
Julian lifts his head curiously. He doesn't look covered in blood. "Well, I hope you didn't get it on the bed clothes; Pratesi isn't cheap you know. Not like that sandpaper you were sleeping on before."
Michael closes his book and puts his hand on the gun. "Oh, you are not going to shoot me naked in bed," Julian scolds trying to push himself upright. He doesn't get very far before collapsing back onto the mattress - bloody concussion. "Just because we are in Miami is no reason to be tacky."
"If you wanted me back, you could have just asked," Michael says conversationally.
"Well, I would've had to find you first." Just the slightest hint of irritation is coloring Julian's words, but he can't help it.
Michael pulls his shirt over his head, muffling his words, but Julian very clearly hears. "I didn't leave you for Fiona."
"Yes, well you didn't say why you did leave," Julian replies coolly.
"That's because you were too busy blowing everything up." Michael shifts on the bed, putting the gun underneath his pillow and stretching out alongside Julian.
"I didn't notice any other explanations forthcoming." Julian doesn't act huffy, but if he did, he would now.
Michael props his head up on one arm, looking down at Julian. "So you burned me."
"I was angry."
"I noticed."
"And now you've got angry and completely incapacitated me."
Michael smirks. "I think that's only fair don't you?"
"Fair?"
"You can still walk. Would you like for me to rectify that? Or maybe you'd like a bullet or two to supplement the broken bones."
Julian holds up his good hand. "No, I think I've quite got the message."
"So, if you're here, I assume we're making amends. Or you're making amends. Or something is being amended."
"When did you begin to prattle on this way? It's very American; you should cease at once."
"Is the burn notice gone?" Michael challenges.
Julian rolls his eyes. "Of course it's gone. It was gone the minute you drove into an empty lorry on the exchange between Key West and Miami. I just needed to know where you were, that's all."
"All this because you didn't know where I was?" Michael's hovering now. In fact, he's crowding Julian a bit, which is impressive given that Julian bought him the largest bed available.
"When I give someone a key to my flat I expect them to at least ring home once a month to tell me they're alive and not fucking some tart!" Julian sticks out his chin defiantly, and is totally taken aback when Michael kisses him. It's a good kiss, but they're rather out of practice and Julian has to grab a fist of Michael's hair to get a better angle.
"Next time, fucking ring home," he breathes against Michael's mouth. When Michael's tongue flickers out along Julian's lower lip, Julian's breathing catches. "Are we going to shag now?"
"I thought you were incapacitated," Michael teases.
"I assure you I am not that incapacitated," Julian retorts.
"Are you sure? I mean I broke your arm, your dick may not even work anymore."
Julian narrows his eyes. "Then I suggest you get down there and make sure that's not the case."
Michael scoffs. "Why do I have to do all the work, do you know how much shit you put me through over the last couple of months? I almost died -- a lot!"
"It will be nothing compared to what I'll do to you if you don't get me off," Julian warns.
Michael sighs. "You're worse than my mom."
At this Julian brightens. "Do I finally get to meet her then?"
"Please don't mention my mom when you want a blow job."
"You started it."
"Yes, and I'm also going to finish it."
"Just finish me and we'll call it a draw."
"Fucking spies, always want their own way," Michael mutters good-naturedly, even as he kicks the duvet off the bed.
"And you would know, wouldn't you?" Julian says, lifting his head to watch Michael move down his body. He's missed this. He's missed Michael.
Michael's mouth hovers around his navel. "Keep talking and you'll get burned next."
"Promises promises, Mr. Westen."
Michael's eyes glimmer dangerously. "Be careful what you ask for, Mr. Sark."
When Julian laughs, his head aches. "I think it's a bit late for that, don't you?"
-end-
Beta by the most awesomest serialkarma. Cheerleading by ethrosdemon
Yes, this does mean what you think it means, that Michael and I are about to become more intimately acquainted, possibly via the use of duct tape.
Burn Notice f/Alias
Post-S1 finale
Michael Westen/Julian Sark; Michael Westen/Fiona Glenanne (implied) (PG-13)
This Ain't a Scene, It's a Goddamn Arms Race
There are only two yoghurts in the refrigerator, both of which are lemon. Julian sighs; he hates lemon yoghurt. Michael knows he hates lemon yoghurts. That's probably why Michael bought them -- to be spiteful. The shrew probably likes them -- but that's not a conducive thought to today's reconciliation -- because that's what's going to happen today, reconciliation. As soon as Julian finds a spoon.
Six forks, eighteen knives, and the only spoon is dirty.
Oh, Michael. You make an agency disavow their spy and the spy just goes to pieces. There's not even any wine.
At the very least Julian would think Michael would have a bottle of Château Pétrus hidden away for a moment like this. Or maybe that's Julian thinking like a boyfriend -- expecting consideration from someone he loves -- loved.
Quite.
Michael really didn't give him any choice, and that Irish harridan forced his hand. The multiple attempts at murder were just for the attention. Julian has wanted Michael damaged and confused, with his back against the wall, and that glint in his eyes that he got when Julian wasn't listening to him about knife-play not being foreplay. Julian wanted Michael where he belonged -- by his side. This wasn't by his side. This was living in a cracked-out whorehouse that tried to pretend it was loft. There were flowers in the teapot and the coffee was instant.
Julian had wanted Michael malleable -- not insane. Of course between the two of them that was a very fine line -- if it existed at all.
Julian took off his jacket, draped it over one of the mismatched chairs and set to making things right. First there were the dishes, none of which matched (obviously), so he threw them all out of the window and called on one of his underlings to do something about this travesty. And to do some food shopping as well. And then there was the matter of the bed. Julian inspected the bed linens closely. Water stains, pubic hairs -- still sleeping naked his Michael then -- they smelled of sweat and musk and something unidentifiable.
That was unacceptable.
Shaking his head, Julian grabbed the mattress, flipped it on its side and then dragged it out the front door. There was no point in carrying it down the stairs when he could just push it over the railing. Five minutes later it was joined by the box spring, and later, by some of the more unfortunate furniture.
Julian found the container of gasoline under the sink, where all the most useful household items were kept; it was between the duct tape and something Julian presumed was nitroglycerin.
While Julian was in the yard setting the whole debacle on fire, his mobile rang. "Yes?"
"We have him," a clear female voice replied calmly.
Julian grinned toothily as a man walked past with his dog, eying the bonfire warily. "Just spring cleaning," he called cheerily.
"Spring cleaning in July?" the woman replied down the line. Her timbre of amusement evident. "How subversive."
"Quite." The flames from the fire were nearly as high as the door of Michael's loft and for a moment, Julian thought about smoke damage, but that was nothing really. Not at the moment.
"Have him back here by half-five," Julian said after a moment. "Take the scenic route. I expect the furniture and the crockery will be here by then."
"The scenic route inside a tractor trailer." A pause. "As you wish," the woman replied and rang off.
Julian watched the flames burn Michael's new life for quite some time. He unbuttoned the second button of his linen shirt under the oppressive heat, waiting until the flames began to ash and smolder. When he was satisfied, he turned and went back in the house.
He gave Michael credit for a choosing a quality neighborhood. He had just set a bonfire in Miami in the middle of July. Not once had someone come around to see if the warehouse was burning down. Not a fire engine in sight. A man could get up to quite a bit in this sort of place.
Julian Sark met Michael Westen in Pakistan. It was an arms deal. Most things that Julian did post-The Covenant were arms deals. They were plentiful and paid well; that was all Julian cared about. Well, he cared about that and fine clothing, and good holidays, and not getting sunburned, and not getting killed -- but money seemed to sort out most of those.
As for Michael, well, at some point he got between Julian and a contact he was supposed to meet, so Julian punched him in the throat and stepped on his chest, more than prepared to put a bullet in his head. Except that Michael grinned. He had a scar next to his left eye and he laughed when Julian pointed a gun at his head; Julian was suitably amused. And possibly a little intrigued. It had been a long time since he had met anyone who amused him, so he let Michael live.
Six months later it was autumn in Prague. The leaves were golden, the air in the city was crisp, and Julian was fleeing from a deal that hadn't gone sour inasmuch as it had just gone messy. Being shot was always a messy business, and his shoulder let him know as much on a regular basis. Still, Prague was one of the last places he expected to walk down a winding footpath and have his legs yanked out from underneath him--literally.
From his vantage point on the cobblestones, Julian could see blinding white teeth and a very nice Brioni suit. The sunglasses were a strange sort of rust shade, and when their owner removed them, Julian's nostrils flared.
"Mr. Sark, you should be more careful where you step," the man said. "You never know who might be lurking around the corner, ready to take advantage of an injured man."
Julian propped himself up on his elbows, his shoulder protesting loudly. "I'm afraid your intelligence is faulty, Mr. Westen," he mocked. "I'm not injured in the slightest."
Michael crouched down, his body blocking out a good deal of the daylight. He smelled of spices and sandalwood and cashmere. Julian liked his overcoat quite a bit. "If I push you right about here," Michael's hand came to rest over the healing bullet wound in Julian's left shoulder and he twitched. "Would you continue to lie to me?"
Julian cocked his head to the side. "That depends on what I get for telling the truth."
Michael grinned that toothy smile that Julian remembered. His teeth were entirely too white. "You wouldn't know the truth if it shot you."
"Oh, wouldn't I?
At this Michael withdrew a rather large handgun and used it to poke Julian in his other shoulder. "Are you sure about that?"
Julian rolled his eyes. "Mr. Westen, if we're going to continue flirting in this shameless manner, can we at least move somewhere with fewer rocks poking into my lower back?"
Michael's gun went back into hiding, and he helped Julian up. "Your place or mine?" he asked.
The only saving grace in Michael's home that Julian can find is the bath. It's a claw-footed monstrosity, completely anachronistic to its surroundings. Julian can only assume that Michael 'borrowed' it from some four-star European hotel. It vaguely reminds Julian of that holiday they took at the Burj Al Arab in Dubai.
It wasn't a holiday in the proper sense of the word as they never left the hotel room, but there really wasn't any need to with the sex and the chess board and the view and the bathroom large enough for a small army. It was not, however, a honeymoon, despite whatever sly remarks Michael had made, even though Julian quite likes the memory of Michael wandering around in linen pants and talking about BASE jumping from the balcony. It's kept him company many nights when a lesser man might've done something foolish, like putting out a burn notice on his lover, because he got wind of some less than appropriate relations between him and an Irish toothpick.
That's neither here nor there now, and Julian wrinkles his nose as he picks through the clothing that Michael keeps on a garment rack in the bathroom. Fine for steaming purposes, but if this is all Michael owns in the entire world now that's a bit appalling.
Naturally, there is no underwear. Julian has yet to meet a male spy who actually wears underwear. They carry it during travel for appearances, but Julian doesn't actually know anyone who puts it on.
He rolls up the sleeves on one of Michael's oxfords as he's leaving the bathroom, and the stairs creak perilously as he descends back into the space that Michael now calls home. There have been some improvements in his short rule as dictator: there's a larger bed now than when Julian went upstairs to shower, with six sets of Pratesi sheets lying on top of what is no doubt a prohibitively priced duvet. There are pots on the stove, and Julian can see new crockery on the shelves. The faint scent of burning mattress lingers slightly in the air, and oh, there's also his ex-boyfriend, tied up, hooded and sitting on a chair in the middle of it all.
Julian can see the way Michael's listening to his movements, the twitch of his shoulders in his shirt and the faint tilt of the head, and he smiles softly to himself. You can take the spy out of the organization, but once a spy, you'll be paranoid for life.
In fact, he circles Michael, once, twice, three times, and then turns and goes counter clockwise, just because he can.
Julian has thought about this moment for the last five months. He really thought he would be more melodramatic; he thinks he's been most charitable actually. He can just imagine Michael rolling his eyes underneath the hood, so he pauses right behind Michael and leans forward, blowing softly against where the hood covers Michael's neck.
Michael snaps to attention so quickly Julian can feel the shifting vertebrae in his own spine. "I suppose the time for grand gestures is over," Julian announces, pulling the hood from over Michael's head and stepping several feet back.
Sure enough, Michael's chair spins hard enough that he winds up on his back, feet still tied to the legs, blue eyes glinting up at Julian. "Hello, Michael," Julian says casually, tossing the hood over his shoulder. "Did you miss me?"
Michael sucks in his cheeks and narrows his eyes. He's leaner than Julian remembers, but the black shirt is tight in all the right places. "You know, most exes settle their differences in court," Michael says. "One bankrupts the other, takes the dog and marries the nanny."
Julian slides his hands into the pockets of the trousers he's "borrowed". They're rather threadbare. Michael needs new clothing; Julian will have to see to that. He sighs, loudly; he's so put-upon. "Yes, well, I would have taken the dog, but you ran off with the nanny and upset me so badly, I ran the dog over instead."
Michael scowls, trying to turn himself from the position he's in. Julian can see his eyes taking in the new bed and the lack of furniture. "You redecorated? Is Martha Stewart coming by?"
"Your bed was appalling," Julian steps forward assertively. "I have no idea what rubbish bin you pulled out of it; it might've been tainted or full of Irish whores." It occurs to him that his bare feet are entirely too close to Michael's chair at the exact second that Michael manages to propel the chair onto it's side, smashing one of Julian's toenails. The blood flows immediately.
Julian scowls as he looks down at his injury and the victorious gleam in Michael's eyes. "Weren't you the one who always said you didn't consider fighting foreplay?" he complains, momentarily imitating a flamingo to wipe the blood on the calf of his other leg.
"If you untie me, I can kill you and then we can have all the foreplay you want." Michael gives Julian his most winning smile. This smile used to end with sex involving duct tape or a new shiny gun, now it's just all teeth.
Julian circles Michael slowly. His toe is smearing his DNA on the floorboards -- but at this point it's not as though there's anything left to hide. "You really do need to calm down, you're getting all flushed and excited. You're going to give me the wrong impression."
Michael snorts. "You are a wrong impression, Julian."
Julian makes a soft-tsking noise and crouches down just above Michael's head. "I thought you liked that about me."
Michael's snort of derision says plenty. "You know, it's funny, you dropping by today of all days, because today, I was supposed to meet the people who burned me. Only instead of covert groups and governments, I get you, which leads me to think that maybe you're the one who burned me, and Julian, you really don't want me to think that."
Julian leans forward, baiting Michael expectantly. "And why don't I want you to think that?"
"Remember how you reacted when you thought I'd left you for Fiona?"
"Nobody was even using that warehouse I blew up. Or that boat," Julian says blithely. "I'm sure the village wanted to rebuild that schoolhouse anyway, it was a mess."
"Julian, tell me you didn't do this." Michael's voice is flat and even. That's never a good sign with Michael.
Julian shakes his head and stands up. ""You're the one who told me to always tell the truth -- and I'm tracking blood all over your flooring," he says conversationally as he makes his way back to the kitchen. This time when he opens the refrigerator there are ten different kinds of yoghurt. And three kinds of beer. There's also meat, fruit, juice, and a large container of spinach pasta. Much better.
He's reaching for a container of vanilla yoghurt, when the refrigerator door is slammed on his arm. It's an excruciating pain. Good. Fractured, not destroyed.
"I was wondering how long it would take you to get free," he grits out, the pressure the door is exerting on his arm with Michael's body weight behind it is making him see spots.
"Tell me you didn’t do this, Julian." Michael's breathing against the crown of Julian's head, ruffling his hair. There's a strange timbre to Michael's voice, but Julian's never heard him plead for anything in his life.
"I don’t know what 'this' is," Julian says softly. "Also, can I at least get the yoghurt out first? I went through all the trouble to make sure you were fed, I should at least be able to enjoy the fruits of those labors."
"You burned me." Something else cracks in Julian's forearm. That's unpleasant. That's very unpleasant.
"You left me," Julian retorts, tasting the blood in his mouth as he struggles with the pain. "What did you expect me to do? Just get over it?"
Julian's vision blacks out briefly when Michael opens the door, but it comes back quite forcefully when Michael grabs him by his presumably fractured arm and drags him back into the living area.
Julian only stumbles because of the bleeding toe that's now gone numb and his arm. His spine would complain when Michael slams him against a piece of wood, but it has to wait its turn in the queue.
When the duct tape comes out, all Julian can do is laugh.
Julian can feel Michael scowling behind him as he duct tapes Julian's arms behind his back and around the pillar he's against. The pain is extraordinary. Foreplay was never like this before. At least not with Michael.
"You don't mind if I sit down, do you?" Julian says, slumping down to the floor without an invitation.
Michael stands over him disapprovingly, holding his ever present roll of duct tape. "You're supposed to stand so I can tape you upright."
"My toe hurts," Julian complains. "And you broke my arm."
"You put out a burn notice on me," Michael snaps. "What did you think I was going to do, give you a blow job and let you fuck me up the ass?"
Julian's mouth can't help but turn upwards at the corners.
"You did," Michael doesn't impress easily, but Julian's getting that sense from him right now. Or maybe that's incredulous. His forearm really fucking hurts. "You really fucking thought that this would make things better."
Julian doesn't shrug; shrugging is bad form. "Not better," he concedes, "just different. You don't belong with her."
"I was never with her!" Michael kicks him in the thigh.
"That hurt!" Julian protests.
"You want something to hurt?" Michael stalks out of Julian's line of sight and Julian gets a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. If you can identify the catch on a Glock by sound alone, you've been a spy too long.
Sure enough, Michael comes back and stands over him, pushing the barrel of the Glock into his forehead. "You burned me. You lost me my job. I have no money. I have no 401K. I don't even have a fucking passport!"
Julian can't tilt his head back with the pillar behind him. Instead he stares at the space between Michael's crotch and his knees. There's a very obvious disturbance in Michael's jeans "You said you didn't get off on violence as foreplay!" Julian says accusingly.
His head jerks to the side as Michael pistol whips the side of his head. Things are much less stressful with Julian lying on the floor anyway, although his arm is in such a position that it's possible he'll be sick. Hopefully he’ll be sick all over Michael’s shoes.
His vision goes cloudy when Michael crouches down and says something that sounds like, "I said I loved you too, but you didn't hear that either."
But Julian could have misheard him, because this is when he blacks out.
A couple of years ago Julian Sark became the guest of the United States government for several things which he didn't do. There were many things that Julian was guilty of, but none of them were what he was accused of doing at that particular moment in time. After his release, he went home to England to visit his family and to reconsider his career trajectory.
While reconsidering this trajectory, Julian took a few freelance jobs, because he had to make money. Julian had once inherited $800 million dollars from his absentee father, but then he'd had to use that inheritance to buy his own life, so he wasn't completely solvent, hence the freelancing. It was during this freelancing in Pakistan that he met Michael Westen. Six months later, in Prague, he met Michael again.
They spent a week holed up in a lovely chateau talking weaponry, gossiping about joint contacts and fucking on every available surface. Three weeks after that, Michael showed up at Julian's flat in London and Julian let him in.
Giving Michael his own key was the same as tattooing Julian's name on his forehead as far as Julian was concerned. So when Michael disappeared one night, presumably on assignment, Julian thought nothing of it. Michael didn't write. He didn’t call. No strange postcards arrived. No random signals appeared in the newspaper or on message boards. Nothing randomly blew up in the world. No great heists were carried out, and Julian began to worry.
Julian was very much not equipped for worrying.
So he went back to work. Not the freelance kind but the kind where there was a parent corporation and there were umbrella branches and you had people to report to. People gave you assignments. They sent you to Slovakia and Berlin and Brussels and Mumbai. They sent you to IRA guerrilla camps. They found your lover when you'd thought he was dead.
This sort of thing tends to make people angry. Even spies.
So Julian got angry. And things blew up. And some people died. But not Michael, because Julian had a special gift for him.
And this is indirectly how Julian has ended up in Michael Westen's bed. Again. A bed which he paid for he might add. Or he would add if he wasn't exhausted, and his arm wasn't in an air cast, and Michael wasn't sitting on the bed next to him with a gun in his lap and a book in his hand. The Bourne Ultimatum. How droll.
"I didn't know you could read." Julian's voice is raspy and his head throbs. Michael turning a page in his book is like gun fire in Julian's skull.
"You probably have a concussion," Michael says amiably. "And your arm is definitely broken."
"And don't forget you smashed my toe." Julian tries to wriggle his toe under the weight of the duvet and it occurs to him that he's not wearing any clothing. "Where is my clothing? Did you take advantage of me in my helpless state?" he inquires idly.
"Those were my clothes you ruined, and no, you just wish I had."
Julian sighs deeply. "You really don't find me attractive anymore, do you? That possibly hurts more than my arm."
"Not when you've burned me and you're covered in blood."
Julian lifts his head curiously. He doesn't look covered in blood. "Well, I hope you didn't get it on the bed clothes; Pratesi isn't cheap you know. Not like that sandpaper you were sleeping on before."
Michael closes his book and puts his hand on the gun. "Oh, you are not going to shoot me naked in bed," Julian scolds trying to push himself upright. He doesn't get very far before collapsing back onto the mattress - bloody concussion. "Just because we are in Miami is no reason to be tacky."
"If you wanted me back, you could have just asked," Michael says conversationally.
"Well, I would've had to find you first." Just the slightest hint of irritation is coloring Julian's words, but he can't help it.
Michael pulls his shirt over his head, muffling his words, but Julian very clearly hears. "I didn't leave you for Fiona."
"Yes, well you didn't say why you did leave," Julian replies coolly.
"That's because you were too busy blowing everything up." Michael shifts on the bed, putting the gun underneath his pillow and stretching out alongside Julian.
"I didn't notice any other explanations forthcoming." Julian doesn't act huffy, but if he did, he would now.
Michael props his head up on one arm, looking down at Julian. "So you burned me."
"I was angry."
"I noticed."
"And now you've got angry and completely incapacitated me."
Michael smirks. "I think that's only fair don't you?"
"Fair?"
"You can still walk. Would you like for me to rectify that? Or maybe you'd like a bullet or two to supplement the broken bones."
Julian holds up his good hand. "No, I think I've quite got the message."
"So, if you're here, I assume we're making amends. Or you're making amends. Or something is being amended."
"When did you begin to prattle on this way? It's very American; you should cease at once."
"Is the burn notice gone?" Michael challenges.
Julian rolls his eyes. "Of course it's gone. It was gone the minute you drove into an empty lorry on the exchange between Key West and Miami. I just needed to know where you were, that's all."
"All this because you didn't know where I was?" Michael's hovering now. In fact, he's crowding Julian a bit, which is impressive given that Julian bought him the largest bed available.
"When I give someone a key to my flat I expect them to at least ring home once a month to tell me they're alive and not fucking some tart!" Julian sticks out his chin defiantly, and is totally taken aback when Michael kisses him. It's a good kiss, but they're rather out of practice and Julian has to grab a fist of Michael's hair to get a better angle.
"Next time, fucking ring home," he breathes against Michael's mouth. When Michael's tongue flickers out along Julian's lower lip, Julian's breathing catches. "Are we going to shag now?"
"I thought you were incapacitated," Michael teases.
"I assure you I am not that incapacitated," Julian retorts.
"Are you sure? I mean I broke your arm, your dick may not even work anymore."
Julian narrows his eyes. "Then I suggest you get down there and make sure that's not the case."
Michael scoffs. "Why do I have to do all the work, do you know how much shit you put me through over the last couple of months? I almost died -- a lot!"
"It will be nothing compared to what I'll do to you if you don't get me off," Julian warns.
Michael sighs. "You're worse than my mom."
At this Julian brightens. "Do I finally get to meet her then?"
"Please don't mention my mom when you want a blow job."
"You started it."
"Yes, and I'm also going to finish it."
"Just finish me and we'll call it a draw."
"Fucking spies, always want their own way," Michael mutters good-naturedly, even as he kicks the duvet off the bed.
"And you would know, wouldn't you?" Julian says, lifting his head to watch Michael move down his body. He's missed this. He's missed Michael.
Michael's mouth hovers around his navel. "Keep talking and you'll get burned next."
"Promises promises, Mr. Westen."
Michael's eyes glimmer dangerously. "Be careful what you ask for, Mr. Sark."
When Julian laughs, his head aches. "I think it's a bit late for that, don't you?"
-end-
Beta by the most awesomest serialkarma. Cheerleading by ethrosdemon
Yes, this does mean what you think it means, that Michael and I are about to become more intimately acquainted, possibly via the use of duct tape.