[sunday_reveries] The Distance In Your Eyes
(Just something I was playing around with while offline. It came from an idea I had in a verse for failuretotrust. Sam is freelncesuphero. Completely AU.)
A man takes his sadness and throws it away but then he’s still left with his hands.
-Richard Siken
Michael never asked questions, and he never answered any he didn't want to answer. He was a business man and business had to be run a specific way to ensure that every job got done. He had two main rules to his work. 1) Never stop a job until the goal has been completed. 2) If ever compromised, fuck the first rule. He did a service, and that service relied on him not only being invisible, but being no one. Being seen or known accomplished neither of those.
If compromised, only if compromised, he shut the job down. He returned every penny and was gone. And what use did the clients have in trying to follow? They got their money, they were still clean, and they could find someone else. But as an unspoken rule, he never let himself get compromised. He was far too good for that. Few years in the Marines, Military; his country began teaching him everything he needed to know. Except he never did like to listen or get along with anyone. Too many notices for behavior and attitude towards his superiors got him far too close to being kicked out all together, and he was too damn good to accept being thrown out of the US Army. Not to mention he had no intention of going back to Miami. He hated his mother, and his younger brother was a pain in the ass who their mother adored.
It took years for him to find his way out, but once he did he never once turned back. He'd been in the special forces for all of six months, and he'd had about all he could take. They were all too damn good, and loyal, to a government that would only screw them over down the line. Michael didn't have loyalty to anyone but himself. So when he and a couple other guys were captured by the enemies, and those enemies offered him money, support, and protection? Well he couldn't say no.
All he had to do was kill his co-capturees. He really had no problem with that, either. None of them were his friends, and he was getting something out of it. He got beaten up real good before being returned to the others and tied up again. When they were alone, the other men looked at him.
"You okay, Westen?" Michael looked over at the larger, unkempt man.
"Fine," he said shortly.
"They beat you up somethin' good," he went on. Sam Axe. Your top grade special ops jackass. Too much faith and reliability in his country.
"Yeah, I noticed," Michael replied, spitting out blood and leaning back against the wall. He closed his eyes, not wanting to talk anymore, and the other understood. They never were ablet to get close to the young, cold man.
After awhile, the door opened and two men came in with large guns. The Americans were told to get up, stand against the wall. They all did, even Michael. The armed men held up their weapons. "Tell us where the rest of your group is or we kill you."
"Go ahead and shoot," Michael snorted.
The first man glared at Michael, then turned and shot one of the older guys. He fell over, instantly dead.
"Shit," Sam's eyes closed and his head leaned back.
"Now?" The gunman asked.
"Now fuck yourself," Michael replied.
Another of their men were shot.
"Shut up, Westen," Sam muttered.
"You should listen to your friend," the gunman said. "He might save you from being next."
Michael nodded. "Or you could just shoot him."
Sam was shaking his head, but the gunmen were laughing. "You want me to shoot your friend?" The first asked.
"No, actually..." Michael shrugged and started to take a step forward. The ropes were loose around his wrists.
"Stop being stupid, Westen," Sam barked. Michael ignored him and shook his hands, letting the ropes fall.
"Let me do it."
The second gunman tossed Michael his weapon and Michael caught it, turning to the two remaining men. A dark smirk curled on his lips. The two prisoners looked at him, wide eyed and speechless.
"Eenie meenie miney..." He shot the man beside Sam. "Moe."
"Christ!" Sam closed his eyes, then opened them, glaring the fieriest glare Michael had ever seen on the man. "What the hell are you doing?"
"I'm climbing the coorporate ladder," Michael smiled, turning the gun on Sam. "Don't take it personal. I'd shoot you if you were my brother."
"You goddam traitor."
"Has a nice ring to it," he nodded.
"Shoot me then."
"Mmm, I don't know..."
"Shoot him," the first gunman shouted.
Michael smirked over the nose of the gun at Sam. The man was a cocky sonuvabitch. Michael had gotten his message across, he didn't have to kill the man. "He's not going to stop us." He turned slightly and shot Sam in the shoulder. Sam fell to the ground, curling up in pain. "Let's go." He tossed the second gunman the weapon back, before being handed his shiny new Sig Sauer. The first of his promises. He led the way out the door, but not before turning back and smiling at Sam. "If you make it out of here, say hi to everyone for me." Then he pulled the door shut sharply.
As he walked down the dusty hallway of the old building, he turned the gun in his hands slowly. If he was going to be told to kill people, he'd rather make a decent living and let it be on his own terms. More specificly, on his own. The last thing Michael Westen was was a team player. He looked out for himself and himself only.
And that was the first time he was hired for a kill, but by no means the last.
A man takes his sadness and throws it away but then he’s still left with his hands.
-Richard Siken
Michael never asked questions, and he never answered any he didn't want to answer. He was a business man and business had to be run a specific way to ensure that every job got done. He had two main rules to his work. 1) Never stop a job until the goal has been completed. 2) If ever compromised, fuck the first rule. He did a service, and that service relied on him not only being invisible, but being no one. Being seen or known accomplished neither of those.
If compromised, only if compromised, he shut the job down. He returned every penny and was gone. And what use did the clients have in trying to follow? They got their money, they were still clean, and they could find someone else. But as an unspoken rule, he never let himself get compromised. He was far too good for that. Few years in the Marines, Military; his country began teaching him everything he needed to know. Except he never did like to listen or get along with anyone. Too many notices for behavior and attitude towards his superiors got him far too close to being kicked out all together, and he was too damn good to accept being thrown out of the US Army. Not to mention he had no intention of going back to Miami. He hated his mother, and his younger brother was a pain in the ass who their mother adored.
It took years for him to find his way out, but once he did he never once turned back. He'd been in the special forces for all of six months, and he'd had about all he could take. They were all too damn good, and loyal, to a government that would only screw them over down the line. Michael didn't have loyalty to anyone but himself. So when he and a couple other guys were captured by the enemies, and those enemies offered him money, support, and protection? Well he couldn't say no.
All he had to do was kill his co-capturees. He really had no problem with that, either. None of them were his friends, and he was getting something out of it. He got beaten up real good before being returned to the others and tied up again. When they were alone, the other men looked at him.
"You okay, Westen?" Michael looked over at the larger, unkempt man.
"Fine," he said shortly.
"They beat you up somethin' good," he went on. Sam Axe. Your top grade special ops jackass. Too much faith and reliability in his country.
"Yeah, I noticed," Michael replied, spitting out blood and leaning back against the wall. He closed his eyes, not wanting to talk anymore, and the other understood. They never were ablet to get close to the young, cold man.
After awhile, the door opened and two men came in with large guns. The Americans were told to get up, stand against the wall. They all did, even Michael. The armed men held up their weapons. "Tell us where the rest of your group is or we kill you."
"Go ahead and shoot," Michael snorted.
The first man glared at Michael, then turned and shot one of the older guys. He fell over, instantly dead.
"Shit," Sam's eyes closed and his head leaned back.
"Now?" The gunman asked.
"Now fuck yourself," Michael replied.
Another of their men were shot.
"Shut up, Westen," Sam muttered.
"You should listen to your friend," the gunman said. "He might save you from being next."
Michael nodded. "Or you could just shoot him."
Sam was shaking his head, but the gunmen were laughing. "You want me to shoot your friend?" The first asked.
"No, actually..." Michael shrugged and started to take a step forward. The ropes were loose around his wrists.
"Stop being stupid, Westen," Sam barked. Michael ignored him and shook his hands, letting the ropes fall.
"Let me do it."
The second gunman tossed Michael his weapon and Michael caught it, turning to the two remaining men. A dark smirk curled on his lips. The two prisoners looked at him, wide eyed and speechless.
"Eenie meenie miney..." He shot the man beside Sam. "Moe."
"Christ!" Sam closed his eyes, then opened them, glaring the fieriest glare Michael had ever seen on the man. "What the hell are you doing?"
"I'm climbing the coorporate ladder," Michael smiled, turning the gun on Sam. "Don't take it personal. I'd shoot you if you were my brother."
"You goddam traitor."
"Has a nice ring to it," he nodded.
"Shoot me then."
"Mmm, I don't know..."
"Shoot him," the first gunman shouted.
Michael smirked over the nose of the gun at Sam. The man was a cocky sonuvabitch. Michael had gotten his message across, he didn't have to kill the man. "He's not going to stop us." He turned slightly and shot Sam in the shoulder. Sam fell to the ground, curling up in pain. "Let's go." He tossed the second gunman the weapon back, before being handed his shiny new Sig Sauer. The first of his promises. He led the way out the door, but not before turning back and smiling at Sam. "If you make it out of here, say hi to everyone for me." Then he pulled the door shut sharply.
As he walked down the dusty hallway of the old building, he turned the gun in his hands slowly. If he was going to be told to kill people, he'd rather make a decent living and let it be on his own terms. More specificly, on his own. The last thing Michael Westen was was a team player. He looked out for himself and himself only.
And that was the first time he was hired for a kill, but by no means the last.