A/N: Okay, I'm
placing my official bet for where this season is going to start out.
Here's some very dark pre-season warm up. Not sure if the plot bunny
will bite again between now and 7.1, but if it does, you'll all be the
first to know.
Michael's listening to a cover of Here Without You by 3 Doors Down.
7.0.1.
Michael Westen is not the kind of guy who sits in a club listening to sad music pouting about a lost love.
His cover does.
And he's having a very hard time keeping himself divorced from his cover right now.
One hundred days that made me older, since the last time that I saw your pretty face.
It's been more than a hundred days, but not many. 103? 105? He forced himself to stop counting a while ago.
No. Michael Westen does not listen to sad music and pout. He does not sit, hunched, at a bar, hearing a cover band warbling about being separated from the one person who matters most. Michael Westen has not once done that, not for himself.
Though he does seem to have a lot of covers that do.
He played the game. He played it longer and harder than anyone before him, and likely anyone after. He's smarter, harder, more experienced, and more desperate than anyone who's ever played. He put everything he had into it, including the lives of the only people he loved, including his brother, and he lost.
"You can't have the job and the girl."
He lost the girl.
He lost the love of the job.
These days he's just going through the motions, because it's easier to pretend that he cares than it is to eat his gun. Because, no matter how tempting the weight of it is in his hand, let alone the taste of metal on his lips, he can't do that to his mom.
Of course, he might not have to.
He can see it in his handler's eyes. Once the thing with Card was wrapped, and it took a lot less time than anyone had thought it would, they were left with a man too dangerous to let go, and too broken to give anything important.
That's the point of this and all the other nameless missions they've sent him on. Idiot mission after idiot mission, nothing worth his time or effort. Lots of danger, little intel.
They've sent him off to die.
He's in... Hell, he doesn't remember what country this is.
They say this life is overrated.
Fuck it is. The voices around him are speaking Russian mostly. He's in Moscow. The drink is Vodka, and he's had way more than a few of them.
At the rate he's going, if he doesn't get killed, he's going to wash out in an alcoholic haze, like Sam did.
He read Card's files on him, got to see his psych evals. Words like damaged and broken were in there.
If he was broken before, he's fucking shattered now.
There's not a man sitting at that bar, not anymore. Now there's just... a job.
And the job needs to be done. And maybe he'll be breathing when it's done. And maybe it won't. And maybe, if he makes it to tomorrow, he might decide breathing matters.
Or not.
I think about you baby, and I dream about you all the time.
Maybe tomorrow he won't dream.
Michael's listening to a cover of Here Without You by 3 Doors Down.
7.0.1.
Michael Westen is not the kind of guy who sits in a club listening to sad music pouting about a lost love.
His cover does.
And he's having a very hard time keeping himself divorced from his cover right now.
One hundred days that made me older, since the last time that I saw your pretty face.
It's been more than a hundred days, but not many. 103? 105? He forced himself to stop counting a while ago.
No. Michael Westen does not listen to sad music and pout. He does not sit, hunched, at a bar, hearing a cover band warbling about being separated from the one person who matters most. Michael Westen has not once done that, not for himself.
Though he does seem to have a lot of covers that do.
He played the game. He played it longer and harder than anyone before him, and likely anyone after. He's smarter, harder, more experienced, and more desperate than anyone who's ever played. He put everything he had into it, including the lives of the only people he loved, including his brother, and he lost.
"You can't have the job and the girl."
He lost the girl.
He lost the love of the job.
These days he's just going through the motions, because it's easier to pretend that he cares than it is to eat his gun. Because, no matter how tempting the weight of it is in his hand, let alone the taste of metal on his lips, he can't do that to his mom.
Of course, he might not have to.
He can see it in his handler's eyes. Once the thing with Card was wrapped, and it took a lot less time than anyone had thought it would, they were left with a man too dangerous to let go, and too broken to give anything important.
That's the point of this and all the other nameless missions they've sent him on. Idiot mission after idiot mission, nothing worth his time or effort. Lots of danger, little intel.
They've sent him off to die.
He's in... Hell, he doesn't remember what country this is.
They say this life is overrated.
Fuck it is. The voices around him are speaking Russian mostly. He's in Moscow. The drink is Vodka, and he's had way more than a few of them.
At the rate he's going, if he doesn't get killed, he's going to wash out in an alcoholic haze, like Sam did.
He read Card's files on him, got to see his psych evals. Words like damaged and broken were in there.
If he was broken before, he's fucking shattered now.
There's not a man sitting at that bar, not anymore. Now there's just... a job.
And the job needs to be done. And maybe he'll be breathing when it's done. And maybe it won't. And maybe, if he makes it to tomorrow, he might decide breathing matters.
Or not.
I think about you baby, and I dream about you all the time.
Maybe tomorrow he won't dream.
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