Burn Notice // Rock, Westen, Hard Place // Part 1 of 1
Title: Rock, Westen, Hard Place
Rating: K/+
Word Count: ≈760
Summary: He wonders who the leak is, the extent of the damage they've caused. How compatible staying here is with staying alive.
Originally at the Eight Seconds Ficathon.
*
The first real indication that the situation has gone from salvageable to fucked up beyond repair is actually the last in a long string of small disasters, a post-it note pressed into Michael's palm when he reaches for the same roll of duct tape as a man he's seen twice before, around, and this confirms what Michael had thought then. Mr. Duct Tape is another of Dan's guys, the backup he'd requested be on standby before he left DC.
He's been checking in weekly, postcards mailed to a wife he doesn't have at an address he's never lived, but the postal clerk knows exactly who to give them to. Michael writes about the weather and the tourist attractions and the third scrawled sentence of each letter evinces exactly how well or poorly the op is going right now. A flesh and bone messenger almost never comes bearing good news - this truth is all the more fundamental when their visit is an unexpected one.
Working with paranoids is never simple, especially not when they turn their suspicion back on you the moment you attempt to direct it to a more convenient target. Not too badly, the last check-in had said, supposed to be a chance of rain, but I'm not so sure. Meant, I need some more time.
Michael stuffs the post-it in his pocket and buys the duct tape, doesn't read it until he's safely back at the apartment. Leak, op scrubbed. Get out. A flight number, time of departure and airport, all hastily enciphered. They'll have taken the liberty of checking him in in advance, if he knows his handler.
He wonders who the leak is, the extent of the damage they've caused. How compatible staying here is with staying alive. Michael memorizes the number and burns the note, rinses ashes down the sink. A gray-black smudge clings to his fingertips. He thinks, out, damned spot and wonders how that of all things survived the years since high school English.
They could probably still make this work. He has Petrov at his back in Ukraine, making inroads with David St. James's connections in Eastern Europe and Fi at his side here, even now arranging tomorrow's fireworks. He trusts Petrov, insofar as he trusts anyone. Doesn't know if he trusts Fi, not entirely. Not with her people involved as deeply as they are, not when he can't be sure if she places him among her people. He thinks he loves her, though, and that counts for something.
In the back of his conscious mind, Michael knows that love makes you stupid. That it leaves you more susceptible to being led down paths you wouldn't ordinarily consider.
Another day and they could force David's hand, which won't make a damned bit of difference if the problem isn't here. What if it's not here, if it's Petrov saying stop, if his contacts bailed? If the original intel's been compromised? If the guys from the State Department found a simple, peaceful answer?
Yeah, that last one is pretty unlikely.
There are too many variables right now. Dan has more of them than Michael does. There're so many holes in the picture Michael may as well be looking at a spiderweb. He's spent almost fourteen years testing Dan's limits and pushing Dan's buttons and strategically disregarding Dan's instructions, but Michael's learned to trust Dan's judgment when it's important and he isn't dead yet.
Michael's spent six months in Fiona Glenanne's bed and had enough close calls to last him the rest of his life.
He pulls a sheet of paper off the pad on the fridge, a pen out of the junk drawer. We have a junk drawer, he thinks, and there shouldn't be such a stab of regret at the idea. The note is short, and Michael folds it in quarters and leaves it tucked in a hidden pocket of Fiona's winter coat.
Out the door, locks the his key inside, takes the stairs because he doesn't trust the elevator. You can't know who'll be waiting for you on any given floor.
It's a short note - any less would be useless, any more would be insulting.
My name isn't McBride.
Michael doesn't add, I'm sorry, because he knows it won't make matters any better.
Rating: K/+
Word Count: ≈760
Summary: He wonders who the leak is, the extent of the damage they've caused. How compatible staying here is with staying alive.
Originally at the Eight Seconds Ficathon.
*
The first real indication that the situation has gone from salvageable to fucked up beyond repair is actually the last in a long string of small disasters, a post-it note pressed into Michael's palm when he reaches for the same roll of duct tape as a man he's seen twice before, around, and this confirms what Michael had thought then. Mr. Duct Tape is another of Dan's guys, the backup he'd requested be on standby before he left DC.
He's been checking in weekly, postcards mailed to a wife he doesn't have at an address he's never lived, but the postal clerk knows exactly who to give them to. Michael writes about the weather and the tourist attractions and the third scrawled sentence of each letter evinces exactly how well or poorly the op is going right now. A flesh and bone messenger almost never comes bearing good news - this truth is all the more fundamental when their visit is an unexpected one.
Working with paranoids is never simple, especially not when they turn their suspicion back on you the moment you attempt to direct it to a more convenient target. Not too badly, the last check-in had said, supposed to be a chance of rain, but I'm not so sure. Meant, I need some more time.
Michael stuffs the post-it in his pocket and buys the duct tape, doesn't read it until he's safely back at the apartment. Leak, op scrubbed. Get out. A flight number, time of departure and airport, all hastily enciphered. They'll have taken the liberty of checking him in in advance, if he knows his handler.
He wonders who the leak is, the extent of the damage they've caused. How compatible staying here is with staying alive. Michael memorizes the number and burns the note, rinses ashes down the sink. A gray-black smudge clings to his fingertips. He thinks, out, damned spot and wonders how that of all things survived the years since high school English.
They could probably still make this work. He has Petrov at his back in Ukraine, making inroads with David St. James's connections in Eastern Europe and Fi at his side here, even now arranging tomorrow's fireworks. He trusts Petrov, insofar as he trusts anyone. Doesn't know if he trusts Fi, not entirely. Not with her people involved as deeply as they are, not when he can't be sure if she places him among her people. He thinks he loves her, though, and that counts for something.
In the back of his conscious mind, Michael knows that love makes you stupid. That it leaves you more susceptible to being led down paths you wouldn't ordinarily consider.
Another day and they could force David's hand, which won't make a damned bit of difference if the problem isn't here. What if it's not here, if it's Petrov saying stop, if his contacts bailed? If the original intel's been compromised? If the guys from the State Department found a simple, peaceful answer?
Yeah, that last one is pretty unlikely.
There are too many variables right now. Dan has more of them than Michael does. There're so many holes in the picture Michael may as well be looking at a spiderweb. He's spent almost fourteen years testing Dan's limits and pushing Dan's buttons and strategically disregarding Dan's instructions, but Michael's learned to trust Dan's judgment when it's important and he isn't dead yet.
Michael's spent six months in Fiona Glenanne's bed and had enough close calls to last him the rest of his life.
He pulls a sheet of paper off the pad on the fridge, a pen out of the junk drawer. We have a junk drawer, he thinks, and there shouldn't be such a stab of regret at the idea. The note is short, and Michael folds it in quarters and leaves it tucked in a hidden pocket of Fiona's winter coat.
Out the door, locks the his key inside, takes the stairs because he doesn't trust the elevator. You can't know who'll be waiting for you on any given floor.
It's a short note - any less would be useless, any more would be insulting.
My name isn't McBride.
Michael doesn't add, I'm sorry, because he knows it won't make matters any better.