A/N: Fi and Mike and Burn Notice fiction-y goodness. Head here if you want to start at the beginning.
5.10.1
He's gotten home from his meeting with Pearce. And, to say
Fi was less than thrilled with him when he left would be something of an
understatement. Part of it is she always gets tense and snappy at him when he
comes back wounded. But the much bigger part is that upon waking up, he was
back to his rather emotionally closed-off self. He could tell she was hoping
for more after last night, but, well, he's not good at this.
But he's trying to be better.
Which means making a phone call, to a priest.
For a spy, the ability to have a truly private conversation
is a fine art. It has to be. And for Michael Westen in particular it's a skill
that's been honed and tested against the best. Because when you've got the
combined weight of a massive international conspiracy on your head, at least
two and probably more US government agencies, plus every organized crime
syndicate in Miami all itching to find something to use to make you do what
they want you to, you really need secure communications.
Fortunately spies learn how to talk so no one gets to hear.
And Michael is a very, very good spy.
First and foremost, the burner phone. At any given time,
Michael has at least three of them hidden around the loft, so finding one isn't
an issue.
He checks it and everything he's wearing to make sure it's
clean. This one is clean, which it should be, he bought it less than a week
ago, but just because something is new and still sealed in its original
packaging doesn't mean that it's clean. His clothing is fine. With that he
grabs a pair of shoes. He knows shoes are easy to bug, so he's got a special
little toy hidden under the shelf all of his live on. It's a magnet. A very
strong magnet. Any electronic gear that might end up in his shoes won't be
working by the time he puts them on in the morning. His sun glasses also live
on that shelf.
So, now all he has to worry about now is bugs on everything
else in his life, directional mics, and people planted to be near him and
listen.
There are ways around that, too. He slips the phone into his
pocket and walks to the nearest car rental place.
He's never actually used this agency. Usually, they steal
cars for quick jobs. But somehow it seems, sacrilegious, or something, to steal
a car to talk to a priest about being a better man.
The clerk hands him a set of keys to a non-descript Ford
Focus and he hops in. Like wearing a
suit from Walmart, driving it isn't something he enjoys, but when he needs to
do it, he can, and do well at it.
He doesn't have a place to go in mind. The idea is to just
drive and talk. Easy enough.
Right.
He's sitting in the parking lot of the rental agency, car
idling, going nowhere.
He sets the earphone and dials the number. Fi's already
called Father Ian Guier, let him know who Michael is and that he'd like to talk
to him. So it's not precisely a cold call. But still, his hand is trembling
slightly and he's very aware of the fact that he's put eleven numbers in, but
still hasn't punched the call button.
Drive. Get moving
first. Then hit the call button.
He pulls into traffic and decides that if he's going to do
this, he might as well kill two birds with one stone. He's always on the lookout
for good places to hide things, so now would be a fine time to drive around and
see what he can find.
He's idling at a stop light. Now would be a really good time
to hit that button. Nothing is going on. He's not distracted or trying to
precision drive.
He picks up the phone and stabs the call button with his
thumb.
Michael's not a religious man, but he's awfully close to
praying that the phone will go to voice mail.
"Hello." No such luck. The voice greeting him is
deep and sounds like working-class Belfast.
"Ian Guier?"
"Yes. And this is?"
"Michael Westen. Fi called you about me."
"Fi's man! Yes
she did, lad. She's been telling me about you for years."
The patented Michael Westen I'm-horribly-uncomfortable-but-smiling-so-you-don't-notice-look
is remarkably ineffective over the phone.
"Urgh..." He was hoping to come up with something
more eloquent than that, but nothing is springing to mind. "Yes."
"And..." Ian says. Yes, this would be the point in the conversation where one usually
comes to the point.
"I'm trying to be a better man for her."
"Stop wasting my time and yours. This doesn't work if
you're doing it for her. You'll try, fail, and end up resenting her for it.
Call me when you want to be a better man for yourself, and we'll have a shot at
something."
That wasn't what Michael was expecting, at all. He feels a
real smile creep onto his face, and begins to understand why Fi likes this man.
"What's the first step in being a better man for
myself?"
"Figure out who you are. Then figure out who the better
version of that is. Not a version you think Fi would like, but who you want to
be. Get that set in your head, and give me a call."
"I can do that."
"Then go do it. It was nice talking to you."
"Likewise." Michael hangs up the phone, not sure
of what just happened, but feeling like this might not be nearly as bad as he
thought it would. Though, given the choice between deep personal introspection
and setting himself on fire, fire might still be easier.
Time to go home. Who knows what fires he'll have to put out for the CIA tomorrow or what Sam and Jesse will have found out about Tavian?
No comments:
Post a Comment