Burn Notice/Iron Man/Alias - Spies > Superheroes (Or Not) (Tony/Michael/Sark, R)
Yeah, um, *waves hands around vaguely* Happy Birthday antheia. Don’t say I never gave you anything.
Burn Notice/Iron Man/Alias
Michael Westen/Tony Stark; Michael/Tony/Julian Sark <-- Yes, you read that right.
Rated R
Spies > Superheroes (Or Not)
1.
Being a spy is like being a part of a secret fraternity that nobody talks about. There are secret handshakes, secret identities, code names, stupid rituals, and don't forget the binge drinking and the homoerotic business with the paddles.
Spies can sniff out other spies in a 100 foot radius, and it doesn't matter where you go or what you do: once you're a spy, you're spy for life.
The SSS (Secret Society of Spies) doesn't care if you've left the business, if you've branched off into renting Vespas in Greece or if you're deaf in your left-ear after someone detonated a car bomb too close to you ninety-three minutes ago and you almost lost a chunk of your right ass cheek to an over-aggressive German Shepherd.
If a spy wants you, he'll find you.
And nobody knows this better than Michael Westen, because he's that half-deaf guy walking home at two in the morning with half his pants leg missing. All Michael wants to do is go home, have a yogurt and a beer (together), and forget that he agreed to do yet another underpaying job to pay for his dry cleaning; he doesn't want to know why he's being trailed back to his loft cum warehouse space cum spy workshop.
You get burned by the government one time, and suddenly everybody thinks you're blackmail-for-hire.
"Okay, who the hell are you and what do you want?" Michael whips out his gun and does a 360 degree turn around his front yard. This is much more impressive than it sounds.
First of all, Michael doesn't really have a yard; he has a concrete box fenced in by rusted steel plates and a couple broken down cars. This is industrial Miami; Michael doesn't live in the suburbs. There are no porch lights, but there is a broken down set of spotlights (only one works).
Second of all, Michael's not really at his best; he hates dogs.
And third of all, Michael only raises an eyebrow when a very familiar face steps out of the darkness.
"Just as paranoid as ever, Westen," the man chuckles. "I suppose it's a good thing you're out of bullets or I'd be full of some hot shit right now, huh?"
Michael blinks; he really needs to get that other spotlight fixed. "Nick Fury, why do I feel like something bad is about to befall me?"
Spies are notoriously megalomaniacal and bitchy; they hate giving anybody else credit for anything, and even by those stingy standards, Nick Fury is legendary. If James Bond were American, less of a clothes-horse and a slut (although really agile in bed), and had carte blanche with Interpol, he would be Nick Fury.
Fury shrugs, pulling the shoulders of his leather coat tight. Michael can see the outline of at least three guns in his silhouette. "I dunno, I thought some bad shit already had befallen you."
Michael lowers his sidearm and Fury steps closer. "You get burned by the government and that's all you ever hear about," Michael complains; Fury's lips twitch.
"Knowing you the way I do," Fury says, "I figure you might not be too happy about that."
"Not too happy," Michael parrots slowly. His government trained him to be a spy, it's the only thing he's good at, and now "The Man" has decided he can't do his job. He could totally shoot someone over his 'not too happiness'.
"Don't even think about it," Fury says dismissively. "Putting you down right now would be like shooting a three-legged cat."
Michael can't even disagree. "I get your point, but if you know I've been castrated, why are you here?"
"I've got this job," Fury says vaguely.
Michael's right leg twitches, maybe it's cold from exposure. "You've got a job? For me?"
"See, just because you got burned doesn't mean your brain doesn't work," Fury quips; Michael scowls.
"Why are you teasing me with something you know I can't have?" Michael demands. "Burned. Stranded in Miami. No money, no assets. I live here," Michael points to the shack behind him. "I never took you for the deliberately sadistic type."
Which is a lie; every spy is the deliberately sadistic type. If they weren't, they'd do something else, like teaching grade school.
Fury smirks in the weak light. "You do something for me, I do something for you."
He means the burn notice. Shit. God only knows what the job must be. Michael hasn't seen Nick Fury since that time in Panama, with the boat and the hookers and that bit where somebody might've blown up a couple of the locks on the Panama Canal.
"What kind of 'something' are we talking about?"
"I want you to go see a man about a job," Fury says blithely.
Michael winces; he knows all about "jobs".
Despite what the Godfather said, it's hard to make people an offer they can't refuse. You can refuse anything. It might not be advisable, but Michael Westen is a spy with a burn notice out on him, which means the only thing he can do is drink coffee and help old people cross the street. He should probably refuse Fury's offer, but what the hell. If it's a job from Fury, at least it's bound to be entertaining and have explosions and shoot outs.
"Do I get to ask what type of job?" Michael queries.
Fury chuckles. "No."
2.
Michael's job interview goes like this:
He gets on a private jet to Malibu. The flight attendants offer him coffee, Michael asks for a yogurt instead. He takes a nap. He lands on the tarmac at Stark Industries, where he's greeted by a man in a black suit, white oxford and black tie. He has to be one of Fury's government minions; he's too milquetoast to be a spy and Michael can smell Feds from fifty feet.
Twenty minutes later Michael's in an office, meeting Iron Man. That's unexpected.
Tony Stark looks up briefly when Michael walks in with the fed, looks back down at his computer monitor, and then looks up again. "Who's your friend, Coulson?"
"This is Michael Westen, your baby-sitter," Coulson says. "Courtesy of Mr. Fury."
Stark wrinkles his nose. "I've already got a baby-sitter. In fact, I've got two. I think you're trying to date one of them."
"Mr. Fury thinks--" Coulson begins, but Stark cuts him off dismissively.
"If Mr. Fury's got a problem with how Iron Man doesn't play with the other superheroes, you tell him to call me directly."
Michael holds up his hands in surrender. "I guess you don’t need me then."
Stark eyes Michael curiously. "Why would Fury think I need you anyway?"
Michael shrugs. "I don't know, what does any industrialist superhero need with a spy?"
"You're a spy?" Stark gets up from his desk, finally; it looks like Michael's sparked someone's interest.
"That's what it says on my union card," Michael quips as Stark comes from behind his glass behemoth and enters Westen air space.
Stark doesn't walk, he glides, and Michael just raises an eyebrow as Stark studies him intently. Being on the receiving end of Tony Stark's appraisal is kind of like being zapped by electrodes attached to your testicles: you can't help but feel it.
Michael just thinks about the fifty-eight ways you can make a car bomb and disassembling his Glock 9mm.
"You got him for me?" Stark's talking to Coulson now; Michael's only mostly paying attention. "Is it my birthday and I forgot? What happens if I break him? Do I get another one?"
Michael smiles broadly. "Mr. Stark, if you break me, you won't be alive to get another one."
Stark blinks once, twice, and then he returns Michael's smile. "You're on."
3.
"This is your wing of the house," Stark says, leading Michael through a maze of modern art, glass and breathtaking views. Michael sort of thought he would get put up in some hovel a couple miles off and drive in every day, but apparently, Stark baby-sitters are on call 24 hours a day.
"A whole wing for myself?" Michael quizzes, counting steps and most certainly not looking at Stark's ass. "You could just drop me off a cliff if you wanted to get rid of me."
"Actually, this house is built on a cliff. Just so you know." Stark tosses a lascivious look over his left shoulder. "Besides, why would I want to get rid of someone as pretty as you?"
Michael's right eye twitches. "I'm not pretty."
Stark coughs, pausing to open a door and wave Michael in. "Sorry, I should've butched that up."
Michael smirks as he passes by. "Do I look butch to you?"
"You look deceptively lean," Stark says. "I think the deceptive part is key there. Are you going to teach me lots of spy tricks and lure me into your honey pot?"
Honey traps, or pots, are when spies use seduction on their marks.
Michael walks around the room, feeling out the space, mentally unpacking and hiding his hardware. There's a large bed and a few pieces of furniture, but the floor-to-ceiling views are the real selling point. Stark wasn't kidding about the cliff. "Lure you in -- do I need to worry about my virtue around you?"
"Spies have virtue?"
"Good point."
Stark slips his hands inside his pockets and grins broadly. "Jarvis, if Mr. Westen, requires anything, like directions to my bedroom, please give them to him."
"As you wish, sir," a proper British voice replies.
Michael freezes, his step counting between the bed and the wall disrupted. "Who are you talking to?"
"Jarvis, the house A.I."
"A.I. Your house is run by Artificial Intelligence?" All the hairs on Michael's forearms stand up.
"Smart and hot. I must've done something good in a past life."
"Mr. Stark--"
"Oh, where are my manners? Jarvis, this is Mr.Westen; he's my new baby-sitter. Be nice to him; he's going to be staying here until I scare him off, so make sure to save all his shower footage for me."
"Mr. Stark," Michael snaps.
"Call me Tony, please. I feel like I'm paying you."
"You are paying me."
"No, S.H.I.E.L.D. is paying you, I'm just reaping the rewards."
Michael pinches the bridge of his nose. "Semantics. It's just semantics. So, tell me why I'm getting a bad feeling."
Tony raises an eyebrow. "A bad feeling? I promise you that I don’t come until my partners do."
"Cute," Michael says drolly.
"I know I am."
Michael walked right into that one. "So, you let a computer run your house? Have you never seen Terminator?"
Tony just laughs. "Mr. Westen, I assure you, your virtue is far safer with Jarvis than it is with me."
Michael looks around the vast bedroom uneasily. "Yeah, so you say."
"You can always sleep with me if you want."
"Maybe another time."
"I'm going to hold you to that."
"I'm not surprised."
Michael doesn't really know what he's doing here, or why he agreed to try this out, but hell, it's not Miami anymore and that's enough for a start.
4.
"Baby-sitting" Tony Stark seems to translate to 'Stand here, don't stand here, make sure Tony Stark doesn't get assassinated, make sure he doesn't get photographed banging reporters in the back of the Rolls, make sure he's happy, make sure nothing happens to his assistant Pepper, make sure Jim Rhodes knows when Iron Man is going out on midnight booty calls, wipe his ass, change his diapers, feed the baby and make sure to burp him before he goes down for the night.'
This has nothing to do with being a spy, but it's eerily reminiscent of Michael's last few months in Miami. Fury must still be pissed off about Michael blowing up some of the Panama Canal.
5.
Michael is being chased. He's vaulting fences and avoiding guard dogs. He's dodging moving vehicles and sniper fire. He's got a key embedded under the skin of his forearm that will keep the North Koreans from finalizing their nuclear arms. Or something. He's not really clear because his heart is beating out of his chest with adrenaline. Every action right now is a primal response of flight. He just knows that if he can finish this assignment, if he can get the key where he has to go, then he'll be free. No more burn notice. No more Miami. No more --
"Mr. Westen, Mr. Stark requests your presence in the workshop."
Michael is jarred into consciousness by the voice of Jarvis. And then he falls off the sofa. "Ow!"
Michael just knows that Jarvis did that on purpose, but it's hard to beat the crap out of a machine. You insinuate one time that a sentient being might be planning to enslave the human population and they never forget it. "Where's Tony?" Michael bitches.
"In the workshop," Jarvis says crisply.
Michael rubs the back of his neck and sighs. Various body parts creak and crack as he tries to work out the kinks while padding down the stairs to the workshop.
He pauses in the doorway, because this baby-sitting thing is starting to make a lot more sense. Tony's standing in the middle of the garage in what looks very much like an Iron Man diaper. The outfit is punctuated by the black leggings he's also wearing and several wisps of fabric hanging from his otherwise bare torso.
Michael snorts loudly.
Tony glances up from where he's currently jamming a screwdriver into the hip joint of the Iron Man armor. "Are you going to stand there all day looking pretty or are you going to help me out of this thing?"
Michael smiles toothily and crosses his arms. "I was thinking I'd just watch."
Tony looks up from underneath his eyelashes. "Is this because I called you 'pretty' again?"
Michael shrugs. "Could be."
Tony scowls. "If you don't help me, I'm going to do bad things to you."
"Is that supposed to be a threat?"
"Okay, I won't do bad things to you if you don't help me," Tony offers.
Michael strolls over, grabbing a much larger screwdriver from one of the workstations. "How the hell did you get yourself stuck in this thing?" he asks, batting Tony's arms out of the way.
"The other kids were being mean to me," Tony bitches. "They put gum in my hair."
Michael gets his screwdriver wedged in good and pushes. And pushes again. "Explain to me why I have to extract you from this thing again?"
"Because that's what you're being paid to do."
"I'm getting paid to baby-sit."
"Yes, and part of baby-sitting is - OW! If you damage the goods, I'm filing a complaint with Fury."
Okay, maybe Michael wedged that in wrong. "You really think he would care?"
Tony sighs loudly. "You know, Pepper is much more gentle."
Michael's observed Pepper Potts very closely in the five days he's been shadowing Tony, and he finds that rather hard to believe. "Oh, really? Should I call Pepper and ask her if that's true?"
"No," Tony sulks as Michael tries to pop the armor's paneling. "OW!"
Okay, strike two.
"I know spies like to play dirty, but c'mon, Mike!"
Michael stops and steps back. "If you want me to get you out of this, you will never call me Mike again, agreed? You can call me Michael or Mr. Westen or that spy guy, but not Mike. I hate it when people call me Mike."
Not that this has ever stopped Sam. Or Nate.
Tony looks from the screwdriver Michael is wielding to Michael's face. "Yes, Mr. Westen," he says dutifully.
Michael smirks. "Just because you're rich and can fly and have a big shiny ball of light in your chest-"
"I know. Hot, right?"
"I'm sure I could never find you as hot as you find yourself," Michael says, glancing down at the armor again.
"I don't know about that," Tony says, stumbling a bit when Michael hooks his fingers into the waistband of the armor and yanks hard.
The plates fall away from Tony, finally, clattering on the floor. When Michael looks up, Tony's smirking at him. He is so obvious.
"Did you ever meet anyone you didn't want to fuck?" Michael asks, pushing the screwdriver into Tony's left hand and standing well back.
Tony scratches at his chest with his other hand. "I was less discriminating before Afghanistan," he admits. "Iron Man has standards, though, that bastard."
Michael can just imagine.
6.
Michael likes Pepper Potts. He likes her no-nonsense attitude and the way she can corral Tony with just one look. He likes that she takes pride in her work and doesn't put up with the bullshit. She sort of reminds him of Fiona - if Fiona were 5'10, with red hair and five-inch heels. Oh, thank god Fiona never got into heels.
Although Michael supposes it's really hard to run from yakuza in five-inch spikes.
He opens his second yogurt and watches Pepper tap rapidly at her PDA. They're waiting for Tony, because they're all going somewhere to do whatever. When Pepper frowns she gets little lines across her forehead.
"You've been working for Tony how long now?" he asks, around a mouthful of vanilla yogurt.
Pepper looks up briefly, her fingers still flying. "Long enough."
"That long, huh?"
"You've been a spy for how long now?" she asks pointedly.
"Oh, no, see I was a spy, and then I got burned by the government. Now I just baby-sit genius egomaniacs while I plot revenge and change diapers."
Pepper smiles down at her PDA. "What's it like?"
"You mean when I'm not stuck in the principal's office and can't play with the other spies?"
At this, Pepper looks at him properly. "Yes."
"It's like… It's like having a purpose in the world. Everybody's meant to do something. Everyone has something that they're good at if they look hard enough. I mean you're great at your job, anybody can see that you have what it takes to run Stark Industries."
"I don’t run Stark Industries," Pepper protests.
Michael raises an eyebrow. "You sure about that?"
"I just do the leg work," she insists.
"Uh huh."
"So, you're good at stealing, shooting and espionage."
Michael shrugs. "I'm only good at espionage on Wednesdays and Fridays; the rest of the week I do the stealing and shooting."
"Sometimes I'd like to shoot Tony," Pepper says thoughtfully.
"I could teach you how," Michael says, "but I think that would hinder you in the long run. Jail sucks a lot. I've been in enough of them to know that for a fact."
Pepper smiles. "I'll take that under advisement."
7.
Tony Stark is relentless. It's a great attribute in a spy or an inventor; it's not so great when what Tony really wants to do is play Spies.
"You don't play spies," Michael says, increasing the speed on the treadmill in hopes that Tony will get the hint. "Being a spy is a job."
"Yeah, but you're baby-sitting me right now, so it must not be paying that well," Tony mocks.
"I could call one of my contacts, find out what the price is on your head, and deliver you to the highest bidder -- that would make it a job."
Tony scowls. "You're no fun, you know that?"
"You just want me to dress up in tight black clothes, build a bomb out of flour and a cell phone, rappel off the side of the house and blow a hole in the garage."
Tony's eyes go wide. "You can do that?"
"What do you think?"
"You have to show me how to do that; Iron Man needs to learn these things for the job."
"Don't you already have toys that do that?"
"No. Yes. Will you put on the tight black clothes anyway?"
"No."
"Please? If you show me, I'll blow you."
Michael's step falters mid-stride. "Tempting, but no," he says after regaining his gait.
"You are a cruel, heartless man, Michael Westen," Tony laments.
"I know I am," Michael replies, "why do you think I'm so good at my job?"
8.
There are things Tony doesn't know about Michael. He doesn't know about Michael's over-attentive dad, who left Michael with the scar two inches from the corner of his left eye. He doesn't know that Michael left home at sixteen to become a spy. And Michael's pretty sure that Tony doesn't know that Michael's got this quasi-boyfriend-type person, who is also a spy. If spies had boyfriends. Or girlfriends. Which they don't. Being a spy is a solitary activity; it's not conducive to relationships.
Except Julian Sark's not just a spy, he's a Spy with a capital 'S'. The kind of spy that's wanted in ten countries, speaks six languages and knows twenty-eight ways to kill you with eating utensils. It's kind of scary, but mostly it's just really hot.
Julian's not one of those twenty-four hour, seven day a week boyfriends though, he just shows up out of the ether between dangerous and highly suspect activities and then they have lots of rough, incredibly hot sex. Really hot sex. Like sex so hot that it would make you jealous.
Yeah, Michael doesn't talk about Julian that much.
9.
Michael's been in California for about a month now, so, he's got a general lay of the land: Pepper runs the show, Jim Rhodes smoothes the way, Happy does the driving and Jarvis is the devil.
"Jarvis is plotting against me," he announces to Tony late one afternoon as he descends into the workshop.
Tony's poking at something with lots of wires and moving parts. Thank god he never got into the spy business; he would've been nightmare. An invincible nightmare of really cool toys and slick jobs for hire. Moving along.
"Jarvis is not out to get you," Tony says without looking up.
Michael drops a damp lump of cotton on Tony's workstation. "Tell that to my pink underwear."
Tony lifts up Michael's wet briefs with a pair of pliers, eying them with amusement. "Are you telling me Jarvis screwed up your underwear?"
"I think that's my point, yes."
"Jarvis doesn't control the washing machine, Michael. That's completely human-operated." Tony then deliberately drops the underwear on the floor. "I guess you'll just have to go without."
"You're worse than Jarvis and Skynet," Michael gripes.
"Oh, Fury didn't tell you about that?" Tony teases.
"Tell me about what?"
"I was an evil mastermind in my last job."
10.
Michael doesn't mean to sleep with Tony. Really. Spies have rules about these things.
1. No sleeping with the asset.
2. No letting the asset seduce you.
3. No succumbing to mutual attraction.
4. Yes, dry humping does count.
5. Yes, phone sex counts too.
6. No finding the asset attractive when he's working on his car.
7. Or playing with his toys.
8. Or eating fruit suggestively.
9. Or stripping out of his Iron Man suit, bent and bruised and exhausted.
10. When in doubt, please see Rules 1-9.
And yet, it happens, because Tony is Tony and Michael is Michael and that arc generator thing is like this big shiny magnet sucking Michael in.
All it takes is one close call too many. Near-death experiences always make Michael a little tingly in certain places.
One minute Michael's putting stitches in just above Tony's collarbone, the next thing he knows, Tony's got him plastered to one of the work stations and is grinding his cock against Michael's thigh.
Tony's hair is damp with sweat and his kisses taste like he bit his lip at some point. Michael's fingers scrabble over slick muscle, trying to hold Tony still, so it takes him a moment to pin Tony down.
It seems the most natural thing ever for Michael to lick the surface of the arc generator; it tastes like Tony, it's a part of him. When he looks up, though, Tony is staring at him like he's never had anyone do this before.
It makes Michael wonder what job he was really hired for in the first place.
11.
There's this thing that Michael's supposed to take Tony to. Well, not take him to as much as stand beside him and make sure he doesn't get shot (Fury's orders) or kidnapped (Rhodey's orders) or gold-digger-napped (Pepper's orders).
Except that Tony's late and Michael's irritated, and it's pretty much par for the course. "Jarvis, where's Tony?"
"Where Mr. Stark always is," Jarvis says in a tone that Michael would only describe as snotty. "In the workshop."
"In the workshop," Michael bitches, going downstairs. "Always in the fucking -"
"He used to steal cars when he was little?" Tony's sitting on one of his workstations, kicking his heels and talking on the phone. When he sees Michael, he grins broadly. "And he was always getting fights? Why am I not surprised?"
A thousand alarms go off in the back of Michael's mind. "Who are you talking to?"
Tony's grin only grows. "Your mom."
Michael's entire body seizes up momentarily. "Why are you talking to my mom?!"
"Because your phone rang, and you weren't around to answer it," Tony says, as though this is the most obvious thing in the world.
"You're answering my phone now?" Michael hisses.
Tony holds up a finger. "Your mom says to be nice to me."
"Oh, really, and does she say anything else?" Michael sputters.
"Yeah, apparently Julian came by to see her, and she told him you were here."
Okay, that's enough of that.
Michael snatches the phone out of Tony's grasp. "Mom, you did what?"
There's a long pause; she must be smoking. "Now, Michael, you know I've always liked Julian, and you never bring him around anymore."
"Because I'm in California, Mom!" And because Julian is a sociopathic nymphomaniac who wants to have sex on the kitchen table on his mom's favorite tablecloth.
"Well, he said he missed you."
Michael can feel the migraine starting up. "And you believed him?"
"Well, yeah." Of course she believed him. Five minutes with Julian could make the Pope think he needed to convert.
"Mom, I have to go."
"Michael, tell Tony to come and see -"
"Bye, Mom!" Michael says hanging up.
"I like your mom," Tony smiles beatifically.
Michael just glares. "Shut up and get dressed."
"Oooh, order me around some more," Tony mocks. "I like it when you play rough."
12.
It was only a matter of time before Julian showed up. Michael knows this. That doesn't mean he's prepared for it when he comes downstairs one morning and Julian's having a drink with Tony on the sofa.
"Isn't it a little early for a nightcap?" he says, pausing at the bottom of the stairs to remember where he's stashed all his guns.
There's one Glock under the piano and another in a Ziploc bag in the waterfall. The closest one is currently in the fourth sofa cushion, which Tony is sitting on.
Julian gives him a blinding smile, and Tony just smirks. When surrounded by sharks, or a room full of terrorists, show no fear.
"It's well past drinking time in Tokyo," Tony protests.
"And in Helsinki," Julian agrees.
"Nairobi."
"Auckland."
"Lagos."
"Riyadh."
"Prague."
"Jakarta."
"It's always drinking time in Jakarta."
"I know. I love Jakarta."
"Enough!" Michael interrupts.
Tony and Julian look at him with mock shock. Crap. It's even worse than he imagined. This meeting of the minds could only end with them getting along or World War III, and apparently, they've decided on the former.
"You seem very tense, Michael," Julian says soothingly. "I thought Mr. Stark would've looked after you better than this." At this, Julian gives Tony reproachful look. It's barely eight in the morning; they can't have been bonding this long,
And then Michael sees the other glasses on the table. He could be wrong.
"I have been looking after him," Tony corrects. "He just won't look after himself. He's very stubborn that way."
"Yes," Julian agrees. "I know. You should see him --"
"If you finish that sentence, I will cut out your tongue," Michael warns. Julian gives him a saucy look, but stops talking.
"He really is stressed out," Tony agrees. "You think I should tell him that Fury said his burn notice has been removed, and he can leave at any time?"
Michael blinks. "You know about the burn notice?"
Tony rolls his eyes. "You really think I'd let just anybody live in my house?"
"How long?" Michael could be talking about anything at this point.
Tony waves his glass around and something brown slops over the sides. "Recently. The day you started. Last week. I dunno."
Julian shakes his head. "You shouldn't have told him that; if you let him leave, you'll never see him again."
"I get that impression," Tony agrees.
Michael can't think like this. Crossing the room, he pries the glass from Julian's hand, sets it on the table and grabs Julian's forearm. "You are leaving," he says, dragging Julian towards the front door.
"I just got here," Julian points out reasonably; Michael ignores him.
"I don't want Julian to leave," Tony's protest carries down the hall. "He was telling me about having sex with this operative in a confessional at the Vatican!"
You have sex in a church one time, and you never hear the end of it.
Julian lets himself be led away anyway. "Don't worry, Tony, I'll see you again."
At the door, Julian's grin twists into a wry smile. "You should tell me when you go to work for billionaire industrialists, you know."
"I can't tell you where I'm going if I don't know where you are, can I?" Michael doesn't mean for that to sound as pissy as it does. This is why spies don't date.
"Touché."
"Why are you here, Julian?"
"Why am I ever here? To see you."
"Well, you've seen me. Off you go."
"He's quite fit," Julian says casually. "Did you fuck him?"
Michael just knows Jarvis is letting Tony hear every bit of this conversation.
"You have to go now," Michael says, pushing Julian out the door.
Julian jams his foot in the door to stall the process. "I missed you," he says, grabbing Michael by the collar of his shirt and hauling him close enough to kiss. Michael leans in the rest of the way.
Julian is a very good kisser. Very thorough. He also tends to bite. A lot. "Since I'm quite sure you are fucking Mr. Stark," he says in low tone, "I'm not leaving Los Angeles until you let me watch."
And then he's gone.
Michael rests his forehead against the closed door. He wonders what it's like not to get blackmailed all the time; he can't remember anymore.
"So, a threesome with you and your boyfriend?" Tony's nonchalant inquiry comes from right behind him.
Michael hates Jarvis so much right now.
"He's not my boyfriend," Michael tells the door. "He's just this spy I know."
"I'd do it, you know," Tony says. "I'm just saying."
Michael knows Tony would do it; so would he. That's the whole problem.
13.
99.1% of spying is about waiting.
You sit in a room, and you wait. You sit in a car and wait. You wait in hotels, motels, Holiday Inns, ditches, shacks, bomb shelters and roadside stops. You wait in restaurants, bathrooms, kitchens, basements, attics, offices, elevator shafts, rooftops, dressing rooms, car trunks, storage containers, strapped to the top of a moving 18-wheeler and pretty much every place in between.
When you are having a threesome with a spy and a superhero, though, there is no waiting, because if you wait on the sidelines, you'll miss the entire experience.
As far as Michael can tell Julian and Tony combined have two speeds: hard, rough and violent, which result in scratches all over Michael's back and torso and possibly a few hairs yanked out of his head, and then there's that other speed. That speed where Michael feels like there are hands all over his body and tongues licking him in places most people never even consider. This could be a new form of torture, if Michael weren't too spent to object.
At one point, Tony's licking at the crease of Michael's elbow while Julian's on Michael's other side. Julian's stroking Michael's cock with no happy ending in sight since he's clearly more interesting in giving Tony direction than getting Michael off.
"No, higher," Julian insists. "Right on the underside of his bicep. He's sensitive there. It's possibly the only place he's not been stabbed." Michael just sighs, they could do this the rest of the night and he wouldn't mind. He's far more into quality than quantity, always has been.
Tony glances up with a smirk. "I've noticed you two seem to have quite a few scars."
"You're a fine one to talk," Julian says lightly as Michael's fingers ghost over the arc generator in Tony's chest. The light's so bright that Michael wonders how Tony ever manages to get to sleep at night, maybe that's why he's always still working at 3a.m.
Michael twitches as Tony follows the instruction, concentrating with an intensity Michael only tends to see behind goggles or when Tony's talking about the changes he's making to Stark Industries' product output.
Julian's lips brush the shell of his ear. "He fancies you, you know. Are you going to stay here?"
The glow from Tony's chest illuminates Julian's face just enough for Michael to realize he's serious. Stay with Tony? And do what? Share him with Pepper and Rhodey and Jarvis? Be that mythical bodyguard that he's being paid to be? Stay to be the warm body that Tony needs?
Michael came out here on a lark; he doesn't do things like stick around.
"Why?" he says wryly, "are you trying to get rid of me?"
Michael jumps when Tony pokes him in the ribs. "Any time you two girls want to stop gossiping, I thought we were having raunchy sex here."
14.
Julian's not there the morning - okay, afternoon -- after. Michael knows this before he opens his eyes, because he's in the middle of the bed and there's only a weight displacement on one side of the mattress.
When Michael turns to his left, he sees Tony drooling on his pillow, on his right is a piece of paper with the Stark Industries logo on the top. In Julian's crisp, private school scrawl it just says, Whatever you want.
Typical spy, be as vague as possible and commit to nothing.
When Michael stretches, the cuts on his chest and back from Tony's arc generator pull and itch. It doesn't matter which way you deal with Tony Stark, you're going to get scarred.
"Is this the part where we have sleepy, lazy morning sex?" Tony's voice is scratchy and deep, unsurprising given all the ordering and howling he did last night.
Spies don't do really well with orders though, they much prefer working independently. Hence the howling.
"Do you want lazy morning sex?" Michael asks, rolling over to see Tony watching him with one eye open. "Is that what you're trying to say, Mr. Stark?"
Tony doesn't even seem to notice that Julian's gone; clearly they're from the same cut-and-run cloth.
"I want you to fuck me, Mr. Westen," Tony says. "Is that clear enough?"
15..
Tony and Michael are standing on the tarmac at Stark Industries. They're at the foot of the roll-away stairs that lead to the Stark jet, both wearing sunglasses and suits, but Michael is wearing a nice pale grey and Tony's dressed in a dark blue; he'd fit in well at a wake. He might be a bit upset that Michael's going back to Miami. It's certainly not the decision Michael thought he was going to make, leaving a life of luxury and sex for a broken-down loft, his mom down the street and no employer to tell him what to do.
The burn notice has been lifted, but apparently that's not the same as actually being employed. Still, Michael's nobody's baby-sitter, not even Tony's. He knows Fury won't be surprised.
"So, you're really leaving me?" Tony asks curiously. Michael knows he can't be surprised, but he's certainly acting like it.
"I'm not leaving you," Michael points out. "I'm going home. Leaving you would be sneaking out in the middle of the night, hot-wiring the R8 and sending you a postcard from Tijuana."
"No, that would be what happens after we get married in Vegas."
Michael crosses his arms. "We aren't getting married in Vegas."
"I stand corrected, but we can get married at the Malibu courthouse. It's legal now."
"Tony, of all the people in the world who don't want to get married, I put you at the top of the list. Right next to Julian."
"I like Julian," Tony says thoughtfully. "We can keep him."
"Oh, we can?" Michael laughs. "I'm sure he'll be thrilled to hear that."
"Seriously," Tony starts; Michael braces for impact. "You don't have to leave; we did hire you."
"No, S.H.I.E.L.D. hired me," Michael deflects.
"Whatever. You're on the payroll; don't make me tell on you."
"If I leave, you're going to tell on me?"
"I could," Tony retorts.
"Yeah, you could," Michael concedes, "but you won't."
Tony scowls.
"You're acting like I'm going off to war," Michael says, "I'm going to Miami."
"Yeah, but who knows if you'll come back."
"It's Miami, not Kabul."
"I went to Afghanistan to sell some bombs, and look what happened there."
Michael shakes his head. "Tony, I'll be back."
"You sound like the Ahnuld in Terminator."
"You're the one who has Skynet living in his house."
Tony chuckles. "Jarvis is going to miss you."
"Jarvis wants to fry me to a crisp," Michael corrects.
"That's how he shows love."
Michael shifts his weight from one foot to the other. The sun is beating down on them; it's getting too warm. He needs to go. "If you need me, just call."
People like Tony and Michael don't need people, or if they do, they don't ask. That's the problem. It's why, when Tony opens his mouth, nothing comes out.
Michael points over his shoulder at the plane, and after a moment, Tony waves him off.
Spies suck at goodbye, and apparently, superheroes aren't much better.
The Stark Industries private jet is very different from the plane Michael flew in on; the flight attendants offer him sake as they prepare for take-off, and Michael thinks about it before asking for a yogurt instead. He's looking out the window, thinking about what he's going to do now that he's a free man, when the seat across from him creaks.
"I've heard Miami's nice this time of year," a voice says conversationally.
Michael smiles at the window before turning to face Tony. "Pepper's going to be pissed if you go missing again," Michael warns.
"She'll give me 48 hours. Besides, I'm not missing, I'm with you."
Michael rubs his forehead. "And you're going to call her and tell her that?"
Tony takes off his sunglasses, his eyes crinkling at the corners when he smiles. "I'm a superhero with my very own spy, how bad can it get?"
"Uh huh, " Michael says, placing his shades on the table next to Tony's. "Remember that when I introduce you to my mom."
-end-
Happy Birthday antheia!!
And for issaro and serialkarma just cause.
Burn Notice/Iron Man x-over idea first executed by ithildyn over here
For those infidels who don't watch Burn Notice, this is Michael Westen. And if you never saw Alias, this is Julian Sark.
Burn Notice/Iron Man/Alias
Michael Westen/Tony Stark; Michael/Tony/Julian Sark <-- Yes, you read that right.
Rated R
Spies > Superheroes (Or Not)
1.
Being a spy is like being a part of a secret fraternity that nobody talks about. There are secret handshakes, secret identities, code names, stupid rituals, and don't forget the binge drinking and the homoerotic business with the paddles.
Spies can sniff out other spies in a 100 foot radius, and it doesn't matter where you go or what you do: once you're a spy, you're spy for life.
The SSS (Secret Society of Spies) doesn't care if you've left the business, if you've branched off into renting Vespas in Greece or if you're deaf in your left-ear after someone detonated a car bomb too close to you ninety-three minutes ago and you almost lost a chunk of your right ass cheek to an over-aggressive German Shepherd.
If a spy wants you, he'll find you.
And nobody knows this better than Michael Westen, because he's that half-deaf guy walking home at two in the morning with half his pants leg missing. All Michael wants to do is go home, have a yogurt and a beer (together), and forget that he agreed to do yet another underpaying job to pay for his dry cleaning; he doesn't want to know why he's being trailed back to his loft cum warehouse space cum spy workshop.
You get burned by the government one time, and suddenly everybody thinks you're blackmail-for-hire.
"Okay, who the hell are you and what do you want?" Michael whips out his gun and does a 360 degree turn around his front yard. This is much more impressive than it sounds.
First of all, Michael doesn't really have a yard; he has a concrete box fenced in by rusted steel plates and a couple broken down cars. This is industrial Miami; Michael doesn't live in the suburbs. There are no porch lights, but there is a broken down set of spotlights (only one works).
Second of all, Michael's not really at his best; he hates dogs.
And third of all, Michael only raises an eyebrow when a very familiar face steps out of the darkness.
"Just as paranoid as ever, Westen," the man chuckles. "I suppose it's a good thing you're out of bullets or I'd be full of some hot shit right now, huh?"
Michael blinks; he really needs to get that other spotlight fixed. "Nick Fury, why do I feel like something bad is about to befall me?"
Spies are notoriously megalomaniacal and bitchy; they hate giving anybody else credit for anything, and even by those stingy standards, Nick Fury is legendary. If James Bond were American, less of a clothes-horse and a slut (although really agile in bed), and had carte blanche with Interpol, he would be Nick Fury.
Fury shrugs, pulling the shoulders of his leather coat tight. Michael can see the outline of at least three guns in his silhouette. "I dunno, I thought some bad shit already had befallen you."
Michael lowers his sidearm and Fury steps closer. "You get burned by the government and that's all you ever hear about," Michael complains; Fury's lips twitch.
"Knowing you the way I do," Fury says, "I figure you might not be too happy about that."
"Not too happy," Michael parrots slowly. His government trained him to be a spy, it's the only thing he's good at, and now "The Man" has decided he can't do his job. He could totally shoot someone over his 'not too happiness'.
"Don't even think about it," Fury says dismissively. "Putting you down right now would be like shooting a three-legged cat."
Michael can't even disagree. "I get your point, but if you know I've been castrated, why are you here?"
"I've got this job," Fury says vaguely.
Michael's right leg twitches, maybe it's cold from exposure. "You've got a job? For me?"
"See, just because you got burned doesn't mean your brain doesn't work," Fury quips; Michael scowls.
"Why are you teasing me with something you know I can't have?" Michael demands. "Burned. Stranded in Miami. No money, no assets. I live here," Michael points to the shack behind him. "I never took you for the deliberately sadistic type."
Which is a lie; every spy is the deliberately sadistic type. If they weren't, they'd do something else, like teaching grade school.
Fury smirks in the weak light. "You do something for me, I do something for you."
He means the burn notice. Shit. God only knows what the job must be. Michael hasn't seen Nick Fury since that time in Panama, with the boat and the hookers and that bit where somebody might've blown up a couple of the locks on the Panama Canal.
"What kind of 'something' are we talking about?"
"I want you to go see a man about a job," Fury says blithely.
Michael winces; he knows all about "jobs".
Despite what the Godfather said, it's hard to make people an offer they can't refuse. You can refuse anything. It might not be advisable, but Michael Westen is a spy with a burn notice out on him, which means the only thing he can do is drink coffee and help old people cross the street. He should probably refuse Fury's offer, but what the hell. If it's a job from Fury, at least it's bound to be entertaining and have explosions and shoot outs.
"Do I get to ask what type of job?" Michael queries.
Fury chuckles. "No."
2.
Michael's job interview goes like this:
He gets on a private jet to Malibu. The flight attendants offer him coffee, Michael asks for a yogurt instead. He takes a nap. He lands on the tarmac at Stark Industries, where he's greeted by a man in a black suit, white oxford and black tie. He has to be one of Fury's government minions; he's too milquetoast to be a spy and Michael can smell Feds from fifty feet.
Twenty minutes later Michael's in an office, meeting Iron Man. That's unexpected.
Tony Stark looks up briefly when Michael walks in with the fed, looks back down at his computer monitor, and then looks up again. "Who's your friend, Coulson?"
"This is Michael Westen, your baby-sitter," Coulson says. "Courtesy of Mr. Fury."
Stark wrinkles his nose. "I've already got a baby-sitter. In fact, I've got two. I think you're trying to date one of them."
"Mr. Fury thinks--" Coulson begins, but Stark cuts him off dismissively.
"If Mr. Fury's got a problem with how Iron Man doesn't play with the other superheroes, you tell him to call me directly."
Michael holds up his hands in surrender. "I guess you don’t need me then."
Stark eyes Michael curiously. "Why would Fury think I need you anyway?"
Michael shrugs. "I don't know, what does any industrialist superhero need with a spy?"
"You're a spy?" Stark gets up from his desk, finally; it looks like Michael's sparked someone's interest.
"That's what it says on my union card," Michael quips as Stark comes from behind his glass behemoth and enters Westen air space.
Stark doesn't walk, he glides, and Michael just raises an eyebrow as Stark studies him intently. Being on the receiving end of Tony Stark's appraisal is kind of like being zapped by electrodes attached to your testicles: you can't help but feel it.
Michael just thinks about the fifty-eight ways you can make a car bomb and disassembling his Glock 9mm.
"You got him for me?" Stark's talking to Coulson now; Michael's only mostly paying attention. "Is it my birthday and I forgot? What happens if I break him? Do I get another one?"
Michael smiles broadly. "Mr. Stark, if you break me, you won't be alive to get another one."
Stark blinks once, twice, and then he returns Michael's smile. "You're on."
3.
"This is your wing of the house," Stark says, leading Michael through a maze of modern art, glass and breathtaking views. Michael sort of thought he would get put up in some hovel a couple miles off and drive in every day, but apparently, Stark baby-sitters are on call 24 hours a day.
"A whole wing for myself?" Michael quizzes, counting steps and most certainly not looking at Stark's ass. "You could just drop me off a cliff if you wanted to get rid of me."
"Actually, this house is built on a cliff. Just so you know." Stark tosses a lascivious look over his left shoulder. "Besides, why would I want to get rid of someone as pretty as you?"
Michael's right eye twitches. "I'm not pretty."
Stark coughs, pausing to open a door and wave Michael in. "Sorry, I should've butched that up."
Michael smirks as he passes by. "Do I look butch to you?"
"You look deceptively lean," Stark says. "I think the deceptive part is key there. Are you going to teach me lots of spy tricks and lure me into your honey pot?"
Honey traps, or pots, are when spies use seduction on their marks.
Michael walks around the room, feeling out the space, mentally unpacking and hiding his hardware. There's a large bed and a few pieces of furniture, but the floor-to-ceiling views are the real selling point. Stark wasn't kidding about the cliff. "Lure you in -- do I need to worry about my virtue around you?"
"Spies have virtue?"
"Good point."
Stark slips his hands inside his pockets and grins broadly. "Jarvis, if Mr. Westen, requires anything, like directions to my bedroom, please give them to him."
"As you wish, sir," a proper British voice replies.
Michael freezes, his step counting between the bed and the wall disrupted. "Who are you talking to?"
"Jarvis, the house A.I."
"A.I. Your house is run by Artificial Intelligence?" All the hairs on Michael's forearms stand up.
"Smart and hot. I must've done something good in a past life."
"Mr. Stark--"
"Oh, where are my manners? Jarvis, this is Mr.Westen; he's my new baby-sitter. Be nice to him; he's going to be staying here until I scare him off, so make sure to save all his shower footage for me."
"Mr. Stark," Michael snaps.
"Call me Tony, please. I feel like I'm paying you."
"You are paying me."
"No, S.H.I.E.L.D. is paying you, I'm just reaping the rewards."
Michael pinches the bridge of his nose. "Semantics. It's just semantics. So, tell me why I'm getting a bad feeling."
Tony raises an eyebrow. "A bad feeling? I promise you that I don’t come until my partners do."
"Cute," Michael says drolly.
"I know I am."
Michael walked right into that one. "So, you let a computer run your house? Have you never seen Terminator?"
Tony just laughs. "Mr. Westen, I assure you, your virtue is far safer with Jarvis than it is with me."
Michael looks around the vast bedroom uneasily. "Yeah, so you say."
"You can always sleep with me if you want."
"Maybe another time."
"I'm going to hold you to that."
"I'm not surprised."
Michael doesn't really know what he's doing here, or why he agreed to try this out, but hell, it's not Miami anymore and that's enough for a start.
4.
"Baby-sitting" Tony Stark seems to translate to 'Stand here, don't stand here, make sure Tony Stark doesn't get assassinated, make sure he doesn't get photographed banging reporters in the back of the Rolls, make sure he's happy, make sure nothing happens to his assistant Pepper, make sure Jim Rhodes knows when Iron Man is going out on midnight booty calls, wipe his ass, change his diapers, feed the baby and make sure to burp him before he goes down for the night.'
This has nothing to do with being a spy, but it's eerily reminiscent of Michael's last few months in Miami. Fury must still be pissed off about Michael blowing up some of the Panama Canal.
5.
Michael is being chased. He's vaulting fences and avoiding guard dogs. He's dodging moving vehicles and sniper fire. He's got a key embedded under the skin of his forearm that will keep the North Koreans from finalizing their nuclear arms. Or something. He's not really clear because his heart is beating out of his chest with adrenaline. Every action right now is a primal response of flight. He just knows that if he can finish this assignment, if he can get the key where he has to go, then he'll be free. No more burn notice. No more Miami. No more --
"Mr. Westen, Mr. Stark requests your presence in the workshop."
Michael is jarred into consciousness by the voice of Jarvis. And then he falls off the sofa. "Ow!"
Michael just knows that Jarvis did that on purpose, but it's hard to beat the crap out of a machine. You insinuate one time that a sentient being might be planning to enslave the human population and they never forget it. "Where's Tony?" Michael bitches.
"In the workshop," Jarvis says crisply.
Michael rubs the back of his neck and sighs. Various body parts creak and crack as he tries to work out the kinks while padding down the stairs to the workshop.
He pauses in the doorway, because this baby-sitting thing is starting to make a lot more sense. Tony's standing in the middle of the garage in what looks very much like an Iron Man diaper. The outfit is punctuated by the black leggings he's also wearing and several wisps of fabric hanging from his otherwise bare torso.
Michael snorts loudly.
Tony glances up from where he's currently jamming a screwdriver into the hip joint of the Iron Man armor. "Are you going to stand there all day looking pretty or are you going to help me out of this thing?"
Michael smiles toothily and crosses his arms. "I was thinking I'd just watch."
Tony looks up from underneath his eyelashes. "Is this because I called you 'pretty' again?"
Michael shrugs. "Could be."
Tony scowls. "If you don't help me, I'm going to do bad things to you."
"Is that supposed to be a threat?"
"Okay, I won't do bad things to you if you don't help me," Tony offers.
Michael strolls over, grabbing a much larger screwdriver from one of the workstations. "How the hell did you get yourself stuck in this thing?" he asks, batting Tony's arms out of the way.
"The other kids were being mean to me," Tony bitches. "They put gum in my hair."
Michael gets his screwdriver wedged in good and pushes. And pushes again. "Explain to me why I have to extract you from this thing again?"
"Because that's what you're being paid to do."
"I'm getting paid to baby-sit."
"Yes, and part of baby-sitting is - OW! If you damage the goods, I'm filing a complaint with Fury."
Okay, maybe Michael wedged that in wrong. "You really think he would care?"
Tony sighs loudly. "You know, Pepper is much more gentle."
Michael's observed Pepper Potts very closely in the five days he's been shadowing Tony, and he finds that rather hard to believe. "Oh, really? Should I call Pepper and ask her if that's true?"
"No," Tony sulks as Michael tries to pop the armor's paneling. "OW!"
Okay, strike two.
"I know spies like to play dirty, but c'mon, Mike!"
Michael stops and steps back. "If you want me to get you out of this, you will never call me Mike again, agreed? You can call me Michael or Mr. Westen or that spy guy, but not Mike. I hate it when people call me Mike."
Not that this has ever stopped Sam. Or Nate.
Tony looks from the screwdriver Michael is wielding to Michael's face. "Yes, Mr. Westen," he says dutifully.
Michael smirks. "Just because you're rich and can fly and have a big shiny ball of light in your chest-"
"I know. Hot, right?"
"I'm sure I could never find you as hot as you find yourself," Michael says, glancing down at the armor again.
"I don't know about that," Tony says, stumbling a bit when Michael hooks his fingers into the waistband of the armor and yanks hard.
The plates fall away from Tony, finally, clattering on the floor. When Michael looks up, Tony's smirking at him. He is so obvious.
"Did you ever meet anyone you didn't want to fuck?" Michael asks, pushing the screwdriver into Tony's left hand and standing well back.
Tony scratches at his chest with his other hand. "I was less discriminating before Afghanistan," he admits. "Iron Man has standards, though, that bastard."
Michael can just imagine.
6.
Michael likes Pepper Potts. He likes her no-nonsense attitude and the way she can corral Tony with just one look. He likes that she takes pride in her work and doesn't put up with the bullshit. She sort of reminds him of Fiona - if Fiona were 5'10, with red hair and five-inch heels. Oh, thank god Fiona never got into heels.
Although Michael supposes it's really hard to run from yakuza in five-inch spikes.
He opens his second yogurt and watches Pepper tap rapidly at her PDA. They're waiting for Tony, because they're all going somewhere to do whatever. When Pepper frowns she gets little lines across her forehead.
"You've been working for Tony how long now?" he asks, around a mouthful of vanilla yogurt.
Pepper looks up briefly, her fingers still flying. "Long enough."
"That long, huh?"
"You've been a spy for how long now?" she asks pointedly.
"Oh, no, see I was a spy, and then I got burned by the government. Now I just baby-sit genius egomaniacs while I plot revenge and change diapers."
Pepper smiles down at her PDA. "What's it like?"
"You mean when I'm not stuck in the principal's office and can't play with the other spies?"
At this, Pepper looks at him properly. "Yes."
"It's like… It's like having a purpose in the world. Everybody's meant to do something. Everyone has something that they're good at if they look hard enough. I mean you're great at your job, anybody can see that you have what it takes to run Stark Industries."
"I don’t run Stark Industries," Pepper protests.
Michael raises an eyebrow. "You sure about that?"
"I just do the leg work," she insists.
"Uh huh."
"So, you're good at stealing, shooting and espionage."
Michael shrugs. "I'm only good at espionage on Wednesdays and Fridays; the rest of the week I do the stealing and shooting."
"Sometimes I'd like to shoot Tony," Pepper says thoughtfully.
"I could teach you how," Michael says, "but I think that would hinder you in the long run. Jail sucks a lot. I've been in enough of them to know that for a fact."
Pepper smiles. "I'll take that under advisement."
7.
Tony Stark is relentless. It's a great attribute in a spy or an inventor; it's not so great when what Tony really wants to do is play Spies.
"You don't play spies," Michael says, increasing the speed on the treadmill in hopes that Tony will get the hint. "Being a spy is a job."
"Yeah, but you're baby-sitting me right now, so it must not be paying that well," Tony mocks.
"I could call one of my contacts, find out what the price is on your head, and deliver you to the highest bidder -- that would make it a job."
Tony scowls. "You're no fun, you know that?"
"You just want me to dress up in tight black clothes, build a bomb out of flour and a cell phone, rappel off the side of the house and blow a hole in the garage."
Tony's eyes go wide. "You can do that?"
"What do you think?"
"You have to show me how to do that; Iron Man needs to learn these things for the job."
"Don't you already have toys that do that?"
"No. Yes. Will you put on the tight black clothes anyway?"
"No."
"Please? If you show me, I'll blow you."
Michael's step falters mid-stride. "Tempting, but no," he says after regaining his gait.
"You are a cruel, heartless man, Michael Westen," Tony laments.
"I know I am," Michael replies, "why do you think I'm so good at my job?"
8.
There are things Tony doesn't know about Michael. He doesn't know about Michael's over-attentive dad, who left Michael with the scar two inches from the corner of his left eye. He doesn't know that Michael left home at sixteen to become a spy. And Michael's pretty sure that Tony doesn't know that Michael's got this quasi-boyfriend-type person, who is also a spy. If spies had boyfriends. Or girlfriends. Which they don't. Being a spy is a solitary activity; it's not conducive to relationships.
Except Julian Sark's not just a spy, he's a Spy with a capital 'S'. The kind of spy that's wanted in ten countries, speaks six languages and knows twenty-eight ways to kill you with eating utensils. It's kind of scary, but mostly it's just really hot.
Julian's not one of those twenty-four hour, seven day a week boyfriends though, he just shows up out of the ether between dangerous and highly suspect activities and then they have lots of rough, incredibly hot sex. Really hot sex. Like sex so hot that it would make you jealous.
Yeah, Michael doesn't talk about Julian that much.
9.
Michael's been in California for about a month now, so, he's got a general lay of the land: Pepper runs the show, Jim Rhodes smoothes the way, Happy does the driving and Jarvis is the devil.
"Jarvis is plotting against me," he announces to Tony late one afternoon as he descends into the workshop.
Tony's poking at something with lots of wires and moving parts. Thank god he never got into the spy business; he would've been nightmare. An invincible nightmare of really cool toys and slick jobs for hire. Moving along.
"Jarvis is not out to get you," Tony says without looking up.
Michael drops a damp lump of cotton on Tony's workstation. "Tell that to my pink underwear."
Tony lifts up Michael's wet briefs with a pair of pliers, eying them with amusement. "Are you telling me Jarvis screwed up your underwear?"
"I think that's my point, yes."
"Jarvis doesn't control the washing machine, Michael. That's completely human-operated." Tony then deliberately drops the underwear on the floor. "I guess you'll just have to go without."
"You're worse than Jarvis and Skynet," Michael gripes.
"Oh, Fury didn't tell you about that?" Tony teases.
"Tell me about what?"
"I was an evil mastermind in my last job."
10.
Michael doesn't mean to sleep with Tony. Really. Spies have rules about these things.
1. No sleeping with the asset.
2. No letting the asset seduce you.
3. No succumbing to mutual attraction.
4. Yes, dry humping does count.
5. Yes, phone sex counts too.
6. No finding the asset attractive when he's working on his car.
7. Or playing with his toys.
8. Or eating fruit suggestively.
9. Or stripping out of his Iron Man suit, bent and bruised and exhausted.
10. When in doubt, please see Rules 1-9.
And yet, it happens, because Tony is Tony and Michael is Michael and that arc generator thing is like this big shiny magnet sucking Michael in.
All it takes is one close call too many. Near-death experiences always make Michael a little tingly in certain places.
One minute Michael's putting stitches in just above Tony's collarbone, the next thing he knows, Tony's got him plastered to one of the work stations and is grinding his cock against Michael's thigh.
Tony's hair is damp with sweat and his kisses taste like he bit his lip at some point. Michael's fingers scrabble over slick muscle, trying to hold Tony still, so it takes him a moment to pin Tony down.
It seems the most natural thing ever for Michael to lick the surface of the arc generator; it tastes like Tony, it's a part of him. When he looks up, though, Tony is staring at him like he's never had anyone do this before.
It makes Michael wonder what job he was really hired for in the first place.
11.
There's this thing that Michael's supposed to take Tony to. Well, not take him to as much as stand beside him and make sure he doesn't get shot (Fury's orders) or kidnapped (Rhodey's orders) or gold-digger-napped (Pepper's orders).
Except that Tony's late and Michael's irritated, and it's pretty much par for the course. "Jarvis, where's Tony?"
"Where Mr. Stark always is," Jarvis says in a tone that Michael would only describe as snotty. "In the workshop."
"In the workshop," Michael bitches, going downstairs. "Always in the fucking -"
"He used to steal cars when he was little?" Tony's sitting on one of his workstations, kicking his heels and talking on the phone. When he sees Michael, he grins broadly. "And he was always getting fights? Why am I not surprised?"
A thousand alarms go off in the back of Michael's mind. "Who are you talking to?"
Tony's grin only grows. "Your mom."
Michael's entire body seizes up momentarily. "Why are you talking to my mom?!"
"Because your phone rang, and you weren't around to answer it," Tony says, as though this is the most obvious thing in the world.
"You're answering my phone now?" Michael hisses.
Tony holds up a finger. "Your mom says to be nice to me."
"Oh, really, and does she say anything else?" Michael sputters.
"Yeah, apparently Julian came by to see her, and she told him you were here."
Okay, that's enough of that.
Michael snatches the phone out of Tony's grasp. "Mom, you did what?"
There's a long pause; she must be smoking. "Now, Michael, you know I've always liked Julian, and you never bring him around anymore."
"Because I'm in California, Mom!" And because Julian is a sociopathic nymphomaniac who wants to have sex on the kitchen table on his mom's favorite tablecloth.
"Well, he said he missed you."
Michael can feel the migraine starting up. "And you believed him?"
"Well, yeah." Of course she believed him. Five minutes with Julian could make the Pope think he needed to convert.
"Mom, I have to go."
"Michael, tell Tony to come and see -"
"Bye, Mom!" Michael says hanging up.
"I like your mom," Tony smiles beatifically.
Michael just glares. "Shut up and get dressed."
"Oooh, order me around some more," Tony mocks. "I like it when you play rough."
12.
It was only a matter of time before Julian showed up. Michael knows this. That doesn't mean he's prepared for it when he comes downstairs one morning and Julian's having a drink with Tony on the sofa.
"Isn't it a little early for a nightcap?" he says, pausing at the bottom of the stairs to remember where he's stashed all his guns.
There's one Glock under the piano and another in a Ziploc bag in the waterfall. The closest one is currently in the fourth sofa cushion, which Tony is sitting on.
Julian gives him a blinding smile, and Tony just smirks. When surrounded by sharks, or a room full of terrorists, show no fear.
"It's well past drinking time in Tokyo," Tony protests.
"And in Helsinki," Julian agrees.
"Nairobi."
"Auckland."
"Lagos."
"Riyadh."
"Prague."
"Jakarta."
"It's always drinking time in Jakarta."
"I know. I love Jakarta."
"Enough!" Michael interrupts.
Tony and Julian look at him with mock shock. Crap. It's even worse than he imagined. This meeting of the minds could only end with them getting along or World War III, and apparently, they've decided on the former.
"You seem very tense, Michael," Julian says soothingly. "I thought Mr. Stark would've looked after you better than this." At this, Julian gives Tony reproachful look. It's barely eight in the morning; they can't have been bonding this long,
And then Michael sees the other glasses on the table. He could be wrong.
"I have been looking after him," Tony corrects. "He just won't look after himself. He's very stubborn that way."
"Yes," Julian agrees. "I know. You should see him --"
"If you finish that sentence, I will cut out your tongue," Michael warns. Julian gives him a saucy look, but stops talking.
"He really is stressed out," Tony agrees. "You think I should tell him that Fury said his burn notice has been removed, and he can leave at any time?"
Michael blinks. "You know about the burn notice?"
Tony rolls his eyes. "You really think I'd let just anybody live in my house?"
"How long?" Michael could be talking about anything at this point.
Tony waves his glass around and something brown slops over the sides. "Recently. The day you started. Last week. I dunno."
Julian shakes his head. "You shouldn't have told him that; if you let him leave, you'll never see him again."
"I get that impression," Tony agrees.
Michael can't think like this. Crossing the room, he pries the glass from Julian's hand, sets it on the table and grabs Julian's forearm. "You are leaving," he says, dragging Julian towards the front door.
"I just got here," Julian points out reasonably; Michael ignores him.
"I don't want Julian to leave," Tony's protest carries down the hall. "He was telling me about having sex with this operative in a confessional at the Vatican!"
You have sex in a church one time, and you never hear the end of it.
Julian lets himself be led away anyway. "Don't worry, Tony, I'll see you again."
At the door, Julian's grin twists into a wry smile. "You should tell me when you go to work for billionaire industrialists, you know."
"I can't tell you where I'm going if I don't know where you are, can I?" Michael doesn't mean for that to sound as pissy as it does. This is why spies don't date.
"Touché."
"Why are you here, Julian?"
"Why am I ever here? To see you."
"Well, you've seen me. Off you go."
"He's quite fit," Julian says casually. "Did you fuck him?"
Michael just knows Jarvis is letting Tony hear every bit of this conversation.
"You have to go now," Michael says, pushing Julian out the door.
Julian jams his foot in the door to stall the process. "I missed you," he says, grabbing Michael by the collar of his shirt and hauling him close enough to kiss. Michael leans in the rest of the way.
Julian is a very good kisser. Very thorough. He also tends to bite. A lot. "Since I'm quite sure you are fucking Mr. Stark," he says in low tone, "I'm not leaving Los Angeles until you let me watch."
And then he's gone.
Michael rests his forehead against the closed door. He wonders what it's like not to get blackmailed all the time; he can't remember anymore.
"So, a threesome with you and your boyfriend?" Tony's nonchalant inquiry comes from right behind him.
Michael hates Jarvis so much right now.
"He's not my boyfriend," Michael tells the door. "He's just this spy I know."
"I'd do it, you know," Tony says. "I'm just saying."
Michael knows Tony would do it; so would he. That's the whole problem.
13.
99.1% of spying is about waiting.
You sit in a room, and you wait. You sit in a car and wait. You wait in hotels, motels, Holiday Inns, ditches, shacks, bomb shelters and roadside stops. You wait in restaurants, bathrooms, kitchens, basements, attics, offices, elevator shafts, rooftops, dressing rooms, car trunks, storage containers, strapped to the top of a moving 18-wheeler and pretty much every place in between.
When you are having a threesome with a spy and a superhero, though, there is no waiting, because if you wait on the sidelines, you'll miss the entire experience.
As far as Michael can tell Julian and Tony combined have two speeds: hard, rough and violent, which result in scratches all over Michael's back and torso and possibly a few hairs yanked out of his head, and then there's that other speed. That speed where Michael feels like there are hands all over his body and tongues licking him in places most people never even consider. This could be a new form of torture, if Michael weren't too spent to object.
At one point, Tony's licking at the crease of Michael's elbow while Julian's on Michael's other side. Julian's stroking Michael's cock with no happy ending in sight since he's clearly more interesting in giving Tony direction than getting Michael off.
"No, higher," Julian insists. "Right on the underside of his bicep. He's sensitive there. It's possibly the only place he's not been stabbed." Michael just sighs, they could do this the rest of the night and he wouldn't mind. He's far more into quality than quantity, always has been.
Tony glances up with a smirk. "I've noticed you two seem to have quite a few scars."
"You're a fine one to talk," Julian says lightly as Michael's fingers ghost over the arc generator in Tony's chest. The light's so bright that Michael wonders how Tony ever manages to get to sleep at night, maybe that's why he's always still working at 3a.m.
Michael twitches as Tony follows the instruction, concentrating with an intensity Michael only tends to see behind goggles or when Tony's talking about the changes he's making to Stark Industries' product output.
Julian's lips brush the shell of his ear. "He fancies you, you know. Are you going to stay here?"
The glow from Tony's chest illuminates Julian's face just enough for Michael to realize he's serious. Stay with Tony? And do what? Share him with Pepper and Rhodey and Jarvis? Be that mythical bodyguard that he's being paid to be? Stay to be the warm body that Tony needs?
Michael came out here on a lark; he doesn't do things like stick around.
"Why?" he says wryly, "are you trying to get rid of me?"
Michael jumps when Tony pokes him in the ribs. "Any time you two girls want to stop gossiping, I thought we were having raunchy sex here."
14.
Julian's not there the morning - okay, afternoon -- after. Michael knows this before he opens his eyes, because he's in the middle of the bed and there's only a weight displacement on one side of the mattress.
When Michael turns to his left, he sees Tony drooling on his pillow, on his right is a piece of paper with the Stark Industries logo on the top. In Julian's crisp, private school scrawl it just says, Whatever you want.
Typical spy, be as vague as possible and commit to nothing.
When Michael stretches, the cuts on his chest and back from Tony's arc generator pull and itch. It doesn't matter which way you deal with Tony Stark, you're going to get scarred.
"Is this the part where we have sleepy, lazy morning sex?" Tony's voice is scratchy and deep, unsurprising given all the ordering and howling he did last night.
Spies don't do really well with orders though, they much prefer working independently. Hence the howling.
"Do you want lazy morning sex?" Michael asks, rolling over to see Tony watching him with one eye open. "Is that what you're trying to say, Mr. Stark?"
Tony doesn't even seem to notice that Julian's gone; clearly they're from the same cut-and-run cloth.
"I want you to fuck me, Mr. Westen," Tony says. "Is that clear enough?"
15..
Tony and Michael are standing on the tarmac at Stark Industries. They're at the foot of the roll-away stairs that lead to the Stark jet, both wearing sunglasses and suits, but Michael is wearing a nice pale grey and Tony's dressed in a dark blue; he'd fit in well at a wake. He might be a bit upset that Michael's going back to Miami. It's certainly not the decision Michael thought he was going to make, leaving a life of luxury and sex for a broken-down loft, his mom down the street and no employer to tell him what to do.
The burn notice has been lifted, but apparently that's not the same as actually being employed. Still, Michael's nobody's baby-sitter, not even Tony's. He knows Fury won't be surprised.
"So, you're really leaving me?" Tony asks curiously. Michael knows he can't be surprised, but he's certainly acting like it.
"I'm not leaving you," Michael points out. "I'm going home. Leaving you would be sneaking out in the middle of the night, hot-wiring the R8 and sending you a postcard from Tijuana."
"No, that would be what happens after we get married in Vegas."
Michael crosses his arms. "We aren't getting married in Vegas."
"I stand corrected, but we can get married at the Malibu courthouse. It's legal now."
"Tony, of all the people in the world who don't want to get married, I put you at the top of the list. Right next to Julian."
"I like Julian," Tony says thoughtfully. "We can keep him."
"Oh, we can?" Michael laughs. "I'm sure he'll be thrilled to hear that."
"Seriously," Tony starts; Michael braces for impact. "You don't have to leave; we did hire you."
"No, S.H.I.E.L.D. hired me," Michael deflects.
"Whatever. You're on the payroll; don't make me tell on you."
"If I leave, you're going to tell on me?"
"I could," Tony retorts.
"Yeah, you could," Michael concedes, "but you won't."
Tony scowls.
"You're acting like I'm going off to war," Michael says, "I'm going to Miami."
"Yeah, but who knows if you'll come back."
"It's Miami, not Kabul."
"I went to Afghanistan to sell some bombs, and look what happened there."
Michael shakes his head. "Tony, I'll be back."
"You sound like the Ahnuld in Terminator."
"You're the one who has Skynet living in his house."
Tony chuckles. "Jarvis is going to miss you."
"Jarvis wants to fry me to a crisp," Michael corrects.
"That's how he shows love."
Michael shifts his weight from one foot to the other. The sun is beating down on them; it's getting too warm. He needs to go. "If you need me, just call."
People like Tony and Michael don't need people, or if they do, they don't ask. That's the problem. It's why, when Tony opens his mouth, nothing comes out.
Michael points over his shoulder at the plane, and after a moment, Tony waves him off.
Spies suck at goodbye, and apparently, superheroes aren't much better.
The Stark Industries private jet is very different from the plane Michael flew in on; the flight attendants offer him sake as they prepare for take-off, and Michael thinks about it before asking for a yogurt instead. He's looking out the window, thinking about what he's going to do now that he's a free man, when the seat across from him creaks.
"I've heard Miami's nice this time of year," a voice says conversationally.
Michael smiles at the window before turning to face Tony. "Pepper's going to be pissed if you go missing again," Michael warns.
"She'll give me 48 hours. Besides, I'm not missing, I'm with you."
Michael rubs his forehead. "And you're going to call her and tell her that?"
Tony takes off his sunglasses, his eyes crinkling at the corners when he smiles. "I'm a superhero with my very own spy, how bad can it get?"
"Uh huh, " Michael says, placing his shades on the table next to Tony's. "Remember that when I introduce you to my mom."
-end-
Happy Birthday antheia!!
And for issaro and serialkarma just cause.
Burn Notice/Iron Man x-over idea first executed by ithildyn over here
For those infidels who don't watch Burn Notice, this is Michael Westen. And if you never saw Alias, this is Julian Sark.
