The One with Ghosts and Zombies: Monday
Title: The One with Ghosts and Zombies
Author: Lymricks
Rating: PG-13
Genre and/or Pairing: Gen
Spoilers: Nothing episode specific, but definitely a few overall for the whole series if you haven't been paying attention to who's dating/dated who.
Warnings: Billy!Whump, Character sort of death, Zombies, and hijinks.
Word Count: 15,084
Notes: See the master post for notes.
Summary: Billy dies, and somehow Michael's week still gets worse.
Michael is never late to the office. He usually carpools with Billy, but he woke up to a text that said “Getting there on my own” and so he doesn’t worry about stopping to pick his teammate up. He is never late to the office, but he is today, probably because he thought he had extra time and had gone to get a coffee.
But really, it’s a Monday morning and the CIA is quiet. Everyone hates Monday mornings, even spooks, which explains the emptiness. Michael has a special hate for Monday mornings.
(It would be easy to say that once, on a Monday morning, his wife had told him that was that. But that wasn’t that. In fact, Faye had dumped him quietly and gently on a Tuesday night, and Michael loves Tuesdays. His hate for Mondays runs deeper, is a part of his life so ingrained in the back corner of his brain that he doesn’t even stop to question the growing feeling of dread every Monday. See, he hasn’t always be the in charge leader he is now. Once he was a shrimpy kid who liked books about rescuing animals. One Monday morning in fifth grade, he had come to class to get a book. Inside the classroom he’d found two much taller guys. They’d spent almost an hour tossing his beloved autographed animal books over his head. Michael takes comfort now in the fact he may still someday get to shoot them).
Instead, he sips his coffee and saunters down the hall, appreciating the novelty of his job. He’s running through a mental catalog of possible missions and mission locations. He’d really like to go to London. That would be hard, though, because Billy had been deported. There’s always a way around these things, even if the British do seem to hold grudges for inanely long periods of time. He’ll work on it. He imagines Billy would probably like a visit to the motherland, even if he does have to sneak in.
“Morning, Blank,” Michael greets as he walks past Blank’s open door.
“Oh. Michael. Hi,” the man says, standing up hastily and hurrying away. Michael frowns. Blank is always talkative (and often irritating). It’s unusual for him to run away, especially from Michael, who he seems to look up to. Blank has “helped” on so many missions that Michael occasionally entertains the thought of making him an official part of the ODS. The paperwork would be a nightmare, and the ODS is a four man kind of job, so Michael has never gone through with it.
He shrugs off that line of thought as he gets to their own private office/cell. The door opens slowly and with a creak, and Michael wonders why maintenance hasn’t had a chance to get down here and fix the damn thing yet. He’s fed up with it. Tonight he’s going to go buy some WD-40.
Martinez isn’t in yet, which isn’t a surprise. The kid is always on time, but usually ends up dawdling around the deputy director’s office, carrying the same cup of coffee and looking a little more tired than usual. Casey’s desk looks untouched, which is definitely unusual, but Michael remembers him saying something about triplets and a hot tub last time they spoke, so maybe it isn’t so unusual at all.
It’s Billy’s absence that really throws him off. He can’t help it, the pair of them have been carpooling to work for the past three years. Every Monday morning, Michael and Billy have walked in together. Michael can’t remember the last time he’d been alone in the office this early. He’s not sure if it’s a good or a bad thing that his team is in sync enough to all be late on the same day, but ultimately he decides it’s a good thing-an indication that they are a whole, and not four separate units.
His team isn’t there to mock his tardiness and Michael throws on his reading glasses. He’ll pretend that he’s been here for hours, waiting for them. He leans back in his chair and grabs a file from the top of a stack placed neatly on the corner of his desk. There’s a note taped to the manilla folder. I’ve been asking you to review this for six weeks it says in Fay’s neat cursive. He sighs and flips it open; he can already tell it’s going to be a boring read.
The file turns out to be interesting, much to Fay’s credit. The mission outline is mundane and boring, but it has Higgins’s signature on the bottom and Michael doesn’t bother to feign surprise. Michael tosses the file to Billy’s desk, watching it land amongst the already haphazard mess. He’ll have to point it out to Billy if he wants it read before they all die.
Michael may be the fearless leader, but even Martinez has picked up on the way he asks Billy’s name at the end of an explanation, waiting to see how Billy feels about the plan. It’s been useful to have Billy as a right hand man all these years now. Trust is earned in the agency, but Billy is on another level. Michael trusts Billy’s abilities, not just the man. Michael Dorset has made a career out of being self sufficient, but for six years, he’s leaned (just a little) on the arm of the Scottish operative.
Michael grabs another file, this one has no sticky note, and is decidedly less interesting. He’s barely a quarter of the way through it, already ready to pass it on to some other team, when there’s a knock on the door.
“Good morning Deputy Director,” Michael says graciously, peering over the top of his reading glasses at her. “Martinez isn’t in yet-I actually thought he was with you.”
“No,” she says. “I got called away last night, he went home,” she pauses. “I’m actually looking to speak to you.” She steps inside and closes the door behind her, glancing up at him for a moment before looking away. “I wanted to be the one to tell you,” she starts. She stops and seems to fight with herself for a second. “I think-I think you’re going to be the one who should tell your team.”
She’s paler than normal, and her eyes are red rimmed. Her hair’s a mess. Michael notices all these things, but doesn’t comment on them, because he’s a spy, and spies observe first. He stands up to offer her his chair, but she shakes her head.
“Please sit down, Operative Dorset.”
Michael sits back down.
“There isn’t an easy way to deliver this news,” she says quietly, and he notices that she still wont meet his eyes. “Operative Billy Collins was driving down I-95 late last night, as far as we can tell he was alone. He lost control of his vehicle, which then caught fire,” she hesitates again, and Michael holds his breath; doesn’t move a muscle, “There were no survivors,” Adele finishes.
Michael’s first reaction is that she is lying. He doesn’t trust her as far as he can throw her, and she is lying to him. He runs through a list of possible mental scenarios; how would “killing” Billy put her or Higgins in a position of power? Is telling him Billy’s dead supposed to weaken the ODS somehow? That has to be it. This, like Martinez, is another ploy to get rid of his team.
When he looks up though, Adele looks completely serious and Michael knows she’s not that good at lying to trained operatives.
He thinks she says, “I’m so sorry,” and “He was a great agent” and “and a good friend” but he doesn’t feel her touch his arm, he doesn’t hear the door shut, or the sound of her walking down the hall. He doesn’t hear anything at all, except those four words, there were no survivors.
Michael blinks.
The way she said that-it sounds like Billy’s dead, but Billy can’t be dead. Death is one of those things that Michael accepted a long time ago. It’s part of his job description, like postal workers expect to walk on the job, CIA operatives expect to die on the job.
The problem is, Billy wasn’t on the job, so how can he be dead? CIA operatives don’t die in car crashes on I-95 on the way home from a date or work. That isn’t how this job works.
Postal workers walk even when they’re home, Michael remembers.
“Sorry I’m late,” Martinez says as he bursts through the door. “I forgot to set my alarm, Adele usually sets hers and-Michael? Are you ok?”
Michael lifts his head up and lets out a slow breath as he looks, just looks, at Martinez. He nods his head. “I’m fine,” he says, and wonders if he could get away with just not saying anything else. Michael has never been one to pussyfoot around bad news, however, and instead, he finds himself talking. “Martinez, take a seat.”
“Am I fired?” Martinez asks, obviously nervous, as he drops down into his chair. He’s looking at Michael earnestly.
Michael sighs. “No,” he says shortly. “I need you to come to Billy’s hotel room with me,” he says finally.
“Why?”
“I’d like to lead an investigation into-” here, Michael really hesitates, this isn’t how he wants Martinez to find out, but its too late now, he’s already started to tell him this way. “I want to lead an investigation into-Martinez, I’m sorry. Billy was in a car accident last night. He-he didn’t make it. I’d like to investigate the circumstances of his death.”
Martinez chokes on nothing, and Michael stares at his computer screen and waits for his teammate to get himself together. Several tense moments pass, with Martinez making sounds that are suspiciously like crying, and Michael trying not to intrude on whatever space Martinez might need right now.
Michael needs to give Martinez that space because if he gets too close to anyone right now, Michael is going to lose it. That’s not a risk he can afford to take. “Martinez,” he says, his voice firm. “I need you to pull yourself together. We owe it to our teammate to make sure the way he died was as kosher as a car crash can be. Are you going to be able to handle this or do I need to find someone else?” it’s harsh, but life is harsh, and Michael doesn’t have time for this.
Martinez just grunts at him and stands up, grabbing the car keys. He brushes past Michael and out the door, down the hall, down the stairs, to the parking garage. He doesn’t say a single word to Michael the whole way there, which Michael supposes he deserves.
When they get to the hotel, the first thing Michael thinks is that he hasn’t visited here nearly enough. It’s a weird thought to have, because Michael has always been adamant that their personal lives stay personal (this doesn’t apply to breaking into Martinez’s apartment, however). Yet as he stands in the doorway, staring at Rick’s back and Billy’s things, all he can think is that he doesn’t even know what he’s looking for.
Some team leader he is. He doesn’t even know if Billy separates his whites from his darks.
Michael looks slowly around the room and presses his hand to the doorframe to steady himself. This is a mission, like any other mission, and he’s going to treat it as such. Minutes pass, though, before he steps through the threshold and onto the carpeted interior.
There are books everywhere, something that makes a lot of sense, given Billy’s tendancy to throw around random literary allusions like he’s getting sponsored by them. He spies a few titles he recognizes, a few more obscure ones whose authors he’s at least heard of, and several that a Pre-Med major had no reason to know anything about, and so they remain mysteries to Michael.
On the coffee table, there’s one propped open, a half full mug of coffee keeping the pages spread. Michael reaches out and brushes the coffee cup off, picking up the book instead. It’s obviously well loved and well read, he can see old thumbprints and a marked spine. It doesn’t surprise him that Billy abuses the books he loves-and this one looks like its been dropped in the bath more than once.
The title, written in green font above an unassuming cover image, says If on a Winter’s Night, a Traveler… and Michael pauses to consider the fact that that is one of the stupidest titles he’s ever heard of-and he’s read Bleak House. Billy probably wouldn’t appreciate Michael’s inner diatribe against great literary minds, but Billy (and his mind reading abilities) aren’t here to scold him.
Billy isn’t here.
Michael sobers up and looks to the page, reading slowly. He wonders if Billy had read these words last night before he’d left. Before he’d died.
"Once the process of falsification is set in motion, it won't stop. We're in a country where everything that can be falsified has been falsified: paintings in museums, gold ingots, bus tickets. The counterrevolution and the revolution fight with salvos of falsification: the result is that nobody can be sure what is true and what is false…
Michael sets the book down, because that is altogether distressing and something he realized a long time ago. He closes his eyes for a second and just takes in the sounds of the hotel. The thrum of an air conditioning unit, blasting away despite the early autumn chill clinging to the air, the bangtapbang of a faulty pipe-perhaps someone in another room is taking a shower, the creaking of footsteps above. There is so much life around this place, but inside this hotel room everything feels like death.
Suitably morbid, now, Michael opens his eyes to look at Martinez. He doesn’t know why, but he’d been expecting the young agent to be looking at him.
Instead, Martinez is spinning in a slow circle, looking delighted and traumatized all at once.
“I didn’t know him at all,” Martinez says finally. “I knew he liked to read, but look at this, all these books…in a hotel room? That’s pretty serious dedication. The TV is practically unused, but look, he liked his stereo. See where the buttons worn away from where he kept pressing them?”
Michael is a highly trained CIA operative, and he noticed none of these things-at least, not in the way Martinez noticed them.
The younger agent goes on, pointing out Billy’s piles of clothing (one clean, presumably the other dirty) and the notebook hanging half out under the pillow. Neither of them read it, out of respect for Billy’s privacy, but Martinez describes the way Billy’s penmanship is “obviously British.”
Trying to play along, Michael notes that Billy used black ink. Martinez shakes his head, “no,” he says, “it’s dark green.” Which, Martinez concludes, is strange, because at work Billy’s always been a blue pen kind of guy.
The fact is, where Michael has been trained to notice discrepancies (“look at this crack in the glass. Someone trying to break in?”) Martinez notices a personality (“no, there’s a tennis ball here. I bet he was chucking it at the window”). As they walk around the hotel room Billy had called home, Michael builds a case. Martinez builds a person.
In a way, Michael is jealous of that youthful naivety. He wishes he could still look at a place like this and think of it as somebody’s home rather than somebody’s file, but even though he can tell it’s Billy’s the connection doesn’t click for him like it does for Martinez. Michael, whether he’s entirely conscious of it or not, won’t let it.
Connecting those particular dots means that he has to start grieving for a lost friend, and he’s not sure he could handle that and still operate on the level he needs to. This is a murder investigation, after all. Authorized or not, Michael can’t believe-won’t believe-that his agent, teammate, and damn good friend died in a car crash on I-95. The CIA may not be the place for heroism, but a death that mundane is just insulting when someone had done and seen as much as Billy had.
“Hollllly moley,” Martinez says in that irritating (but disarming and how could it be annoying?) way he does. Michael walks down the short hallway, his eyes landing on the wall opposite him. Stacked on little stands are several swords and knives.
Michael knows Billy has a thing for knives, he’s seen the agent with them enough. There’s one that he takes with him everywhere, small enough to fit in the flat of his palm, Billy has always said its for emergencies-he takes it wherever there’s danger. Michael knows the knife well, and so it’s easy to spot it at home in its little nook on the wall. The blade is flat and silver, polished and obviously cared for despite the nicks in it. The handle is round and decorated with what Michael has always guessed is green marble. It’s decorative, maybe a little flimsy for CIA work, but Billy says it reminds him of home.
Michael takes the knife down and slips it into his pocket. He can’t bare to leave it there on the wall, waiting for Billy to come back.
That’s the problem, he realizes as he looks around him, the whole place looks like someone planned on coming back to it. There isn’t anything out of place, no signs of foul play. There’s certainly nothing to stage a murder investigation on.
“It’s time to go,” he says, and turns away from the wall.
He grabs the book on his way out.
~ ~ ~
“These are the files for potential new members of your team,” Higgins says from behind his desk. Michael takes them automatically. “We can’t have the ODS compromised, I’m sure you understand. Traditionally, I’d assign someone to your team, but…given the circumstances, I think it best you choose.”
Michael doesn’t say anything, but he does take the files with him when he leaves. He puts on his reading glasses and sits at his desk, staring at them. The line of manilla envelopes makes his stomach hurt, so instead he stares at the ceiling. All he sees there are the holes Billy and Casey made when they had a competition to see who could lodge the most pencils in the plaster. Michael pulls off his reading glasses and drops them on the desk, pressing his face into his hands, and scrubbing, like that will make anything go away.
“Michael.”
He looks up and sees Casey standing in the doorway. “Where the hell have you been?” Michael says, standing up.
“I know about Billy,” Casey says instead.
“So you just decided not to show up for work?”
“I was at the hospital.”
Michael stops short, “Are you all right?”
“I’m functioning below one hundred percent,” Casey admits, and he looks tired. “I was apparently listed as Billy’s next of kin. I believe that’s illegal, but I got the phone call.”
“Why didn’t you call?” Michael asks, sinking back down into his chair.
“A CIA operative dies alone in his car on a busy highway and lists his teammate as next-of-kin, believe me, they weren’t too keen on letting me go to the bathroom, let alone try to contact anyone. You would be amazed at how much red tape there is behind indentifying someone by their dental records.”
The words are spoken in Casey’s traditional deadpan, but they still feel like a kick in the face. It’s a neat way to relay the horrible truth-there wasn’t much of Billy left. Michael scrubs his face again. “Higgins has been kind enough to bestow upon us the task of replacing Billy. He’s left a number of potential applicant files with me.”
Casey’s eyes move down to the files on Michael’s desk, then back up to meet Michael’s gaze, but his head and body don’t so much as twitch. “So?”
Michael shrugs and knocks all six files into the trash can. He digs around in his desk for a matchbook and sets the whole pack on fire. Then, he drops the burning matches and book into the trash on top of the envelopes. He watches the manila edges curl in, silent.
Casey nods once and moves to sit at his desk. Martinez comes back in and out, in and out, before he finally settles down. All three of them watch the smoke curl up and up toward the ceiling.
“He’s been dead for less than twenty four hours,” Martinez says finally, disbelieving. “And they already have people lined up for his job.”
“All six applicants have been reviewed and denied,” Michael says, “The files have been destroyed to maintain the secrecy of the ODS. If anyone has a problem with that, you can send them my way.”
He stands up. “I have to go speak with my wi-” he stops short. He can imagine Billy there, rolling his eyes and clapping him on the shoulder, ‘You git,’ he’d say, ‘I thought we agreed to let your past with Faye go.’ “I have to go,” Michael says instead, heading for the door.
An alarm wails.
“Is that the fire alarm?” Martinez asks, casting a glance at the smoldering remains in the garbage can.
“No,” Michael says, “that is much, much worse.”
He and Casey grab Martinez, moving quickly down the hall, toward the staircase. “That is an alarm to indicate a security breach-a bad one,” Casey explains as they hurry along. “It only sounds in offices with high clearance-so just a few people know now. If we can get out before the whole building knows, we might not be stuck here for the next mo-” an armed guard steps out of the stairwell, and the three agents slow to a stop.
“Today cannot get any worse,” Michael says tiredly, turning back to the office. “Casey, do we still have the sleeping bags and camping equipment?”
“No,” Casey says, “Billy usually brings them.”
Michael swears and kicks a trashcan at the wall. The sound it makes is satisfyingly loud and chaotic, but it doesn’t really make him feel better.
~ ~ ~
It turns out that several top secret files involving some genetic warfare developments have gone missing. No one says anything to them, but Michael is pretty sure people who don’t know the ODS are blaming the dead agent. He can’t blame them. If he didn’t know Billy, he’d probably blame the Brit too. It makes sense, after all. The agent dies under mysteriously unremarkable circumstances and top level files go MIA?
Except Michael knows without a doubt that Billy would never, could never, and never did do anything of the sort. He remembers telling Martinez “Good men can be bought just as easily as bad men,” and wishes he’d added, “unless they’re on my team.”
Its been hours and the sun has long since set (or he assumes it has, they don’t have a window), and the three of them are trying to get comfortable, maybe sleep a little, in their bullpen. There are worse things than being locked up in the CIA headquarters, but today’s been the worst day Michael can remember in a long time, and he really just wants to go home and sleep.
“Is that a phone?” Martinez says, sitting up. “How is there a phone ringing? We’re in lock down.”
“I don’t know,” Michael admits, reaching out and grabbing the phone. “Dorset,” he says cautiously.
“Oh you Americans always do sound so sexy on the phone,” is the first thing he hears. Whoever it is, she’s female, and clearly from the UK. He tries not to hang up. “Listen, I can’t chat for long. Bit busy, but I’d love to meet in person. How does 11:30 tonight sound? On the steps of that beautiful Lincoln Memorial. Poetic, innit? Seeing as I’m in America.”
“I don’t meet with strangers,” he says pointedly.
“You’ll meet with this one, love,” she says.
“And why would I do that?”
“Because I know how Billy Collins died,” she says lowly. “And you want to know too.” There’s a long pause, “Excellent! I’ll see you this evening then. Cheerio!”
Michael holds the phone to his ear long after a dial tone has sounded.
“What?” Casey says.
“We’re going to have to sneak out of a CIA top security breach lock down,” Michael announces.
Casey smiles.
~ ~ ~
Michael lets Casey plan it out, because this is his thing. He doesn’t worry about the fact that the other operative isn’t operating at one hundred percent. Casey will do anything for his teammates, and Michael doesn’t have to be concerned that he’ll mess it up.
It’s similar to their last plan, but in a different way. Instead of assaulting someone for their key card to get in to a room, they’ll be assaulting someone for a key card that gets them out.
“The way a lock down works is that guards are stationed at all exits and entrances, phone lines are cut out, and we are glued to our floor,” Casey explains as they crowd around his desk. “The elevators go into lockdown as well, as do the staircases. The stairs are more obvious for an escape, so we’ll be taking the elevator.”
Ten minutes later, Michael, Casey, and Martinez are moving slowly down the CIA hallway, trying to look as unobtrusive as possible. It isn’t as hard as one would think. Despite the missing files, everyone is more grumpy they’re stuck than worried about genetic warfare. Michael imagines that this is what a fire drill is like in a normal office-you’re supposed to be panicking, but it’s just getting in your way.
Their first stop is Higgins office. As expected, the director has his door locked and his blinds drawn, obviously having a meeting about something important. That doesn’t matter. They’re actually here for his aide.
“Hello,” Casey says, and he smiles.
Casey has never smiled at Higgins’s uptight aide in his entire life, which should have made the kid nervous. It doesn’t. He’s still rude and obnoxious and clearly can’t stand the members of the ODS. It’s thinly veiled comment about how “stupidity can get people killed, don’t they know that now?” That gives Casey the excuse he needs.
A well placed tap on a pressure point sends Higgins’s aide sprawling across his desk, and they rearrange him to look like he fell asleep like that. With his magic key card in hand (Casey says that he probably has it so that Higgins doesn’t have to touch door handles) they head for the elevator. The doors open without question, but it gets trickier two floors down.
The elevator stops and the doors open, and the ODS meets a pair of unfriendly looking guns.
“State your purpose,” someone barks.
“Director Higgins has ordered my team and me to leave in order to investigate the missing genetic files. We have a lead, but that information can’t be shared, there’s too much risk of another leak springing and the trail going cold.”
“Yeah. Right. Do you have any proof?”
Michael wonders why security guards can’t be more pleasant. It’s Martinez who steps forward, holding the Higgins card in his hand and smiling that ‘I’m not a spy I’m just a poor kid’ smile he occasionally whips out. Michael reminds himself to learn how to do that. “Why else would we have this?” Martinez says. “Look, we all want to go home just as much as I’m sure you do. Don’t you have stuff you’d rather be doing right now?”
“It’s my anniversary,” the guard mumbles. “Ten years.”
“The faster we get this sorted out, the faster you can get home to your wife. Let us finish our mission.”
He’s no Billy, but Michael wonders if outright empathy really can work better than charm in a lot of situations. This could be useful, he realizes, now that they’d lost the charming part of their team. He derails that thought quickly, focusing more on the mission as they step out of the elevator and head to the doors out into the parking garage. With some special code word the guard shared with them, it should run smoothly from here.
“Should I-” Casey starts.
“No,” Martinez says before Michael can, “He helped us out.”
So they pile into Michael’s BMW (“I thought you owned a ten year old Taurus?” Martinez accuses.
“I’m a spy,” Michael answers. “I lie”) and drive out of the parking garage. They just have to get to the memorial before the 11:30 meeting time, and everything should work out.
Should work out being the key phrasing, because in Michael’s experience, just because things should happen to or for the ODS, it doesn’t mean they will.
~ ~ ~
“Its beautiful,” Martinez says as he stands on the steps of the memorial and looks out across the mall. Michael follows Martinez’s gaze, down the steps, over the still and silent water, out to where the city stretches beyond. “The Washington Monument,” Martinez says, “Has fascinated me for years. I love how you can always find it when you’re in the city. You can almost always see it.”
Michael nods his head and sits down on the steps. “We’re going to be blamed for those files,” he says soberly, “When they realize we’re gone. They already suspected Billy, we’re next.”
Even Martinez sobers up at that, looking down and away. Finally, he shrugs. “I know Billy didn’t do it,” he says, “I know you guys didn’t. I didn’t. Maybe that’s enough.”
“They could throw you in prison for the rest of your life,” Casey reminds him.
Martinez just shrugs again, “I’ll always know they were wrong.”
That optimism and trust is one of the things Michael admires about Martinez. Other agents could (and do) call him the green kid, they mock him for being wet-behind-the-ears, but Michael knows its not a flaw. Like Billy’s charm, Casey’s fighting, and his unique brand of paranoid planning, Martinez’s innocence is an asset to the team. No matter how many times they’ve thrown him into shitty situations, he comes out of every one believing that it was ok-because it was done for the right reasons.
Michael knows it’s not the most self preserving attitude, but that’s why Martinez has him-protection. If he does nothing else for the rest of his life, Michael knows he’ll keep his team alive and safe.
“Oh I feel awful for interrupting such a touching moment,” a woman’s voice calls from somewhere behind the monument. “I quite like the way you boys are bonding. I can practically see the wheels spinning in all your pretty little heads.”
Michael turns and pulls out his gun, pointing it at her.
She sighs. “How very dull.”
“Who are you? Why did you call us here?”
“I’m Amelia Pond!” she exclaims. None of them say anything. “I did tell him you wouldn’t understand the humor, with me being a red head and Scottish, but Billy said even you lot would appreciate and understand Doctor Who. Anyway, my name really is Amelia, but please call me Amy. My surname isn’t Pond, but I’m not one to share that information on the first date.”
“You knew Billy?” Martinez says, and Michael notices him lowering his gun. He makes a mental note to remind Martinez to be less trusting in the future.
“Knew Billy?” the woman-Amy-says, laughing again. “I know him. Silly bugger is alive and well.”
Nobody moves. Nobody even breathes.
She looks down at her watch. “Ah good, the clock has struck midnight. Time for us to go, then.”
Michael wants to ask her where exactly she thinks they’ll be going, he wants to ask her what she’s talking about, he wants to ask her what sick game it is that she’s playing. He can’t even open his mouth before Martinez is following her down the steps. Michael glances at Casey, who then turns and follows. ‘What?’ his eyes seem to say as he stares Michael down, ‘Someone has to make sure he doesn’t get killed.’
As his teammates follow a mysterious Scottish woman with bright red hair down the steps of the memorial toward the mall, Michael realizes that what he really wants to do is follow her, because all day he has been coming to terms with Billy’s death, and now this woman is telling him that Billy’s alive. “Oh God,” he says quietly to himself, staring hard at her back, because he’s realized (much to his dismay) that what he’s feeling right now is hope; hope that Billy is alive. Hope that there is another day for the ODS.
The three (four? five?) of them are about to become the CIA’s most wanted agents. He might as well take the risk of trusting this stranger.
“Aren’t you coming?” Amy asks, now halfway down the steps.
“What the hell,” Michael shrugs, “This day can’t possibly get any worse.”
“Don’t speak too soon love,” Amy calls back, “It’s only 12:01 AM.”
Author: Lymricks
Rating: PG-13
Genre and/or Pairing: Gen
Spoilers: Nothing episode specific, but definitely a few overall for the whole series if you haven't been paying attention to who's dating/dated who.
Warnings: Billy!Whump, Character sort of death, Zombies, and hijinks.
Word Count: 15,084
Notes: See the master post for notes.
Summary: Billy dies, and somehow Michael's week still gets worse.
Michael is never late to the office. He usually carpools with Billy, but he woke up to a text that said “Getting there on my own” and so he doesn’t worry about stopping to pick his teammate up. He is never late to the office, but he is today, probably because he thought he had extra time and had gone to get a coffee.
But really, it’s a Monday morning and the CIA is quiet. Everyone hates Monday mornings, even spooks, which explains the emptiness. Michael has a special hate for Monday mornings.
(It would be easy to say that once, on a Monday morning, his wife had told him that was that. But that wasn’t that. In fact, Faye had dumped him quietly and gently on a Tuesday night, and Michael loves Tuesdays. His hate for Mondays runs deeper, is a part of his life so ingrained in the back corner of his brain that he doesn’t even stop to question the growing feeling of dread every Monday. See, he hasn’t always be the in charge leader he is now. Once he was a shrimpy kid who liked books about rescuing animals. One Monday morning in fifth grade, he had come to class to get a book. Inside the classroom he’d found two much taller guys. They’d spent almost an hour tossing his beloved autographed animal books over his head. Michael takes comfort now in the fact he may still someday get to shoot them).
Instead, he sips his coffee and saunters down the hall, appreciating the novelty of his job. He’s running through a mental catalog of possible missions and mission locations. He’d really like to go to London. That would be hard, though, because Billy had been deported. There’s always a way around these things, even if the British do seem to hold grudges for inanely long periods of time. He’ll work on it. He imagines Billy would probably like a visit to the motherland, even if he does have to sneak in.
“Morning, Blank,” Michael greets as he walks past Blank’s open door.
“Oh. Michael. Hi,” the man says, standing up hastily and hurrying away. Michael frowns. Blank is always talkative (and often irritating). It’s unusual for him to run away, especially from Michael, who he seems to look up to. Blank has “helped” on so many missions that Michael occasionally entertains the thought of making him an official part of the ODS. The paperwork would be a nightmare, and the ODS is a four man kind of job, so Michael has never gone through with it.
He shrugs off that line of thought as he gets to their own private office/cell. The door opens slowly and with a creak, and Michael wonders why maintenance hasn’t had a chance to get down here and fix the damn thing yet. He’s fed up with it. Tonight he’s going to go buy some WD-40.
Martinez isn’t in yet, which isn’t a surprise. The kid is always on time, but usually ends up dawdling around the deputy director’s office, carrying the same cup of coffee and looking a little more tired than usual. Casey’s desk looks untouched, which is definitely unusual, but Michael remembers him saying something about triplets and a hot tub last time they spoke, so maybe it isn’t so unusual at all.
It’s Billy’s absence that really throws him off. He can’t help it, the pair of them have been carpooling to work for the past three years. Every Monday morning, Michael and Billy have walked in together. Michael can’t remember the last time he’d been alone in the office this early. He’s not sure if it’s a good or a bad thing that his team is in sync enough to all be late on the same day, but ultimately he decides it’s a good thing-an indication that they are a whole, and not four separate units.
His team isn’t there to mock his tardiness and Michael throws on his reading glasses. He’ll pretend that he’s been here for hours, waiting for them. He leans back in his chair and grabs a file from the top of a stack placed neatly on the corner of his desk. There’s a note taped to the manilla folder. I’ve been asking you to review this for six weeks it says in Fay’s neat cursive. He sighs and flips it open; he can already tell it’s going to be a boring read.
The file turns out to be interesting, much to Fay’s credit. The mission outline is mundane and boring, but it has Higgins’s signature on the bottom and Michael doesn’t bother to feign surprise. Michael tosses the file to Billy’s desk, watching it land amongst the already haphazard mess. He’ll have to point it out to Billy if he wants it read before they all die.
Michael may be the fearless leader, but even Martinez has picked up on the way he asks Billy’s name at the end of an explanation, waiting to see how Billy feels about the plan. It’s been useful to have Billy as a right hand man all these years now. Trust is earned in the agency, but Billy is on another level. Michael trusts Billy’s abilities, not just the man. Michael Dorset has made a career out of being self sufficient, but for six years, he’s leaned (just a little) on the arm of the Scottish operative.
Michael grabs another file, this one has no sticky note, and is decidedly less interesting. He’s barely a quarter of the way through it, already ready to pass it on to some other team, when there’s a knock on the door.
“Good morning Deputy Director,” Michael says graciously, peering over the top of his reading glasses at her. “Martinez isn’t in yet-I actually thought he was with you.”
“No,” she says. “I got called away last night, he went home,” she pauses. “I’m actually looking to speak to you.” She steps inside and closes the door behind her, glancing up at him for a moment before looking away. “I wanted to be the one to tell you,” she starts. She stops and seems to fight with herself for a second. “I think-I think you’re going to be the one who should tell your team.”
She’s paler than normal, and her eyes are red rimmed. Her hair’s a mess. Michael notices all these things, but doesn’t comment on them, because he’s a spy, and spies observe first. He stands up to offer her his chair, but she shakes her head.
“Please sit down, Operative Dorset.”
Michael sits back down.
“There isn’t an easy way to deliver this news,” she says quietly, and he notices that she still wont meet his eyes. “Operative Billy Collins was driving down I-95 late last night, as far as we can tell he was alone. He lost control of his vehicle, which then caught fire,” she hesitates again, and Michael holds his breath; doesn’t move a muscle, “There were no survivors,” Adele finishes.
Michael’s first reaction is that she is lying. He doesn’t trust her as far as he can throw her, and she is lying to him. He runs through a list of possible mental scenarios; how would “killing” Billy put her or Higgins in a position of power? Is telling him Billy’s dead supposed to weaken the ODS somehow? That has to be it. This, like Martinez, is another ploy to get rid of his team.
When he looks up though, Adele looks completely serious and Michael knows she’s not that good at lying to trained operatives.
He thinks she says, “I’m so sorry,” and “He was a great agent” and “and a good friend” but he doesn’t feel her touch his arm, he doesn’t hear the door shut, or the sound of her walking down the hall. He doesn’t hear anything at all, except those four words, there were no survivors.
Michael blinks.
The way she said that-it sounds like Billy’s dead, but Billy can’t be dead. Death is one of those things that Michael accepted a long time ago. It’s part of his job description, like postal workers expect to walk on the job, CIA operatives expect to die on the job.
The problem is, Billy wasn’t on the job, so how can he be dead? CIA operatives don’t die in car crashes on I-95 on the way home from a date or work. That isn’t how this job works.
Postal workers walk even when they’re home, Michael remembers.
“Sorry I’m late,” Martinez says as he bursts through the door. “I forgot to set my alarm, Adele usually sets hers and-Michael? Are you ok?”
Michael lifts his head up and lets out a slow breath as he looks, just looks, at Martinez. He nods his head. “I’m fine,” he says, and wonders if he could get away with just not saying anything else. Michael has never been one to pussyfoot around bad news, however, and instead, he finds himself talking. “Martinez, take a seat.”
“Am I fired?” Martinez asks, obviously nervous, as he drops down into his chair. He’s looking at Michael earnestly.
Michael sighs. “No,” he says shortly. “I need you to come to Billy’s hotel room with me,” he says finally.
“Why?”
“I’d like to lead an investigation into-” here, Michael really hesitates, this isn’t how he wants Martinez to find out, but its too late now, he’s already started to tell him this way. “I want to lead an investigation into-Martinez, I’m sorry. Billy was in a car accident last night. He-he didn’t make it. I’d like to investigate the circumstances of his death.”
Martinez chokes on nothing, and Michael stares at his computer screen and waits for his teammate to get himself together. Several tense moments pass, with Martinez making sounds that are suspiciously like crying, and Michael trying not to intrude on whatever space Martinez might need right now.
Michael needs to give Martinez that space because if he gets too close to anyone right now, Michael is going to lose it. That’s not a risk he can afford to take. “Martinez,” he says, his voice firm. “I need you to pull yourself together. We owe it to our teammate to make sure the way he died was as kosher as a car crash can be. Are you going to be able to handle this or do I need to find someone else?” it’s harsh, but life is harsh, and Michael doesn’t have time for this.
Martinez just grunts at him and stands up, grabbing the car keys. He brushes past Michael and out the door, down the hall, down the stairs, to the parking garage. He doesn’t say a single word to Michael the whole way there, which Michael supposes he deserves.
When they get to the hotel, the first thing Michael thinks is that he hasn’t visited here nearly enough. It’s a weird thought to have, because Michael has always been adamant that their personal lives stay personal (this doesn’t apply to breaking into Martinez’s apartment, however). Yet as he stands in the doorway, staring at Rick’s back and Billy’s things, all he can think is that he doesn’t even know what he’s looking for.
Some team leader he is. He doesn’t even know if Billy separates his whites from his darks.
Michael looks slowly around the room and presses his hand to the doorframe to steady himself. This is a mission, like any other mission, and he’s going to treat it as such. Minutes pass, though, before he steps through the threshold and onto the carpeted interior.
There are books everywhere, something that makes a lot of sense, given Billy’s tendancy to throw around random literary allusions like he’s getting sponsored by them. He spies a few titles he recognizes, a few more obscure ones whose authors he’s at least heard of, and several that a Pre-Med major had no reason to know anything about, and so they remain mysteries to Michael.
On the coffee table, there’s one propped open, a half full mug of coffee keeping the pages spread. Michael reaches out and brushes the coffee cup off, picking up the book instead. It’s obviously well loved and well read, he can see old thumbprints and a marked spine. It doesn’t surprise him that Billy abuses the books he loves-and this one looks like its been dropped in the bath more than once.
The title, written in green font above an unassuming cover image, says If on a Winter’s Night, a Traveler… and Michael pauses to consider the fact that that is one of the stupidest titles he’s ever heard of-and he’s read Bleak House. Billy probably wouldn’t appreciate Michael’s inner diatribe against great literary minds, but Billy (and his mind reading abilities) aren’t here to scold him.
Billy isn’t here.
Michael sobers up and looks to the page, reading slowly. He wonders if Billy had read these words last night before he’d left. Before he’d died.
"Once the process of falsification is set in motion, it won't stop. We're in a country where everything that can be falsified has been falsified: paintings in museums, gold ingots, bus tickets. The counterrevolution and the revolution fight with salvos of falsification: the result is that nobody can be sure what is true and what is false…
Michael sets the book down, because that is altogether distressing and something he realized a long time ago. He closes his eyes for a second and just takes in the sounds of the hotel. The thrum of an air conditioning unit, blasting away despite the early autumn chill clinging to the air, the bangtapbang of a faulty pipe-perhaps someone in another room is taking a shower, the creaking of footsteps above. There is so much life around this place, but inside this hotel room everything feels like death.
Suitably morbid, now, Michael opens his eyes to look at Martinez. He doesn’t know why, but he’d been expecting the young agent to be looking at him.
Instead, Martinez is spinning in a slow circle, looking delighted and traumatized all at once.
“I didn’t know him at all,” Martinez says finally. “I knew he liked to read, but look at this, all these books…in a hotel room? That’s pretty serious dedication. The TV is practically unused, but look, he liked his stereo. See where the buttons worn away from where he kept pressing them?”
Michael is a highly trained CIA operative, and he noticed none of these things-at least, not in the way Martinez noticed them.
The younger agent goes on, pointing out Billy’s piles of clothing (one clean, presumably the other dirty) and the notebook hanging half out under the pillow. Neither of them read it, out of respect for Billy’s privacy, but Martinez describes the way Billy’s penmanship is “obviously British.”
Trying to play along, Michael notes that Billy used black ink. Martinez shakes his head, “no,” he says, “it’s dark green.” Which, Martinez concludes, is strange, because at work Billy’s always been a blue pen kind of guy.
The fact is, where Michael has been trained to notice discrepancies (“look at this crack in the glass. Someone trying to break in?”) Martinez notices a personality (“no, there’s a tennis ball here. I bet he was chucking it at the window”). As they walk around the hotel room Billy had called home, Michael builds a case. Martinez builds a person.
In a way, Michael is jealous of that youthful naivety. He wishes he could still look at a place like this and think of it as somebody’s home rather than somebody’s file, but even though he can tell it’s Billy’s the connection doesn’t click for him like it does for Martinez. Michael, whether he’s entirely conscious of it or not, won’t let it.
Connecting those particular dots means that he has to start grieving for a lost friend, and he’s not sure he could handle that and still operate on the level he needs to. This is a murder investigation, after all. Authorized or not, Michael can’t believe-won’t believe-that his agent, teammate, and damn good friend died in a car crash on I-95. The CIA may not be the place for heroism, but a death that mundane is just insulting when someone had done and seen as much as Billy had.
“Hollllly moley,” Martinez says in that irritating (but disarming and how could it be annoying?) way he does. Michael walks down the short hallway, his eyes landing on the wall opposite him. Stacked on little stands are several swords and knives.
Michael knows Billy has a thing for knives, he’s seen the agent with them enough. There’s one that he takes with him everywhere, small enough to fit in the flat of his palm, Billy has always said its for emergencies-he takes it wherever there’s danger. Michael knows the knife well, and so it’s easy to spot it at home in its little nook on the wall. The blade is flat and silver, polished and obviously cared for despite the nicks in it. The handle is round and decorated with what Michael has always guessed is green marble. It’s decorative, maybe a little flimsy for CIA work, but Billy says it reminds him of home.
Michael takes the knife down and slips it into his pocket. He can’t bare to leave it there on the wall, waiting for Billy to come back.
That’s the problem, he realizes as he looks around him, the whole place looks like someone planned on coming back to it. There isn’t anything out of place, no signs of foul play. There’s certainly nothing to stage a murder investigation on.
“It’s time to go,” he says, and turns away from the wall.
He grabs the book on his way out.
~ ~ ~
“These are the files for potential new members of your team,” Higgins says from behind his desk. Michael takes them automatically. “We can’t have the ODS compromised, I’m sure you understand. Traditionally, I’d assign someone to your team, but…given the circumstances, I think it best you choose.”
Michael doesn’t say anything, but he does take the files with him when he leaves. He puts on his reading glasses and sits at his desk, staring at them. The line of manilla envelopes makes his stomach hurt, so instead he stares at the ceiling. All he sees there are the holes Billy and Casey made when they had a competition to see who could lodge the most pencils in the plaster. Michael pulls off his reading glasses and drops them on the desk, pressing his face into his hands, and scrubbing, like that will make anything go away.
“Michael.”
He looks up and sees Casey standing in the doorway. “Where the hell have you been?” Michael says, standing up.
“I know about Billy,” Casey says instead.
“So you just decided not to show up for work?”
“I was at the hospital.”
Michael stops short, “Are you all right?”
“I’m functioning below one hundred percent,” Casey admits, and he looks tired. “I was apparently listed as Billy’s next of kin. I believe that’s illegal, but I got the phone call.”
“Why didn’t you call?” Michael asks, sinking back down into his chair.
“A CIA operative dies alone in his car on a busy highway and lists his teammate as next-of-kin, believe me, they weren’t too keen on letting me go to the bathroom, let alone try to contact anyone. You would be amazed at how much red tape there is behind indentifying someone by their dental records.”
The words are spoken in Casey’s traditional deadpan, but they still feel like a kick in the face. It’s a neat way to relay the horrible truth-there wasn’t much of Billy left. Michael scrubs his face again. “Higgins has been kind enough to bestow upon us the task of replacing Billy. He’s left a number of potential applicant files with me.”
Casey’s eyes move down to the files on Michael’s desk, then back up to meet Michael’s gaze, but his head and body don’t so much as twitch. “So?”
Michael shrugs and knocks all six files into the trash can. He digs around in his desk for a matchbook and sets the whole pack on fire. Then, he drops the burning matches and book into the trash on top of the envelopes. He watches the manila edges curl in, silent.
Casey nods once and moves to sit at his desk. Martinez comes back in and out, in and out, before he finally settles down. All three of them watch the smoke curl up and up toward the ceiling.
“He’s been dead for less than twenty four hours,” Martinez says finally, disbelieving. “And they already have people lined up for his job.”
“All six applicants have been reviewed and denied,” Michael says, “The files have been destroyed to maintain the secrecy of the ODS. If anyone has a problem with that, you can send them my way.”
He stands up. “I have to go speak with my wi-” he stops short. He can imagine Billy there, rolling his eyes and clapping him on the shoulder, ‘You git,’ he’d say, ‘I thought we agreed to let your past with Faye go.’ “I have to go,” Michael says instead, heading for the door.
An alarm wails.
“Is that the fire alarm?” Martinez asks, casting a glance at the smoldering remains in the garbage can.
“No,” Michael says, “that is much, much worse.”
He and Casey grab Martinez, moving quickly down the hall, toward the staircase. “That is an alarm to indicate a security breach-a bad one,” Casey explains as they hurry along. “It only sounds in offices with high clearance-so just a few people know now. If we can get out before the whole building knows, we might not be stuck here for the next mo-” an armed guard steps out of the stairwell, and the three agents slow to a stop.
“Today cannot get any worse,” Michael says tiredly, turning back to the office. “Casey, do we still have the sleeping bags and camping equipment?”
“No,” Casey says, “Billy usually brings them.”
Michael swears and kicks a trashcan at the wall. The sound it makes is satisfyingly loud and chaotic, but it doesn’t really make him feel better.
~ ~ ~
It turns out that several top secret files involving some genetic warfare developments have gone missing. No one says anything to them, but Michael is pretty sure people who don’t know the ODS are blaming the dead agent. He can’t blame them. If he didn’t know Billy, he’d probably blame the Brit too. It makes sense, after all. The agent dies under mysteriously unremarkable circumstances and top level files go MIA?
Except Michael knows without a doubt that Billy would never, could never, and never did do anything of the sort. He remembers telling Martinez “Good men can be bought just as easily as bad men,” and wishes he’d added, “unless they’re on my team.”
Its been hours and the sun has long since set (or he assumes it has, they don’t have a window), and the three of them are trying to get comfortable, maybe sleep a little, in their bullpen. There are worse things than being locked up in the CIA headquarters, but today’s been the worst day Michael can remember in a long time, and he really just wants to go home and sleep.
“Is that a phone?” Martinez says, sitting up. “How is there a phone ringing? We’re in lock down.”
“I don’t know,” Michael admits, reaching out and grabbing the phone. “Dorset,” he says cautiously.
“Oh you Americans always do sound so sexy on the phone,” is the first thing he hears. Whoever it is, she’s female, and clearly from the UK. He tries not to hang up. “Listen, I can’t chat for long. Bit busy, but I’d love to meet in person. How does 11:30 tonight sound? On the steps of that beautiful Lincoln Memorial. Poetic, innit? Seeing as I’m in America.”
“I don’t meet with strangers,” he says pointedly.
“You’ll meet with this one, love,” she says.
“And why would I do that?”
“Because I know how Billy Collins died,” she says lowly. “And you want to know too.” There’s a long pause, “Excellent! I’ll see you this evening then. Cheerio!”
Michael holds the phone to his ear long after a dial tone has sounded.
“What?” Casey says.
“We’re going to have to sneak out of a CIA top security breach lock down,” Michael announces.
Casey smiles.
~ ~ ~
Michael lets Casey plan it out, because this is his thing. He doesn’t worry about the fact that the other operative isn’t operating at one hundred percent. Casey will do anything for his teammates, and Michael doesn’t have to be concerned that he’ll mess it up.
It’s similar to their last plan, but in a different way. Instead of assaulting someone for their key card to get in to a room, they’ll be assaulting someone for a key card that gets them out.
“The way a lock down works is that guards are stationed at all exits and entrances, phone lines are cut out, and we are glued to our floor,” Casey explains as they crowd around his desk. “The elevators go into lockdown as well, as do the staircases. The stairs are more obvious for an escape, so we’ll be taking the elevator.”
Ten minutes later, Michael, Casey, and Martinez are moving slowly down the CIA hallway, trying to look as unobtrusive as possible. It isn’t as hard as one would think. Despite the missing files, everyone is more grumpy they’re stuck than worried about genetic warfare. Michael imagines that this is what a fire drill is like in a normal office-you’re supposed to be panicking, but it’s just getting in your way.
Their first stop is Higgins office. As expected, the director has his door locked and his blinds drawn, obviously having a meeting about something important. That doesn’t matter. They’re actually here for his aide.
“Hello,” Casey says, and he smiles.
Casey has never smiled at Higgins’s uptight aide in his entire life, which should have made the kid nervous. It doesn’t. He’s still rude and obnoxious and clearly can’t stand the members of the ODS. It’s thinly veiled comment about how “stupidity can get people killed, don’t they know that now?” That gives Casey the excuse he needs.
A well placed tap on a pressure point sends Higgins’s aide sprawling across his desk, and they rearrange him to look like he fell asleep like that. With his magic key card in hand (Casey says that he probably has it so that Higgins doesn’t have to touch door handles) they head for the elevator. The doors open without question, but it gets trickier two floors down.
The elevator stops and the doors open, and the ODS meets a pair of unfriendly looking guns.
“State your purpose,” someone barks.
“Director Higgins has ordered my team and me to leave in order to investigate the missing genetic files. We have a lead, but that information can’t be shared, there’s too much risk of another leak springing and the trail going cold.”
“Yeah. Right. Do you have any proof?”
Michael wonders why security guards can’t be more pleasant. It’s Martinez who steps forward, holding the Higgins card in his hand and smiling that ‘I’m not a spy I’m just a poor kid’ smile he occasionally whips out. Michael reminds himself to learn how to do that. “Why else would we have this?” Martinez says. “Look, we all want to go home just as much as I’m sure you do. Don’t you have stuff you’d rather be doing right now?”
“It’s my anniversary,” the guard mumbles. “Ten years.”
“The faster we get this sorted out, the faster you can get home to your wife. Let us finish our mission.”
He’s no Billy, but Michael wonders if outright empathy really can work better than charm in a lot of situations. This could be useful, he realizes, now that they’d lost the charming part of their team. He derails that thought quickly, focusing more on the mission as they step out of the elevator and head to the doors out into the parking garage. With some special code word the guard shared with them, it should run smoothly from here.
“Should I-” Casey starts.
“No,” Martinez says before Michael can, “He helped us out.”
So they pile into Michael’s BMW (“I thought you owned a ten year old Taurus?” Martinez accuses.
“I’m a spy,” Michael answers. “I lie”) and drive out of the parking garage. They just have to get to the memorial before the 11:30 meeting time, and everything should work out.
Should work out being the key phrasing, because in Michael’s experience, just because things should happen to or for the ODS, it doesn’t mean they will.
~ ~ ~
“Its beautiful,” Martinez says as he stands on the steps of the memorial and looks out across the mall. Michael follows Martinez’s gaze, down the steps, over the still and silent water, out to where the city stretches beyond. “The Washington Monument,” Martinez says, “Has fascinated me for years. I love how you can always find it when you’re in the city. You can almost always see it.”
Michael nods his head and sits down on the steps. “We’re going to be blamed for those files,” he says soberly, “When they realize we’re gone. They already suspected Billy, we’re next.”
Even Martinez sobers up at that, looking down and away. Finally, he shrugs. “I know Billy didn’t do it,” he says, “I know you guys didn’t. I didn’t. Maybe that’s enough.”
“They could throw you in prison for the rest of your life,” Casey reminds him.
Martinez just shrugs again, “I’ll always know they were wrong.”
That optimism and trust is one of the things Michael admires about Martinez. Other agents could (and do) call him the green kid, they mock him for being wet-behind-the-ears, but Michael knows its not a flaw. Like Billy’s charm, Casey’s fighting, and his unique brand of paranoid planning, Martinez’s innocence is an asset to the team. No matter how many times they’ve thrown him into shitty situations, he comes out of every one believing that it was ok-because it was done for the right reasons.
Michael knows it’s not the most self preserving attitude, but that’s why Martinez has him-protection. If he does nothing else for the rest of his life, Michael knows he’ll keep his team alive and safe.
“Oh I feel awful for interrupting such a touching moment,” a woman’s voice calls from somewhere behind the monument. “I quite like the way you boys are bonding. I can practically see the wheels spinning in all your pretty little heads.”
Michael turns and pulls out his gun, pointing it at her.
She sighs. “How very dull.”
“Who are you? Why did you call us here?”
“I’m Amelia Pond!” she exclaims. None of them say anything. “I did tell him you wouldn’t understand the humor, with me being a red head and Scottish, but Billy said even you lot would appreciate and understand Doctor Who. Anyway, my name really is Amelia, but please call me Amy. My surname isn’t Pond, but I’m not one to share that information on the first date.”
“You knew Billy?” Martinez says, and Michael notices him lowering his gun. He makes a mental note to remind Martinez to be less trusting in the future.
“Knew Billy?” the woman-Amy-says, laughing again. “I know him. Silly bugger is alive and well.”
Nobody moves. Nobody even breathes.
She looks down at her watch. “Ah good, the clock has struck midnight. Time for us to go, then.”
Michael wants to ask her where exactly she thinks they’ll be going, he wants to ask her what she’s talking about, he wants to ask her what sick game it is that she’s playing. He can’t even open his mouth before Martinez is following her down the steps. Michael glances at Casey, who then turns and follows. ‘What?’ his eyes seem to say as he stares Michael down, ‘Someone has to make sure he doesn’t get killed.’
As his teammates follow a mysterious Scottish woman with bright red hair down the steps of the memorial toward the mall, Michael realizes that what he really wants to do is follow her, because all day he has been coming to terms with Billy’s death, and now this woman is telling him that Billy’s alive. “Oh God,” he says quietly to himself, staring hard at her back, because he’s realized (much to his dismay) that what he’s feeling right now is hope; hope that Billy is alive. Hope that there is another day for the ODS.
The three (four? five?) of them are about to become the CIA’s most wanted agents. He might as well take the risk of trusting this stranger.
“Aren’t you coming?” Amy asks, now halfway down the steps.
“What the hell,” Michael shrugs, “This day can’t possibly get any worse.”
“Don’t speak too soon love,” Amy calls back, “It’s only 12:01 AM.”