Burn Notice fic: slow boat to cuba
Title: slow boat to cuba
Fandom: Burn Notice
Pairing: Michael/Victor
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 5,866 words
Beta: Huge thanks to scribblinlenore.
Notes: A coda to 2.16 Lesser Evil, that goes AU roughly five minutes from the end of the episode. Additional notes at the end.
One of the things about being a spy that your bosses don't tell you, not even in the unofficial "welcome to spy school" speech everyone gets at some stage, is that it messes you up. And if you've been burned, chances are, you'll be messed up even more. It doesn't matter how strong you are or how sane you are to begin with; if you lose everything and everyone you care about, sooner or later your mind will follow.
So Michael's not going to judge Victor. Sure, he's probably a psychopath and yes, Victor has tried to kill him. Four times if you go by Michael's count, three if you count it Victor's way, but by either count it's multiple times. And maybe that leaves the balance uneven - Michael might have tasered Victor, and tied him up, but he's never actively tried to kill him. But Michael has skirted the edge himself, had some dark times even before he was burned. And he knows all too well how easy it is to be consumed, whether by a need for revenge or answers. He understands. Five years of working for Carla would do that to the nicest guy, and spies are never the nicest guys. So he's willing to put the past behind them.
Nonetheless, when you add in the undisputable fact that if he kills Victor, he comes out smelling like roses (or close enough), he has three good reasons to put Victor away for good. He'd be ridding the world of a killer, it's only fair that he gets his turn, and, most importantly, his family will be safe, at least for a while.
Three excellent reasons, and sitting light and lonely on the other side of the balance he has just one point. His pride.
Victor is a client. Michael has never lost a client, let alone killed one himself. He doesn't intend to break that record now.
And maybe there's a second reason. Fi would never forgive him, not since she's taken Victor's side in the fight against Carla. And a third - he doesn't think he could forgive himself.
The balance tilts.
So he lets his gun slip to the floor, and he presses his hand tighter against Victor's side, and he shakes his head.
"I'm gonna get us out of here," he says, and blinks back any emotion that might have been foolish enough to surface while he was weighing Victor's fate in the balance.
Victor looks at him like he's a particularly stubborn idiot. It's a look Michael's not unfamiliar with, though it has subtle variations depending on whether it's on his mother's or Fi's face. "What's this?" Victor asks. "The patented Michael Weston service? Willing to die for a client. Don't you think that's a bit extreme?" Victor starts to cough, but there's no blood, so Michael considers that a good sign.
"I'm just good at what I do," Michael says, because there's no place for false modesty in a spy's mind. "And that's more than simply killing people. Keeping them alive is-well, just more of a challenge sometimes."
"And you like a challenge," Victor says knowingly. "Well, you've got yourself a good one now."
"I'm more than up to it," Michael says. After all, Victor may be an ex-spy, but right now he's the client and he's wounded. He doesn't need to hear Michael say he doesn't have a clue how they're going to get out of this alive.
"They won't forgive you. You run now, with me, and they'll never leave you alone. You know that, right?" Victor says, and Michael has to look away because there are what look suspiciously like tears in Victor's eyes.
One of the things about dying, or thinking you're dying, is that people discover newfound honesty. They say things they wouldn't say if they didn't think they were dying. It's a tool every spy uses at some stage - make a person think they're about to die, and they'll talk.
Michael doesn't want Victor to talk. He doesn't want to listen to Victor try to change his mind.
"They'll never leave me alone anyway," he points out, close enough to the truth to make it a convincing lie. "Can you walk?"
"I doubt it."
"That's okay. We're going to swim."
Victor laughs, hand held to his side and a grimace under the laugh. "I only wish I thought you were joking."
*
They hear the helicopter land while they're still on Victor's boat.
"Management's here," Victor grunts. "Still time to change your mind, do the sensible thing. You know what they'll do to both of us if they catch us." He's in obvious pain, but he's not getting any weaker, and that's enough to reassure Michael that the shot he's taken isn't a fatal one. Which means it's worth running.
"Then we'll just have to make sure they don't catch us." Which requires two things: a distraction, which Fi and Sam have already taken care of, and something to make management believe they're still on the boat and blow it up, which Michael is about to take care of. "Where's your weapon's cache?"
"Under the seat, there." Victor lifts the hand not clasped to his bullet wound and points. "Under the ropes."
Michael whistles when he sees the size and variety of the stash. It's a shame to leave it all behind - "Is that a Seecamp LWS .32?" "Yes," Victor sighs. "A deadly little beauty, isn't she?" "A trifle girly." "You wouldn't say that if you were on the receiving end." - but right now he needs to concentrate on what he can use. He tucks some ammo in his back pocket and pulls out a couple of shotguns.
Most people nowadays, when they want a timer, think digital. But a funnel full of detergent slowly dripping into a container is just as effective, and much easier to come by, especially when you're very limited on time and resources.
It only takes him a couple of minutes to rig up the shotguns, some string, a funnel of detergent and a jug balancing on the edge of the table.
With any luck, Michael and Victor will be long gone before the management discover there aren't any bodies in the wreckage. With a little more luck, the explosion will be large enough that they'll never find out conclusively. Michael and Victor will, effectively, be dead.
"That'll give us just over a minute to get clear." Michael takes a look out the window facing towards the water - they should be able to get out that way, unseen. He pries it open, helps Victor to the window, and pours the detergent.
"Ready?" Michael asks. Not that no is an option any more.
"Good to go, sport," Victor says, giving a shaky thumbs up with a blood-covered hand.
*
It's nearly fifty yards underwater to the nearest boat, and the shockwaves reach them just as they're coming up for air. Michael's got Victor in one arm, swimming with the other, and it's one of the hardest swims he's ever made.
They take advantage of the attention caused by the explosion to climb on board, Victor almost a dead weight now. There's a red slick on the side of the boat where Michael pulls him up.
"Well, wasn't that fun," Victor says as Michael dumps him on the floor of the cabin, and promptly passes out.
*
Michael's used up the entire contents of the first aid kit on their stolen boat. The average first aid kit is geared towards a cut finger, a small burn or a grazed knee, the sort of minor injuries people expect to get, not the kind of wounds spies are liable to suffer on all too regular a basis. But the kitchen's well stocked, and Michael's found enough to make up the shortfall.
"Sea water, the best thing for wounds," Michael says as he pulls the bandages tight around Victor's waist.
"Fuck, to think people call me insane," Victor bites out. The bleeding's stopped, and the bullet's a through and through. It'll hurt like hell, and keeping it clean isn't going to be easy, but he's alive, for now.
There's nothing more to do. Victor's as well as can be expected, drowsy on painkillers and expensive beer.
Of course, at some stage, Michael needs to tell Victor that Carla's dead. Which isn't necessarily going to be the celebratory moment it might appear.
It could go one of two ways: relief or giving up. That's the thing about fighting a battle, especially a long, lone personal one. Give it long enough, and if you take the fight away, there's nothing left to live for.
Michael's not sure if Victor's reached that point or not, but now's probably not the best time to find out.
He hands him another beer, and goes up to check on their course.
*
Victor's not a good patient. Not that Michael would have expected it. Spies don't like being inactive, and they like being reliant on others even less. He sleeps a lot, though, mostly thanks to the pills Michael keeps slipping him. He's oddly trusting, at the moment at least. Michael's not sure he'd sleep as well if the tables were turned.
Michael sleeps when he can. Which isn't enough, but he's used to running on too little sleep. It doesn't mean he's not irritated when he's woken up by a book landing on his chest, followed rapidly by a second.
"Great choice, smart guy," Victor says. "Of all the boats in the marina, you picked the one with two Bibles and no porn."
Michael picks up the books and dumps them on the floor. "If you hadn't set yourself up for target practice, we'd have had a few more escape options," he points out, without malice.
"True." Victor shrugs. "Guess we'll just have to find our own entertainment." He grins, joker-wide and white in the dim cabin. Even without the added glint in his eye, Michael would have found that prospect perturbing.
"Go back to bed," he says, and gives a fake yawn as a hint. It turns into a real yawn, and Michael finds himself closing his eyes and falling asleep even with a wide-awake psychopath right next to him.
*
"I sometimes see kids, little boys, the age my son would be now. See them enjoying themselves, walking their dogs and riding their bikes, hanging out with friends, all the stuff he should have had." Victor's tone is bland, and he's staring at the sky, not looking at Michael once.
It's quiet, not much to do. Michael's steering, Victor's up now, dressed in ill-fitting clothes they found in the cabin. The shirt looks very muted on him, not his normal, gaudy style at all. It should be an improvement. It isn't.
"What was his name?" Michael asks, after they've passed a few more minutes in silence.
"Reuben," Victor says softly, as though he hasn't said the name in a long time. "After my wife's father."
Michael looks up at the cloudless sky. Nothing but blue. Perfect weather.
"Carla's dead," he says.
Victor nods slowly, as though he's processing the idea. "Good," is all he says. Then closes his eyes and leans back in the sun.
*
Michael's a light sleeper. All spies are - you don't last long if you don't wake up naturally at the faintest hint of anything unusual in your vicinity. You also need to be able to wake up instantly, asleep to alert in the least time possible.
So when Michael wakes up, the cabin still the heavy dark of night at sea, and hears a faint slapping sound, he doesn't waste any time wondering what's happening. Victor is lying in the other bunk, less than five feet away, beating off.
"I'll take this as a sign that you're feeling better," Michael says.
Victor doesn't pause. He would have been fully aware the moment Michael woke up, Michael has no doubt of that.
"I've always healed fast," Victor says in a chatty manner. "That's why I went into the spy business. That, and my never-failing sense of curiosity."
"I just wanted to travel the world," Michael says, and it's oddly almost the truth. Wanting to get away from home isn't that far from wanting to travel, after all.
"Hah, curiosity again. You and me, we're not so different underneath." He lets out a small moan. "Ah, this feels good," he says, and Michael can hear him shifting on the bunk.
"Two peas in a pod," Michael says, though he doesn't manage to sound as sarcastic as he'd like.
"You could give me a hand here," Victor says, sounding hopeful. "I'll return the favor. It'd do you good, get rid of some of that frustration."
"I'll pass, thanks."
"Up to you, sport." Victor makes a few more pleasurable sounds before coming loudly.
For once, Michael isn't sure exactly what is happening. Whether this is Victor the spy talking, or Victor the man. All he's certain of is that he's hard and aching, and he's not going to do anything about it.
*
They hug the coastline as far as Lake Largo, where Michael risks a brief trip to shore to contact Fi.
Most of their conversation consists of her shouting at him for random sins (some of them years old), saying she's proud of him for helping Victor, then telling him what an idiot he is. He doesn't disagree about being an idiot, just asks how his mother is when Fi pauses for breath.
"As stubborn as you," she tells him. "But fine. There's no need to worry about her."
He hadn't. Not really, not with Sam and Fi both looking out for her. He's more worried for Sam's lungs than anything else.
Fi phones him back the next day on his newly purchased disposable cell. "Everything's arranged," she tells him sharply. "I got a boat from Virgil - he says you can owe him one. And I don't want to see you again, not for a long time, after a stunt like that."
"I understand," he says. "Take care," he finishes, but he's not sure if she cut him off before or after he said that.
Their new boat (hired under the name of Davis Cullen) is waiting at the north end of the marina, as promised. It's fully stocked: more than enough fuel to reach Cuba, antibiotics, bandages and wound dressings, a SIG Sauer P228 for him and a collection of others guns, knives and miscellaneous weapons, maps, fake passports, clothes, beer, whisky and food. Opening one kitchen cupboard reveals tins of spam and half a dozen packets of Cap'n Crunch - Fi obviously doesn't want them to enjoy their trip to Cuba too much. On the other hand, there's a shelf in the mini fridge packed full of blueberry yogurt, and there's a brand new pack of cards on the table in the main cabin.
Fi might hate him right now, but she still does impeccable work.
*
Michael doesn't get drunk. Ever. Not really drunk; not falling down and saying foolish things drunk. He's a trained operative, and being drunk is far too dangerous. And stupid. Getting drunk is stupid.
So he's not drunk now. He can't be, because he doesn't get drunk.
The argument works for him, but it doesn't explain why the cabin is swinging one way and his head the other.
No matter. He takes another long pull of Johnnie Walker Blue and kicks his feet out in front of him. He kicks Victor by accident, but it doesn't seem to trouble Victor - he just rubs a bare foot up the side of Michael's ankle. Michael would move, but it's too much effort.
Victor's talking. It's possible he's been talking for a while, but Michael's been tuning him out. He's had a lot of practice at that over the years. Particularly during dinners with his mother.
But Victor isn't his mother, and he occasionally has good ideas - like going to Cuba - so Michael decides to start listening.
"The way I see it," Victor is saying, "we could ignore the elephant in the room, or we could do something about it."
Ah. Ignoring it's been going very well for Michael. Apart from waking up each morning with a hard on and having to jump into the ocean to cool off. Yeah, apart from that, ignoring it works well.
Denying it would work too. "Or we could accept that there's no elephant in the room," he suggests.
"Just because the cabin's small, doesn't mean there's no elephant. It's just a small, discreet elephant." Victor grins. His grin doesn't seem as crazy as it used to. Or maybe Michael's just catching up with him on the crazy front.
Michael almost laughs. He wants to laugh, and what it says about him that a ridiculous conversation with a drunken ex-spy about the sexual tension between them makes him want to laugh, he has no idea. Unless it's that he's drunk too.
Possibly that.
If he actually sees the elephant, he'll be sure.
*
He doesn't see the elephant, but the next morning it feels like one has stomped all over him.
Victor looks worse, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. When he stumbles out of his bunk for the head, his shirt is soaked.
It's not that warm in the cabin.
"Bit of a fever," Victor says casually when he gets back from taking a piss.
Michael raises an eyebrow. "Take your shirt off," he says.
"Aha, now you're talking. Though your timing could be better," he says, and Michael can see his fingers are fumbling with his shirt buttons. He's probably not focusing properly. Though it isn't stopping him from talking. "Not feeling up to that much right now. Not even sure I'll be able to get it up, and there's a sorry admission for you."
"Bandages make extremely good gags," Michael says pointedly as he fetches the first aid kit. A proper one this time, stocked by Fi, with, importantly, more than the basic range of antibiotics.
"Kinky. Not my scene exactly, but to each his own. I'll be happy to play it your way.
"Just lie back-"
"And think of England?" Victor interrupts. "How terribly old-fashioned."
He lies down on his bunk all the same, and Michael can see the sheets are soaked too. He's had the fever most of the night. He curses himself for drinking so much and not taking notice.
"Don't blame yourself," Victor says.
"I'm not."
Victor winces just a fraction as Michael peels the dressing off. The wound's inflamed, as he expected, but it doesn't look too serious. Some IV antibiotics, and he'll be fine. And luckily, he has just the thing.
"What do you weigh?" he asks.
"Getting a bit personal, now, aren't we?"
"I need to administer the gentamicin by body weight. Unless you're willing for me to guess and risk kidney damage, because you're too proud to admit you've put on a few pounds." Michael smiles pleasantly.
"A hundred eighty pounds, give or take. And you need to work on your bedside manner."
"I'll bear that in mind."
*
Michael doesn't risk leaving Victor in his bunk. There's too much chance he'll thrash around or fall out if the fever gets worse. The only alternative is the fold down bed in the main cabin - by day it's a table and benches, but for now it makes a serviceable and roomy bed that's blocked in on three sides.
"There's room for two," Victor offers, patting the bed beside him, then promptly falls asleep.
He sleeps most of the next two days, just waking for treatment, water, or to take a piss.
It ought to be peaceful, without Victor's constant barrage of innuendo, but Michael feels oddly bored. It's a relief when Victor's well enough to sit up and demand a game of poker.
"Strip poker, if you like," he suggests.
"I've already seen pretty much everything you've got," Michael points out.
"But strip poker makes it all so much sexier."
Michael raises an eyebrow.
"Okay, boy scout, we'll play snap if you prefer."
They play poker. Michael wins every hand, but then Victor's not on top of his game. Michael's not sure if he's glad he vetoed the strip poker or not.
He doesn't like being confused, and yet he finds himself liking Victor more and more.
*
In the end, it doesn't take getting drunk, or strip poker, or any other games to get them both naked. They've pulled in close to a cay to the north of Corralillo. Tomorrow they need to decide on a plan of action, beyond lounging on a Cuban beach until the heat's off them.
But for now it's a warm evening, and Victor's well enough to join Michael when he goes for a swim.
They don't talk. Just swim wide circles around the boat, alternating strokes on each pass for the best work out. Even if they're going to be laying low for a while, Michael still needs to keep fit, and Victor needs to get his strength back.
Victor gives up first, his breath coming in painful pants as he pulls himself back on board. Michael makes himself do two more circuits of backstroke, two of crawl, and two breaststroke. Not the best workout ever, but there are limited options on a boat, and this will have to do.
Victor's naked and spread out on a towel on deck when Michael climbs back on the boat. The sun's low enough to be soft, and the new scar doesn't look as angry as it does in brighter light. Victor's eyes are closed, his breathing back to normal, and Michael watches him a moment.
"Like what you see?" Victor asks, not moving or opening his eyes. It's barely a come on - it lacks Victor's usual teasing tones. It sounds more like a serious question.
Michael does, is the weird thing. He doesn't see Victor as the enemy or the crazy guy any more. He sees a friend, someone he thinks he might be able to trust, eventually. And someone, who, gazed at like this, is unexpectedly beautiful. A genuine smile that sits well on his face; a natural tan, fading to white at his groin; muscular thighs, lightly dusted with blondish hair; his cock, pale and flaccid in the vee of his thighs.
So he replies in the same tone the question was asked, with an honesty that seems fitting. "Yes," he says. "Oddly enough, I do."
He picks up a towel and drops his own shorts, spreads the towel next to Victor's and lies down next to him. He lets the sun dry him off. It's warm and comfortable, and he's more relaxed than he should be.
Not so relaxed that he doesn't notice when Victor shifts and sits up, but slow enough that it takes him a little by surprise when he feels the brush of Victor's hand on his flank. He opens his eyes to find Victor leaning in, waiting.
Michael smiles, the answer to the question in Victor's look, and Victor kisses him.
It's slow and easy at first. Surprisingly easy, when nothing between them yet has happened without a fight. Victor rests his weight against Michael's side, warm from the setting sun but skin still damp, and kisses him softly, like he's remembering how to do this. He pauses a moment, and there's a look in his eyes that Michael doesn't want to see, a distant look like he's remembering too much, and so Michael cups his hand around Victor's head and brings him back in. Opens up and lets him in, and Victor groans against him.
"Been a while," he admits, but Michael doesn't want to talk, wants to do this, just this.
"They say it's like riding a bike," he says, and shifts them carefully so Victor's on his back, Michael leaning over him.
Maybe too careful, because Victor's raising an eyebrow. "I'm not going to break, you know," he says, but Michael's had wounds like this, knows how long they keep aching even after the skin's scarred over.
"What do you want?" he asks, which is far too open a question, but he can feel the hot curve of Victor's erection against his thigh, the way his heart rate is speeding up. The question's a safe one for now.
Victor lets out a deep breath. "Frankly, I'll take anything," he says.
The trust is like a punch to Michael's gut. A sign of how far they've come, and it's a revelation how much it matters, how good it feels.
He nods agreement, and thinks about what he wants. Imagines the heft of Victor's cock on his tongue, and yes, that's what he wants. He wants to taste him, wants to listen to him lose it, wants him incoherent.
He doesn't signal his plan. Victor can work it out for himself.
He moves his mouth to one pale nipple and flicks his tongue over it. There's no response from Victor so Michael nips, a hint of a bite at first, then harder, enough to make the skin darken as the blood pools underneath. The nipple peaks and hardens, a little nub under Michael's tongue. He moves over to the other nipple and treats it the same.
He keeps his hand against Victor's chest, splayed out flat, rising and falling with his breath. It feels as intimate as anything else they've done yet, feeling the beat of his heart through his fingertips.
"I hope you're not planning on teasing me for hours," Victor says with an impatient sigh, shifting under him. "Foreplay is all very well and good, but I'd rather move straight on to the main event."
Michael smiles against Victor's chest, and brushes a kiss against one maltreated nipple.
"Patience is a useful trait," Michael says.
"I'm actually debating whether strangling you would be more satisfying than whatever you're planning. Strangling you is gaining points by the minute," Victor says pleasantly.
The sun is a comfortable warmth on Michael's back, almost tangible, like a hand. The wind will get up later in the evening, but for now it's perfect, and despite (or maybe because of) Victor's impatience, he takes a few moments more to sit back on his haunches and just look. He waits until Victor's expression turns from mildly impatient to when the fuck are you going to get on with it, then leans in and takes in the head of Victor's cock. Just the head at first, light lick around the slit, and then he traces his tongue down the vein.
Victor's almost motionless, but his legs drop open a little, making room, and Michael takes advantage. Kneels between Victor's legs and starts in properly, hand around the root of his cock and mouth swallowing him down.
He knows what he likes himself, pace fast and just the faintest edge of teeth, enough to remind him that pain is possible, without actually being painful. He tries that on Victor, and he bucks his hips, an instinctive movement he breaks off halfway.
"Steady," Michael says, pulling off. He rests a hand on Victor's flank, firm enough to mean business.
"Get on with it," Victor insists, "and I'll behave. A deal?"
"A deal," Michael agrees.
He strokes Victor's cock lazily a few times - not breaking the bargain, just testing the limits - then takes him back in his mouth. His own cock is a heavy presence against his belly, aching for more than the faint pressure he's allowing himself against the towel. He likes to wait though, likes the increasing need and holding off, likes wanting almost as much as getting.
Victor's leaking now, faintly acrid taste on Michael's tongue, getting close. So Michael pulls off again and nuzzles below, taking first one then the other ball into his mouth, feeling the slide of silky skin. There's a grunt from Victor, but neither disapproval or approval yet, so Michael puts two fingers in his mouth, pulls them out wet and shiny, and circles the crinkled skin behind Victor's balls.
This time the sound is undoubtedly the sound of need. There's a ripple of tension in the muscles of Victor's thighs and then he's pulling his legs up further and wider and silently begging for it.
"You like this, huh, big guy?"
"Fuck. We made a deal," Victor grinds out. Always demanding.
Michael doesn't mind. He can multitask. He rubs a finger around the hole some more, then presses in, not far, just to the knuckle, Victor tight around it. Then he moves back up, finger still in place, and swallows Victor down again, as deep as he can, until he's almost gagging with the pressure against his throat. Victor's moaning now, and he can feel it vibrating through his body as much as hear it. When he twists his finger, pushing it in further, the moans get deeper and Victor stutters out some kind of warning.
"Gonna," he says, and grabs Michael's hair, though whether it's to pull Michael off or hold him in place Michael doesn't wait to find out. He bats him away with his free hand and keeps sucking his cock, adds another finger to his asshole and keeps twisting that, and Victor's losing it, just the way Michael wanted, helpless little thrusts and groans until he's coming hard and fast down Michael's throat. "Fuck, yes, like that," he's panting, like he can't keep quiet any more.
After, when Michael pulls off his softening cock with one last lick, Victor's silent. Not breathing slow enough to be asleep, just quiet.
Michael can feel a trickle of come on his chin, skin-warm and sticky. He wipes it away with the back of his hand and turns over onto his back. He closes his eyes and listens to Victor's breath slow down beside him, the lap of the sea against the boat, the call of a gull high above. It's peaceful, a rare moment with no demands and nowhere else to be.
He strokes his cock idly with one hand, not enough to get anywhere, just enough to keep a pleasant buzz going.
He's relaxed enough that he doesn't notice Victor stirring until he's moving Michael's hand away and taking over, grip firmer and faster and rough enough to be really good. Michael bites his lip rather than make a sound, and smiles ruefully at the bark of laughter from Victor - should have known he couldn't hide anything from him.
"Might as well admit you like it, sport," Victor says, and gives one last twist-pull before Michael's spurting over his fingers, the relief fantastic.
*
They make it to the cabin eventually, when the sun's sunk down and the wind's picked up enough to be uncomfortable. Michael pulls down the foldaway bed in the main room - he doesn't ask, just does it. Not impatient any more, and if either of them were sensible they'd go to their separate bunks and say goodnight. But Michael's not feeling in the mood to be sensible, and he wants the closeness of a shared bed, wants the waking up in the morning almost as much as he wanted the sex itself. Which is all kind of bad news, but he's not thinking about that, not now.
"Do you end up in bed with all your clients?" Victor asks, later, when they've got past the awkward moment of getting into the bed and deciding which side to take and how far apart to lie. Victor's too spent for more sex, and Michael doesn't need it, nothing more than an uncomplicated stirring that'll go away on its own.
Michael doesn't dignify the question with an answer.
Victor looks thoughtful, with an undercurrent of amusement. There's always an undercurrent of something with Victor. Usually it's crazy, so amusement's a step up. "I just thought it might explain the excellent word of mouth you have going."
"Is that your roundabout way of complimenting me on my sexual skills?" Michael reaches out and turns off the light.
"You know, I suppose it must be. Not that I meant to compliment you, you understand. It's just the post orgasm glow that's making me more generous than usual."
"Wait until I fuck you," Michael says, and just saying it makes his cock swell in anticipation. He reaches down and cups himself, gives a few indolent strokes.
"I hope that's a promise."
"It is."
*
"Thank you," Victor says, out of the blue.
Michael looks at the plastic plate full of spam sandwiches in front of them. The bread's stale, and Michael's never gotten a taste for spam. He doubts they're the reason behind Victor's sudden gratitude.
"For what?" he asks.
"For not turning me over to Carla. For saving my life rather than taking the easy way out. For being a damned fine cocksucker. For being a good fuck. Take your pick."
"We haven't fucked yet."
"But you are good, right?"
"I'm good."
"Me too," Victor says. "Care to see if we're both telling the truth?"
Michael throws the sandwiches overboard and follows Victor into the cabin.
Turns out, they were both telling the truth.
*
"We should do the tourist thing," Victor says. They're standing on the quay, overlooking the ocean, cars hooting behind them in a slow, noisy stream. The last time Michael was here, he was working a job. "A couple of deckchairs, trashy novels, and an endless parade of nubile men and women to watch." Victor lets out a huge sigh as though this is what he's been waiting for all his life.
He's already insisted on them going shopping. He's wearing a shirt decorated with what appear to be hibiscus flowers, shorts, and pink flip-flops. He actually blends in better than Michael.
"I'll get the deckchairs," Michael says.
*
"You do realize I was only after being friends with answers, not friends with benefits?" Michael asks when Victor comes back with drinks. It seems as good a random time as any to mention it. He stretches his feet out in the sand and moves his head a fraction so that his face is under the shade of the umbrella.
The drink Victor hands him is ridiculous. Blue, with fruit and umbrellas. Victor's is bright yellow, with possibly even more fruit in it. When Michael looks askance at it, Victor just laughs.
"Count this as a bonus," Victor says, and Michael knows he isn't talking about the drink. "I'm generous like that. At least, with people I like." Victor's tone is jovial, but Michael's learned to read him well enough.
Funny thing is, he really likes Victor too.
He takes a sip of his drink. "Not as bad as it looks," he says, lifting his drink, though he could just as easily be talking about other things.
Victor grins. "So, got a plan to bring down the management yet?" he asks.
Michael takes another sip. "I'm sure we can come up with something between us," he says, and grins back. "We're gonna make a good team."
//
Additional notes: I know nothing about boats, or guns, or Cuba, and I've never been to Florida. I researched the best I could, and fudged what I couldn't find out online. So I apologise to any spies or boat experts reading.
Fandom: Burn Notice
Pairing: Michael/Victor
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 5,866 words
Beta: Huge thanks to scribblinlenore.
Notes: A coda to 2.16 Lesser Evil, that goes AU roughly five minutes from the end of the episode. Additional notes at the end.
One of the things about being a spy that your bosses don't tell you, not even in the unofficial "welcome to spy school" speech everyone gets at some stage, is that it messes you up. And if you've been burned, chances are, you'll be messed up even more. It doesn't matter how strong you are or how sane you are to begin with; if you lose everything and everyone you care about, sooner or later your mind will follow.
So Michael's not going to judge Victor. Sure, he's probably a psychopath and yes, Victor has tried to kill him. Four times if you go by Michael's count, three if you count it Victor's way, but by either count it's multiple times. And maybe that leaves the balance uneven - Michael might have tasered Victor, and tied him up, but he's never actively tried to kill him. But Michael has skirted the edge himself, had some dark times even before he was burned. And he knows all too well how easy it is to be consumed, whether by a need for revenge or answers. He understands. Five years of working for Carla would do that to the nicest guy, and spies are never the nicest guys. So he's willing to put the past behind them.
Nonetheless, when you add in the undisputable fact that if he kills Victor, he comes out smelling like roses (or close enough), he has three good reasons to put Victor away for good. He'd be ridding the world of a killer, it's only fair that he gets his turn, and, most importantly, his family will be safe, at least for a while.
Three excellent reasons, and sitting light and lonely on the other side of the balance he has just one point. His pride.
Victor is a client. Michael has never lost a client, let alone killed one himself. He doesn't intend to break that record now.
And maybe there's a second reason. Fi would never forgive him, not since she's taken Victor's side in the fight against Carla. And a third - he doesn't think he could forgive himself.
The balance tilts.
So he lets his gun slip to the floor, and he presses his hand tighter against Victor's side, and he shakes his head.
"I'm gonna get us out of here," he says, and blinks back any emotion that might have been foolish enough to surface while he was weighing Victor's fate in the balance.
Victor looks at him like he's a particularly stubborn idiot. It's a look Michael's not unfamiliar with, though it has subtle variations depending on whether it's on his mother's or Fi's face. "What's this?" Victor asks. "The patented Michael Weston service? Willing to die for a client. Don't you think that's a bit extreme?" Victor starts to cough, but there's no blood, so Michael considers that a good sign.
"I'm just good at what I do," Michael says, because there's no place for false modesty in a spy's mind. "And that's more than simply killing people. Keeping them alive is-well, just more of a challenge sometimes."
"And you like a challenge," Victor says knowingly. "Well, you've got yourself a good one now."
"I'm more than up to it," Michael says. After all, Victor may be an ex-spy, but right now he's the client and he's wounded. He doesn't need to hear Michael say he doesn't have a clue how they're going to get out of this alive.
"They won't forgive you. You run now, with me, and they'll never leave you alone. You know that, right?" Victor says, and Michael has to look away because there are what look suspiciously like tears in Victor's eyes.
One of the things about dying, or thinking you're dying, is that people discover newfound honesty. They say things they wouldn't say if they didn't think they were dying. It's a tool every spy uses at some stage - make a person think they're about to die, and they'll talk.
Michael doesn't want Victor to talk. He doesn't want to listen to Victor try to change his mind.
"They'll never leave me alone anyway," he points out, close enough to the truth to make it a convincing lie. "Can you walk?"
"I doubt it."
"That's okay. We're going to swim."
Victor laughs, hand held to his side and a grimace under the laugh. "I only wish I thought you were joking."
*
They hear the helicopter land while they're still on Victor's boat.
"Management's here," Victor grunts. "Still time to change your mind, do the sensible thing. You know what they'll do to both of us if they catch us." He's in obvious pain, but he's not getting any weaker, and that's enough to reassure Michael that the shot he's taken isn't a fatal one. Which means it's worth running.
"Then we'll just have to make sure they don't catch us." Which requires two things: a distraction, which Fi and Sam have already taken care of, and something to make management believe they're still on the boat and blow it up, which Michael is about to take care of. "Where's your weapon's cache?"
"Under the seat, there." Victor lifts the hand not clasped to his bullet wound and points. "Under the ropes."
Michael whistles when he sees the size and variety of the stash. It's a shame to leave it all behind - "Is that a Seecamp LWS .32?" "Yes," Victor sighs. "A deadly little beauty, isn't she?" "A trifle girly." "You wouldn't say that if you were on the receiving end." - but right now he needs to concentrate on what he can use. He tucks some ammo in his back pocket and pulls out a couple of shotguns.
Most people nowadays, when they want a timer, think digital. But a funnel full of detergent slowly dripping into a container is just as effective, and much easier to come by, especially when you're very limited on time and resources.
It only takes him a couple of minutes to rig up the shotguns, some string, a funnel of detergent and a jug balancing on the edge of the table.
With any luck, Michael and Victor will be long gone before the management discover there aren't any bodies in the wreckage. With a little more luck, the explosion will be large enough that they'll never find out conclusively. Michael and Victor will, effectively, be dead.
"That'll give us just over a minute to get clear." Michael takes a look out the window facing towards the water - they should be able to get out that way, unseen. He pries it open, helps Victor to the window, and pours the detergent.
"Ready?" Michael asks. Not that no is an option any more.
"Good to go, sport," Victor says, giving a shaky thumbs up with a blood-covered hand.
*
It's nearly fifty yards underwater to the nearest boat, and the shockwaves reach them just as they're coming up for air. Michael's got Victor in one arm, swimming with the other, and it's one of the hardest swims he's ever made.
They take advantage of the attention caused by the explosion to climb on board, Victor almost a dead weight now. There's a red slick on the side of the boat where Michael pulls him up.
"Well, wasn't that fun," Victor says as Michael dumps him on the floor of the cabin, and promptly passes out.
*
Michael's used up the entire contents of the first aid kit on their stolen boat. The average first aid kit is geared towards a cut finger, a small burn or a grazed knee, the sort of minor injuries people expect to get, not the kind of wounds spies are liable to suffer on all too regular a basis. But the kitchen's well stocked, and Michael's found enough to make up the shortfall.
"Sea water, the best thing for wounds," Michael says as he pulls the bandages tight around Victor's waist.
"Fuck, to think people call me insane," Victor bites out. The bleeding's stopped, and the bullet's a through and through. It'll hurt like hell, and keeping it clean isn't going to be easy, but he's alive, for now.
There's nothing more to do. Victor's as well as can be expected, drowsy on painkillers and expensive beer.
Of course, at some stage, Michael needs to tell Victor that Carla's dead. Which isn't necessarily going to be the celebratory moment it might appear.
It could go one of two ways: relief or giving up. That's the thing about fighting a battle, especially a long, lone personal one. Give it long enough, and if you take the fight away, there's nothing left to live for.
Michael's not sure if Victor's reached that point or not, but now's probably not the best time to find out.
He hands him another beer, and goes up to check on their course.
*
Victor's not a good patient. Not that Michael would have expected it. Spies don't like being inactive, and they like being reliant on others even less. He sleeps a lot, though, mostly thanks to the pills Michael keeps slipping him. He's oddly trusting, at the moment at least. Michael's not sure he'd sleep as well if the tables were turned.
Michael sleeps when he can. Which isn't enough, but he's used to running on too little sleep. It doesn't mean he's not irritated when he's woken up by a book landing on his chest, followed rapidly by a second.
"Great choice, smart guy," Victor says. "Of all the boats in the marina, you picked the one with two Bibles and no porn."
Michael picks up the books and dumps them on the floor. "If you hadn't set yourself up for target practice, we'd have had a few more escape options," he points out, without malice.
"True." Victor shrugs. "Guess we'll just have to find our own entertainment." He grins, joker-wide and white in the dim cabin. Even without the added glint in his eye, Michael would have found that prospect perturbing.
"Go back to bed," he says, and gives a fake yawn as a hint. It turns into a real yawn, and Michael finds himself closing his eyes and falling asleep even with a wide-awake psychopath right next to him.
*
"I sometimes see kids, little boys, the age my son would be now. See them enjoying themselves, walking their dogs and riding their bikes, hanging out with friends, all the stuff he should have had." Victor's tone is bland, and he's staring at the sky, not looking at Michael once.
It's quiet, not much to do. Michael's steering, Victor's up now, dressed in ill-fitting clothes they found in the cabin. The shirt looks very muted on him, not his normal, gaudy style at all. It should be an improvement. It isn't.
"What was his name?" Michael asks, after they've passed a few more minutes in silence.
"Reuben," Victor says softly, as though he hasn't said the name in a long time. "After my wife's father."
Michael looks up at the cloudless sky. Nothing but blue. Perfect weather.
"Carla's dead," he says.
Victor nods slowly, as though he's processing the idea. "Good," is all he says. Then closes his eyes and leans back in the sun.
*
Michael's a light sleeper. All spies are - you don't last long if you don't wake up naturally at the faintest hint of anything unusual in your vicinity. You also need to be able to wake up instantly, asleep to alert in the least time possible.
So when Michael wakes up, the cabin still the heavy dark of night at sea, and hears a faint slapping sound, he doesn't waste any time wondering what's happening. Victor is lying in the other bunk, less than five feet away, beating off.
"I'll take this as a sign that you're feeling better," Michael says.
Victor doesn't pause. He would have been fully aware the moment Michael woke up, Michael has no doubt of that.
"I've always healed fast," Victor says in a chatty manner. "That's why I went into the spy business. That, and my never-failing sense of curiosity."
"I just wanted to travel the world," Michael says, and it's oddly almost the truth. Wanting to get away from home isn't that far from wanting to travel, after all.
"Hah, curiosity again. You and me, we're not so different underneath." He lets out a small moan. "Ah, this feels good," he says, and Michael can hear him shifting on the bunk.
"Two peas in a pod," Michael says, though he doesn't manage to sound as sarcastic as he'd like.
"You could give me a hand here," Victor says, sounding hopeful. "I'll return the favor. It'd do you good, get rid of some of that frustration."
"I'll pass, thanks."
"Up to you, sport." Victor makes a few more pleasurable sounds before coming loudly.
For once, Michael isn't sure exactly what is happening. Whether this is Victor the spy talking, or Victor the man. All he's certain of is that he's hard and aching, and he's not going to do anything about it.
*
They hug the coastline as far as Lake Largo, where Michael risks a brief trip to shore to contact Fi.
Most of their conversation consists of her shouting at him for random sins (some of them years old), saying she's proud of him for helping Victor, then telling him what an idiot he is. He doesn't disagree about being an idiot, just asks how his mother is when Fi pauses for breath.
"As stubborn as you," she tells him. "But fine. There's no need to worry about her."
He hadn't. Not really, not with Sam and Fi both looking out for her. He's more worried for Sam's lungs than anything else.
Fi phones him back the next day on his newly purchased disposable cell. "Everything's arranged," she tells him sharply. "I got a boat from Virgil - he says you can owe him one. And I don't want to see you again, not for a long time, after a stunt like that."
"I understand," he says. "Take care," he finishes, but he's not sure if she cut him off before or after he said that.
Their new boat (hired under the name of Davis Cullen) is waiting at the north end of the marina, as promised. It's fully stocked: more than enough fuel to reach Cuba, antibiotics, bandages and wound dressings, a SIG Sauer P228 for him and a collection of others guns, knives and miscellaneous weapons, maps, fake passports, clothes, beer, whisky and food. Opening one kitchen cupboard reveals tins of spam and half a dozen packets of Cap'n Crunch - Fi obviously doesn't want them to enjoy their trip to Cuba too much. On the other hand, there's a shelf in the mini fridge packed full of blueberry yogurt, and there's a brand new pack of cards on the table in the main cabin.
Fi might hate him right now, but she still does impeccable work.
*
Michael doesn't get drunk. Ever. Not really drunk; not falling down and saying foolish things drunk. He's a trained operative, and being drunk is far too dangerous. And stupid. Getting drunk is stupid.
So he's not drunk now. He can't be, because he doesn't get drunk.
The argument works for him, but it doesn't explain why the cabin is swinging one way and his head the other.
No matter. He takes another long pull of Johnnie Walker Blue and kicks his feet out in front of him. He kicks Victor by accident, but it doesn't seem to trouble Victor - he just rubs a bare foot up the side of Michael's ankle. Michael would move, but it's too much effort.
Victor's talking. It's possible he's been talking for a while, but Michael's been tuning him out. He's had a lot of practice at that over the years. Particularly during dinners with his mother.
But Victor isn't his mother, and he occasionally has good ideas - like going to Cuba - so Michael decides to start listening.
"The way I see it," Victor is saying, "we could ignore the elephant in the room, or we could do something about it."
Ah. Ignoring it's been going very well for Michael. Apart from waking up each morning with a hard on and having to jump into the ocean to cool off. Yeah, apart from that, ignoring it works well.
Denying it would work too. "Or we could accept that there's no elephant in the room," he suggests.
"Just because the cabin's small, doesn't mean there's no elephant. It's just a small, discreet elephant." Victor grins. His grin doesn't seem as crazy as it used to. Or maybe Michael's just catching up with him on the crazy front.
Michael almost laughs. He wants to laugh, and what it says about him that a ridiculous conversation with a drunken ex-spy about the sexual tension between them makes him want to laugh, he has no idea. Unless it's that he's drunk too.
Possibly that.
If he actually sees the elephant, he'll be sure.
*
He doesn't see the elephant, but the next morning it feels like one has stomped all over him.
Victor looks worse, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. When he stumbles out of his bunk for the head, his shirt is soaked.
It's not that warm in the cabin.
"Bit of a fever," Victor says casually when he gets back from taking a piss.
Michael raises an eyebrow. "Take your shirt off," he says.
"Aha, now you're talking. Though your timing could be better," he says, and Michael can see his fingers are fumbling with his shirt buttons. He's probably not focusing properly. Though it isn't stopping him from talking. "Not feeling up to that much right now. Not even sure I'll be able to get it up, and there's a sorry admission for you."
"Bandages make extremely good gags," Michael says pointedly as he fetches the first aid kit. A proper one this time, stocked by Fi, with, importantly, more than the basic range of antibiotics.
"Kinky. Not my scene exactly, but to each his own. I'll be happy to play it your way.
"Just lie back-"
"And think of England?" Victor interrupts. "How terribly old-fashioned."
He lies down on his bunk all the same, and Michael can see the sheets are soaked too. He's had the fever most of the night. He curses himself for drinking so much and not taking notice.
"Don't blame yourself," Victor says.
"I'm not."
Victor winces just a fraction as Michael peels the dressing off. The wound's inflamed, as he expected, but it doesn't look too serious. Some IV antibiotics, and he'll be fine. And luckily, he has just the thing.
"What do you weigh?" he asks.
"Getting a bit personal, now, aren't we?"
"I need to administer the gentamicin by body weight. Unless you're willing for me to guess and risk kidney damage, because you're too proud to admit you've put on a few pounds." Michael smiles pleasantly.
"A hundred eighty pounds, give or take. And you need to work on your bedside manner."
"I'll bear that in mind."
*
Michael doesn't risk leaving Victor in his bunk. There's too much chance he'll thrash around or fall out if the fever gets worse. The only alternative is the fold down bed in the main cabin - by day it's a table and benches, but for now it makes a serviceable and roomy bed that's blocked in on three sides.
"There's room for two," Victor offers, patting the bed beside him, then promptly falls asleep.
He sleeps most of the next two days, just waking for treatment, water, or to take a piss.
It ought to be peaceful, without Victor's constant barrage of innuendo, but Michael feels oddly bored. It's a relief when Victor's well enough to sit up and demand a game of poker.
"Strip poker, if you like," he suggests.
"I've already seen pretty much everything you've got," Michael points out.
"But strip poker makes it all so much sexier."
Michael raises an eyebrow.
"Okay, boy scout, we'll play snap if you prefer."
They play poker. Michael wins every hand, but then Victor's not on top of his game. Michael's not sure if he's glad he vetoed the strip poker or not.
He doesn't like being confused, and yet he finds himself liking Victor more and more.
*
In the end, it doesn't take getting drunk, or strip poker, or any other games to get them both naked. They've pulled in close to a cay to the north of Corralillo. Tomorrow they need to decide on a plan of action, beyond lounging on a Cuban beach until the heat's off them.
But for now it's a warm evening, and Victor's well enough to join Michael when he goes for a swim.
They don't talk. Just swim wide circles around the boat, alternating strokes on each pass for the best work out. Even if they're going to be laying low for a while, Michael still needs to keep fit, and Victor needs to get his strength back.
Victor gives up first, his breath coming in painful pants as he pulls himself back on board. Michael makes himself do two more circuits of backstroke, two of crawl, and two breaststroke. Not the best workout ever, but there are limited options on a boat, and this will have to do.
Victor's naked and spread out on a towel on deck when Michael climbs back on the boat. The sun's low enough to be soft, and the new scar doesn't look as angry as it does in brighter light. Victor's eyes are closed, his breathing back to normal, and Michael watches him a moment.
"Like what you see?" Victor asks, not moving or opening his eyes. It's barely a come on - it lacks Victor's usual teasing tones. It sounds more like a serious question.
Michael does, is the weird thing. He doesn't see Victor as the enemy or the crazy guy any more. He sees a friend, someone he thinks he might be able to trust, eventually. And someone, who, gazed at like this, is unexpectedly beautiful. A genuine smile that sits well on his face; a natural tan, fading to white at his groin; muscular thighs, lightly dusted with blondish hair; his cock, pale and flaccid in the vee of his thighs.
So he replies in the same tone the question was asked, with an honesty that seems fitting. "Yes," he says. "Oddly enough, I do."
He picks up a towel and drops his own shorts, spreads the towel next to Victor's and lies down next to him. He lets the sun dry him off. It's warm and comfortable, and he's more relaxed than he should be.
Not so relaxed that he doesn't notice when Victor shifts and sits up, but slow enough that it takes him a little by surprise when he feels the brush of Victor's hand on his flank. He opens his eyes to find Victor leaning in, waiting.
Michael smiles, the answer to the question in Victor's look, and Victor kisses him.
It's slow and easy at first. Surprisingly easy, when nothing between them yet has happened without a fight. Victor rests his weight against Michael's side, warm from the setting sun but skin still damp, and kisses him softly, like he's remembering how to do this. He pauses a moment, and there's a look in his eyes that Michael doesn't want to see, a distant look like he's remembering too much, and so Michael cups his hand around Victor's head and brings him back in. Opens up and lets him in, and Victor groans against him.
"Been a while," he admits, but Michael doesn't want to talk, wants to do this, just this.
"They say it's like riding a bike," he says, and shifts them carefully so Victor's on his back, Michael leaning over him.
Maybe too careful, because Victor's raising an eyebrow. "I'm not going to break, you know," he says, but Michael's had wounds like this, knows how long they keep aching even after the skin's scarred over.
"What do you want?" he asks, which is far too open a question, but he can feel the hot curve of Victor's erection against his thigh, the way his heart rate is speeding up. The question's a safe one for now.
Victor lets out a deep breath. "Frankly, I'll take anything," he says.
The trust is like a punch to Michael's gut. A sign of how far they've come, and it's a revelation how much it matters, how good it feels.
He nods agreement, and thinks about what he wants. Imagines the heft of Victor's cock on his tongue, and yes, that's what he wants. He wants to taste him, wants to listen to him lose it, wants him incoherent.
He doesn't signal his plan. Victor can work it out for himself.
He moves his mouth to one pale nipple and flicks his tongue over it. There's no response from Victor so Michael nips, a hint of a bite at first, then harder, enough to make the skin darken as the blood pools underneath. The nipple peaks and hardens, a little nub under Michael's tongue. He moves over to the other nipple and treats it the same.
He keeps his hand against Victor's chest, splayed out flat, rising and falling with his breath. It feels as intimate as anything else they've done yet, feeling the beat of his heart through his fingertips.
"I hope you're not planning on teasing me for hours," Victor says with an impatient sigh, shifting under him. "Foreplay is all very well and good, but I'd rather move straight on to the main event."
Michael smiles against Victor's chest, and brushes a kiss against one maltreated nipple.
"Patience is a useful trait," Michael says.
"I'm actually debating whether strangling you would be more satisfying than whatever you're planning. Strangling you is gaining points by the minute," Victor says pleasantly.
The sun is a comfortable warmth on Michael's back, almost tangible, like a hand. The wind will get up later in the evening, but for now it's perfect, and despite (or maybe because of) Victor's impatience, he takes a few moments more to sit back on his haunches and just look. He waits until Victor's expression turns from mildly impatient to when the fuck are you going to get on with it, then leans in and takes in the head of Victor's cock. Just the head at first, light lick around the slit, and then he traces his tongue down the vein.
Victor's almost motionless, but his legs drop open a little, making room, and Michael takes advantage. Kneels between Victor's legs and starts in properly, hand around the root of his cock and mouth swallowing him down.
He knows what he likes himself, pace fast and just the faintest edge of teeth, enough to remind him that pain is possible, without actually being painful. He tries that on Victor, and he bucks his hips, an instinctive movement he breaks off halfway.
"Steady," Michael says, pulling off. He rests a hand on Victor's flank, firm enough to mean business.
"Get on with it," Victor insists, "and I'll behave. A deal?"
"A deal," Michael agrees.
He strokes Victor's cock lazily a few times - not breaking the bargain, just testing the limits - then takes him back in his mouth. His own cock is a heavy presence against his belly, aching for more than the faint pressure he's allowing himself against the towel. He likes to wait though, likes the increasing need and holding off, likes wanting almost as much as getting.
Victor's leaking now, faintly acrid taste on Michael's tongue, getting close. So Michael pulls off again and nuzzles below, taking first one then the other ball into his mouth, feeling the slide of silky skin. There's a grunt from Victor, but neither disapproval or approval yet, so Michael puts two fingers in his mouth, pulls them out wet and shiny, and circles the crinkled skin behind Victor's balls.
This time the sound is undoubtedly the sound of need. There's a ripple of tension in the muscles of Victor's thighs and then he's pulling his legs up further and wider and silently begging for it.
"You like this, huh, big guy?"
"Fuck. We made a deal," Victor grinds out. Always demanding.
Michael doesn't mind. He can multitask. He rubs a finger around the hole some more, then presses in, not far, just to the knuckle, Victor tight around it. Then he moves back up, finger still in place, and swallows Victor down again, as deep as he can, until he's almost gagging with the pressure against his throat. Victor's moaning now, and he can feel it vibrating through his body as much as hear it. When he twists his finger, pushing it in further, the moans get deeper and Victor stutters out some kind of warning.
"Gonna," he says, and grabs Michael's hair, though whether it's to pull Michael off or hold him in place Michael doesn't wait to find out. He bats him away with his free hand and keeps sucking his cock, adds another finger to his asshole and keeps twisting that, and Victor's losing it, just the way Michael wanted, helpless little thrusts and groans until he's coming hard and fast down Michael's throat. "Fuck, yes, like that," he's panting, like he can't keep quiet any more.
After, when Michael pulls off his softening cock with one last lick, Victor's silent. Not breathing slow enough to be asleep, just quiet.
Michael can feel a trickle of come on his chin, skin-warm and sticky. He wipes it away with the back of his hand and turns over onto his back. He closes his eyes and listens to Victor's breath slow down beside him, the lap of the sea against the boat, the call of a gull high above. It's peaceful, a rare moment with no demands and nowhere else to be.
He strokes his cock idly with one hand, not enough to get anywhere, just enough to keep a pleasant buzz going.
He's relaxed enough that he doesn't notice Victor stirring until he's moving Michael's hand away and taking over, grip firmer and faster and rough enough to be really good. Michael bites his lip rather than make a sound, and smiles ruefully at the bark of laughter from Victor - should have known he couldn't hide anything from him.
"Might as well admit you like it, sport," Victor says, and gives one last twist-pull before Michael's spurting over his fingers, the relief fantastic.
*
They make it to the cabin eventually, when the sun's sunk down and the wind's picked up enough to be uncomfortable. Michael pulls down the foldaway bed in the main room - he doesn't ask, just does it. Not impatient any more, and if either of them were sensible they'd go to their separate bunks and say goodnight. But Michael's not feeling in the mood to be sensible, and he wants the closeness of a shared bed, wants the waking up in the morning almost as much as he wanted the sex itself. Which is all kind of bad news, but he's not thinking about that, not now.
"Do you end up in bed with all your clients?" Victor asks, later, when they've got past the awkward moment of getting into the bed and deciding which side to take and how far apart to lie. Victor's too spent for more sex, and Michael doesn't need it, nothing more than an uncomplicated stirring that'll go away on its own.
Michael doesn't dignify the question with an answer.
Victor looks thoughtful, with an undercurrent of amusement. There's always an undercurrent of something with Victor. Usually it's crazy, so amusement's a step up. "I just thought it might explain the excellent word of mouth you have going."
"Is that your roundabout way of complimenting me on my sexual skills?" Michael reaches out and turns off the light.
"You know, I suppose it must be. Not that I meant to compliment you, you understand. It's just the post orgasm glow that's making me more generous than usual."
"Wait until I fuck you," Michael says, and just saying it makes his cock swell in anticipation. He reaches down and cups himself, gives a few indolent strokes.
"I hope that's a promise."
"It is."
*
"Thank you," Victor says, out of the blue.
Michael looks at the plastic plate full of spam sandwiches in front of them. The bread's stale, and Michael's never gotten a taste for spam. He doubts they're the reason behind Victor's sudden gratitude.
"For what?" he asks.
"For not turning me over to Carla. For saving my life rather than taking the easy way out. For being a damned fine cocksucker. For being a good fuck. Take your pick."
"We haven't fucked yet."
"But you are good, right?"
"I'm good."
"Me too," Victor says. "Care to see if we're both telling the truth?"
Michael throws the sandwiches overboard and follows Victor into the cabin.
Turns out, they were both telling the truth.
*
"We should do the tourist thing," Victor says. They're standing on the quay, overlooking the ocean, cars hooting behind them in a slow, noisy stream. The last time Michael was here, he was working a job. "A couple of deckchairs, trashy novels, and an endless parade of nubile men and women to watch." Victor lets out a huge sigh as though this is what he's been waiting for all his life.
He's already insisted on them going shopping. He's wearing a shirt decorated with what appear to be hibiscus flowers, shorts, and pink flip-flops. He actually blends in better than Michael.
"I'll get the deckchairs," Michael says.
*
"You do realize I was only after being friends with answers, not friends with benefits?" Michael asks when Victor comes back with drinks. It seems as good a random time as any to mention it. He stretches his feet out in the sand and moves his head a fraction so that his face is under the shade of the umbrella.
The drink Victor hands him is ridiculous. Blue, with fruit and umbrellas. Victor's is bright yellow, with possibly even more fruit in it. When Michael looks askance at it, Victor just laughs.
"Count this as a bonus," Victor says, and Michael knows he isn't talking about the drink. "I'm generous like that. At least, with people I like." Victor's tone is jovial, but Michael's learned to read him well enough.
Funny thing is, he really likes Victor too.
He takes a sip of his drink. "Not as bad as it looks," he says, lifting his drink, though he could just as easily be talking about other things.
Victor grins. "So, got a plan to bring down the management yet?" he asks.
Michael takes another sip. "I'm sure we can come up with something between us," he says, and grins back. "We're gonna make a good team."
//
Additional notes: I know nothing about boats, or guns, or Cuba, and I've never been to Florida. I researched the best I could, and fudged what I couldn't find out online. So I apologise to any spies or boat experts reading.