I've known Sam a long time, and he's more often than not a good friend and strong ally. We watch each other's backs and everything works out just fine. He's the closest thing I've got to a 'best friend'. Currently played in milliways_bar.
What can I say about Clementine? She's... colorful. Much like a disco ball, she's a lot of fun at parties but if I spend too much time with her I end up with a headache and a vaguely guilty feeling. I didn't think much of her when I met her; practically strapped to Sam's arm over Thanksgiving dinner at Mom's, but as the two of them have gotten closer I've come to better understand her... sort of. She's a friend; the sort that I'm assuming one day I'll have to get out of trouble with the law, even though in Reno she apparently is law enforcement. Currently played in milliways_bar.
Explaining anything about Zechs is... complicated. In many ways, he is a dream - a memory of something that I can't prove ever happened. He's a kindred spirit in many ways, and now that I've seen him in flesh - in this reality - I'm just as conflicted as when I consider my past with Fiona. Currently played in the_love_hotel.
Emma is one of the few women I've clicked with in my life - and the first since Fiona left. We met at the bar a little while back, and I can honestly say that I'm glad we did. Smart, sharp, beautiful and not afraid to put me in my place. I'm honestly conflicted about where I want things to go right now, but if it felt right, I wouldn't hesitate to take the next step... even if the first time ended badly. Currently played in milliways_bar.
Tommy's a good guy - despite what he'd have you believe if he had his way. Sure, he's got issues - but really, don't we all? He's seen shit and been through shit nobody should have to, and that's enough in my book to consider him a friend. Not to mention he saved my ass from a structure fire, so I kind of owe him. A favorite drinking buddy, as long as it's non-alcoholic. Currently played in milliways_bar.
William's a good kid, no... a good man. In a lot of ways he reminds me of myself at seventeen - responsible for his family and yet still trying to find his place in the world. I like to think he made the better decision in staying with them than doing what I had done and joining the army. While we're more than a century separated, I consider him as much a brother as my own. Currently played in milliways_bar.
Code by: itsanooray
The last trip to Miami with Emma had felt like walking on eggshells, but he knows the cattle drive with William and Jack as well as stomping around on survival training with Sam Anders were nothing more than stalling for time under the guise of helping people. He didn't want to go back to Miami, as much as he wants to get his life back together, a growing part of him is already feeling the pull of something different... what, he doesn't know but the little tiny voice in the back of his mind keeps telling him something is wrong.
It’s been three days, three days of waiting for something to happen – be it another assassin, an explosion, a call… anything. For all intents and purposes it seems like Phillip Cowan has dropped off the face of the planet. So, he waits.
He becomes best friends with his gun again, itchy to pull it with his finger on the trigger at the slightest sign of anything. He trains; sit-ups, pull-ups, the heavy bag, drills. He isn’t eating enough or sleeping enough and thinking entirely too much. Dwelling.
The text comes when he least expects it, as Sam’s giving him the spiel on some job for a friend.
Bayshore Park Fountain 1:00
They could have ended it then, but Michael thinks ahead and brings Sam and his bucket of chicken just in case things go south fast. Cowan disapproves and disappears again, but it gives Michael time to decipher a message Cowan leaves behind – and gives Sam a chance to work his case.
The next message comes as a call to his mother’s house, where she’s shaking and nearly frantic with worry. Vanburen Avenue, not even a time or an idea of where to meet, but the other message is loud and clear despite not being said; they know where he is and where his loved ones are. Michael can’t help thinking she’s in danger and grilling him while she chain smokes circles around Nate isn’t making it any easier. Still, he feels safer knowing that his little brother and a gun are there to watch over her.
Vanburen Avenue is mostly a strip mall, little shops where he finds a guy that was paid to deliver a greeting card with another message inside.
More time to wait and another newspaper clipping about a mission Michael’s responsible for are all Cowan has to offer him again. He wants to meet at city hall this time. At least it gives Michael time to get the Charger back up and running… mostly.
When his mother slams her way into the loft demanding answers, Nate trailing behind her, he’s all too aware of just how much he’s hurting her. Part of him wants her to know who her oldest son really is; that he’s a spy, that he’s not just the reason everyone he knows is in danger but that things are much worse than she’ll ever know.
“We’re your family, Michael. I’m asking that you trust us.”
“And when would I have learned how to do that?” It’s a low blow and he knows it, he wants her to drop the subject and just leave things be… bringing up the past usually does a good enough job. But when he sees her jaw set as she holds back tears it’s all he can do not to back down.
“You were gone for a long time, Michael. And you were the one who left us.”
His mother’s words cut worse than any blade, because they’re true – he left. He can’t do it, he thinks. He can’t do it right now. Maybe when it’s all done with and he has his life back he can afford the luxury of telling her all the pain was for something worth hurting for. Not now.
“I have a meeting to get to. So if we could wrap this up…” He offers a fake smile she knows means that he’s done, and if he didn’t know her, he’d be sure she’s going to cry.
“Let’s go, Nate.” Her voice is defeated, and her face turns to stone; “He’s got a meeting.”
Helping Sam on a job means a gun to his head, but he’s free to do what he knows best. Disarm, break the guy’s hand and then lose another windshield on the Charger getting away when it all goes south for him. It’s a distraction, an unwelcome one, and someone else to add to the list of people that want him dead. Another chance to be face to face with Cowan is lost because of Sam’s ‘bit part’ for him, but he has a chance to leave a message of his own; John 3:16.
Saint John’s cathedral at 3:16pm – and Cowan calls to meet back at the top of the parking garage. Michael knows deep down that Sam’s in over his head with this job and needs him on the case, but he can’t do it. He has to end this. He has to run to get to Cowan on time and clear his name. He needs to get his life back.
He doesn’t even find out Sam’s in trouble until it’s too late. All he knows is that Phillip Cowan, the man whose signature ruined his life is standing right in front of him.
“I want to know why you burned me.”
“You think I burned you?”
“I know you did.”
“Why? Because you read it on a file? Wow! You really unraveled that little mystery, didn’t you? You think this is about me? One man watched you, targeted you, burned you? Froze your accounts? Cut off your travel? One guy did all that, and then he decided to come to Miami and explain himself?”
“You tried to have me killed.”
“Nothing personal. You’d do the same in my position. Michael, you keep thinking this is about me. Banish that thought. You’re on the edge of something much, much bigger than us, my friend. People I work for, they have plans for you.”
“People you work for?”
“Powerful, dangerous people. And, man, are they upset with me. I misread you, Michael. Didn’t expect you to buck quite so much. You’re making everyone nervous.”
A gunshot rings out and blood is spattered across his face and chest. He was right, only one of them would be walking away, but he wasn’t the one who pulled the trigger and neither was Cowan. It was a setup, maybe.
And just like that, he’s almost back where he started. Cowan said a lot, but it doesn’t tell him more than that it’s a far bigger, far worse situation than he’d feared. It’s time to try damage control, to get Nate and their Mom out of town, to close Sam’s case and maybe get him out of town too.
Only Sam’s case has gone from bad to worse and a group of heroin smugglers nabbed him when things went sour. They’ve already killed two people and they’ve got the closest thing to a best friend Michael could have.
Still wearing Cowan’s blood on his gray suit and smart shirt, he lets Nate pick him up and drive him to the scene even though he knows that’s one more loved one he’s putting in danger. Nate’s truck is another necessary casualty in the process of trying to find out where Sam’s being held.
There’s no time to think about Cowan, but what he said lingers in the back of Michael’s mind as they retreat to Nate’s place and tap weapons stashes Michael has left all over Miami. Nate’s in charge of Mom, and he’s in charge of getting Sam back.
A phone call from Sam’s captors provides the first opening, setting a meet to arrange an exchange one business man to another. And more importantly, it provides photographic proof that Sam’s still alive. Very alive, beaten and bloody, but sending a coded message telling them to stay away and that he’s not going to get out alive.
“Not on my watch, brother.”
They don’t have time for this, but Michael can’t let it go. Covert intelligence agencies don’t call you up and tell you why they’re hunting you… he has to know who’s after him. Who killed Cowan. Who ‘they’ are really worrying about. So he makes a trail to flush out a little information in a crowded area, he calls his old handler with a very obvious message for them to come looking for him. Soon enough, guys in suits with armored cars come pouring out of the alleyways and backstreets. It’s enough to take back to the hideout and consider while he waits for Sam’s captors to call and negotiate terms, at least.
He knows they need more information if they’re going to get Sam back and information on drug dealers in the Miami area with lots of money to be moved falls back to one guy. He hates doing it, and knows it’s the sort of thing nobody wants to do to a friend, but Barry’s all he’s got to work with.
“It’s not a favor.”
“No, it’s not. Favors don’t get you killed. I give you a name, it gets back, we’re in a ‘Barry face down in the river’ situation.”
“I’m not asking, Barry. We’re friends or we’re enemies here.”
“Well, if you put it that way.”
“I put it that way.”
He sighs and for a minute, Michael’s worried that things are about to get really, really ugly. “You want the biggest heroin dealer in Miami? This guy’s as big as you say, they’re probably working together.”
“No. Who’s the second biggest.”
Two rivals against each other makes things a lot easier for they guy on the outside waiting to see the spoils of their fight. Finally, Barry gives up a name, but not without a curious turn following it up. Michael’s looking for a heroin dealer named Carmello, but a strange woman on the other end of Barry’s cellphone is looking for him.
“Come out, come out wherever you are. We need to talk, Michael. We’ve been trying to bring you in.”
“Talk about what?”
“Your past, your future.”
For the first time in a long time, Michael Westen is willing to admit he’s afraid. Afraid for his family, for Sam.
Getting Carmello to cooperate is easy enough, some small explosive devices wired with remote detonators on a kill switch in Michael’s hand – he dies and so does everyone else. A few threats on his life and his business bolster the effort, but it buys him a name that gets a location that leads him to Sam.
He’s being held in a heavily guarded barge, of all the places to end up – and not in the marina that his captors say he’s being held at. It’s enough information to go back to the hideout again and make sure his family’s safe and maybe that they understand.
“Mom, I’ll call you when – if it’s safe to come back. Take this, it’s a new phone. It hasn’t been used, so it’s untraceable. It’s for emergencies only. We want to keep communication to a minimum.”
“We’re not taking your car from you, are we?”
“No. Whoever’s coming after me might have eyes on it. So, I’ll drive you and Nate up to Fort Lauderdale and that’s where I’ll ‘find’ you another car.”
She laughs, still keeping the shreds of her sense of humor in all the mess of the last few days… the last year. “I remember the time you stole your first car. Dad was off God-knows-where and I had to get Nate to the doctor. You must have been what, twelve?”
“Ten. I remember it. You were pretty angry.”
“Yeah. I was also proud. You did lots of things I didn’t understand, but you did ‘em for the family. You know, Michael… I did too.”
“I know, Mom, I know.”
They’re predictably followed out of Miami, Madeline didn’t mean to tip the off, but she also didn’t know that calling a tapped phone is all it takes to send up a signal to let the people looking for you know exactly where you are. In the end, getting Mom and Nate out of the situation safely means turning himself in to the people that are hunting him.
“I know this line is tapped. I know you’re listening. I don’t know who you are, but I know this – you want me to come in alive, you call me now or I will end this right here.” He presses the barrel of his gun against the bottom of his chin and believes it. He hopes he’s only bluffing, but if that’s what it takes to make all of this stop…
“Michael. Don’t do anything stupid.”
“I have a proposal I’d like to discuss.”
“I have a job to do.” A friend to rescue. “I need twelve hours. You give me that, I will come in alive. If you don’t – if you even come near me before that – I will put a bullet in my head.”
“You wouldn’t do that, Michael. You’ve got such a bright future.”
Does he? A future of running away and hiding? A future of slipping off to Milliways to pretend Miami isn’t still waiting for him? “Maybe, maybe not. You give me twelve hours, you don’t need to find out.”
Silence. Michael’s heart races and his finger slides over the trigger. One pull and it’s all over. Just when he’s ready to try his own resolve, her agents back down. “I believe we have a deal.”
Busting Sam out is a matter of more explosives and fighting a guy just as well trained as he is – killing him just to get to his friend.
“I thought I told you to stay away, Mikey. I tried to warn you.”
“I was never good at taking orders, Sam. That’s why you were a soldier and I was a spy.”
The explosives are set to go at any minute and sink the barge, taking down the smuggler’s operation for good, and they can’t move fast enough across the deck and over the side to the waiting dock – the last thing Michael remembers is tucking in tight against Sam as the concussive blast sends them airborn and through a door.
When he opens his eyes, he’s not in Miami anymore. He’s not sure exactly where he is, the blast and hitting a hard floor at high speed have knocked him hard enough he barely remembers his own name, but he’s not home.
But then there's also the question of if he should go ahead and start working on the matter of finding this spy that's responsible for his burn notice before the guy finds him... assuming they don't already have a target on his back when he goes through the door.
It's those thoughts that make it so he doesn't even see William when he brushes past him; "Excuse me..." he mutters in a soft, distracted tone - not stopping his steady steps.
[ooc: Looking to take Michael to other worlds for action and adventure and who knows what else. Up for pretty much anything, feel free to utilize any of his spy skills. Contact IC through any means you like to negotiate terms... including payment, unless it's sort of an emergency or you need a favor. He's not heartless.]
After a long shower, where he manages to wash away as much evidence of the fire as he can - leaving behind only pink skin that could be a sunburn and singed eyebrows to go with his rough throat and aching chest - he puts on a clean t-shirt and boxers, and then curls up with his pillow and blanket for some much needed rest until she (hopefully) comes to see him.
It's not supposed to feel like this. He's not supposed to feel like this. They've known each other all of two weeks - one brush with death and sleeping together shouldn't make it feel like he's been kicked in the chest to watch her walk away. One night stands happen, a physical connection to deal with stress and anxiety and feel close to someone for a little bit before breaking ties.
That wasn't what happened. It wasn't supposed to happen.
Both the fuel tank and his energy running close to empty, when he finally returns to the loft the sun's coming up. He climbs up to the platform overlooking his bed - he can't sleep when the sheets smell like her - and collapses on the sofa until it's too hot to sleep anymore.
When he wakes again, it's almost one and his empty stomach reminds him that he hasn't eaten more than a cup of yogurt in the last two days. As he remedies that with another cup of yogurt over the sink he realizes he's not the only one who's probably not looking their best.
As expected, Sam doesn't answer his phone, but Michael leaves a message anyway; "Hey, uh... Sam. Up for a two mojito lunch? Come by the loft."
Seems like as good a time as any to break out the heavybag and beat the crap out of his fists.
He took the stairs quickly, almost silent when he turned his key in the lock and opened the door to his room. And just like he'd expected, she was in his bed nestled against the soft pillows with her eyes closed, blonde curls pushed up against her face. She wore the innocence that someone can really only pull off while sleeping, that perfect moment where there is no worry, no considering the next move, only blissful peace. It would be easy to slip into bed beside her, to kiss her again - bold faced and sober and buying in to what part of him really did want to do.
Of course, he wasn't that guy. He wouldn't betray her trust or risk pushing something she didn't want. Instead, he knocked loudly on the door and said; "Emma? We should get ready."
"Feel free to make yourself at home," he smiles as he unlocks and then pushes open the door. "It's not much, but it's private and comfortable."
Pacing inside, he does a visual check on autopilot - confirming everything is where it should be (the whiskey being a nice and welcome touch, the bottle had been empty and wine the last time he left) and no nasty surprises were waiting.
"Do you mind if I..." he's already shouldering off his dirty, torn jacket; "put on something a little less destroyed?"
He had one last transaction to make, one more very shady deal and he'd been promised an audience with the man himself.
Michael wasn't expecting to come face to face with the blond he'd parted ways with on somewhat questionable terms in a cheap motel only a week prior. Damn it.
"You aren't the guy I'm supposed to meet!" Michael clenched his jaw, eyes quickly darting from one side to the other - trying to indicate to his lover that he wasn't alone and there were two other heavily armed men waiting for a good reason to put a bullet in him. "I'm not doing this deal with a guy I never met that aint the guy I'm supposed to be meetin'." He affects a deep southern drawl, rubbing his hands over a greasy undershirt, attempting to show he's undercover - not Michael Westen. Just another idiot fresh off the bus in Miami that thinks he can run guns with the 'big boys' in Moore's gang.
He spent the first night in Room 15 since the apocalypse... and it wasn't so bad, really. More quiet than the loft and with a far smaller chance of being woken up by gunshots in the middle of the night. When he woke just past eight o'clock - in whatever passed for local time - he felt refreshed, and dare he say it, enthusiastic about his upcoming lesson.
With a slightly cocky gait, he slips on his shades and procures a small picnic breakfast from the kitchen before making his way to the stables. He takes the long way around, enjoying the strange morning chill on his arms as it's warmed by the sun - such a different world from Miami where he'd be choking on smog and applying sunscreen this time of morning.
As he approaches the stable, he keeps his eyes open behind the brown lenses for first sight of his apparent instructor. "Kate?" He calls out with a gentle smile as he approaches the building; "It's Michael..."
When he opens the door back at home, the loft is empty and quiet - the late afternoon already draping shadows across the unmade bed and scarred floor. He retrieves the last beer from the fridge, thanks Sam for at least leaving him one, and then downs half of it before dialing the familiar number.
"Michael? Oh God, what's wrong this time?"
"Nothing, I just wanted to see how things are going."
Madeline Westen is silent for a long moment. He can hear her light a cigarette and exhale into the receiver before she says; "All right, I'll bite... what do you need?"
"I don't need anything, can't I can't just call my mother?"
"You can, but you haven't in twenty years," she replies bitterly.
It's an exaggeration, but not by much. "Yeah, well... that's my fault."
"Well... yeah, it is." She laughs, but he knows it's her nerves more than genuine humor. "Michael, you're... you're making me a little nervous. Have you been drinking?"
"I had one drink and I'm drinking a beer, but I just wanted to make sure that everything is going fine. Is there anything you need? Do you want me to come fix anything or maybe put in that alarm system we were talking about? Maybe I could pick up something at the store..." He's rambling, he knows it but he can't stop the flow of words - it's the first time in a long time he's been forced to remember that he's more than a spy.
"Michael! Stop it, you're scaring me!" Her voice pitches up and he stops mid though, swallowing back his emotions with another large slug of cheap beer. "What's gotten into you?"
It takes a minute, but he restrains himself - once more the stoic voice and calm mind. "Sorry... I've just... I was thinking about you and, uh... Nate and how things are going."
"It's fine, Michael... you know that. We make do."
"I know," he replies quietly, they always have. Even in the worst of times the Westens have made do.
She exhales loudly against the receiver again; "Actually, since I've got you on the phone... you think you could give a friend of mine a call? She's worried about her grandson..."
Of course she is. "Sure," he agrees, clearly more quickly than she had expected he would; "what's the number?"
Perhaps a little shockingly, he wasn't what Michael had expected at all. He'd been on the scene a couple years; specializing in items that were high risk or higher security. Apparently had family in Luxemburg, but there was no record of them or any known associates. Oh, and he doesn't actually exist. That was a very interesting detail.
After a morning deep in further research, he had no answers but enough ammunition to maybe get some first hand. After spending the afternoon under the Charger, he cleaned up and took the evening to disappear to the motel. Checked in, sitting alone in a short-sleeved button down and jeans in the dark, he waited for the man to arrive.
Not two days later, he was back on a case. A friend of a friend of Sam's, a pompous ass of a legitimate antiquities dealer, had been the victim of an early morning break-in. The job was interesting in that the damage done in the theft was minimal, the thief clearly skilled, and only a single item was taken: a gaudy jeweled dagger that according to the legend had mystical powers. The ten grand cash up front with another twenty on delivery didn't hurt either.
Thanks to Barry and a couple connections that wished to remain anonymous Michael was able to get a little bit more of the story, and a location. Turns out the item was sought after by some Asian crime boss who'd put word out to operatives worldwide that he'd pay good money for the real deal, at least that was the story among far less reputable antiquities dealers in Miami. The item was supposed to be passed off in a private meeting, and even after exhausting all of his contacts Michael was lucky to find out the location only hours before the arrival time - he had one single email from the buyer to the thief to go on for his cover.
After incapacitating the buyer's representative (in the trunk of Sam's BMW) Michael tried to make himself at home in the obscenely upscale Fontainbleu penthouse in his best suit and tie, slicked his hair back and replaced his shades with square-framed spectacles in an effort to look like the sort of upperclass thug that would be making such a deal. Sam's genuine leather briefcase that had spent the better part of a decade collecting dust completed the image.
It was only a matter of time. The plan was to get the thief comfortable and take the trade as far as they could, if he was willing to take the bait case with only a single layer of twenties on top of printer paper without checking too hard - Sam and Fi were waiting outside to take him down. If not, well... Michael was armed and ready to roll. At the first sound of gunfire, Sam and Fiona would take the real contact and high tail it for a secure location.
With a low moan, he stumbles to the foot of his bed and lets himself fall into the knotted sheets. He can smell Sam & Clementine clinging to the unwashed bedding, but he doesn't care - in the long run, it doesn't matter.
As he falls asleep, his phone gives a single low pitched chirp - the alarm to let him know his dimensional door is locked and he can't go back for who knows how long, if ever.
[ooc: Michael's in a bit of a funk, out of Milliways until after the shift - combing with the MM-verse and likely not continuing much of the TLH stuff as mun just doesn't have the time for it. Old friends, of course, always welcome. Profile and journal under construction for the next several days.]
Sam was late, which really wasn't a shock - but he'd been on edge all week saying he had some big surprise for everyone at Thanksgiving. Michael just hoped it wasn't green bean casserole, that had been (unenthusiastically) taken care of. Of course, Michael wasn't exactly one for surprises and pretty suspicious about the whole thing.
Pacing down the front walk, Michael crosses his arms against the mild chill of what passed for winter in Florida. His shirtsleeves crumple against his tie and for a moment he almost looks menacing, squinting behind his sunglasses for signs of the car that should have arrived an hour previous.
Stretching his aching arms in the large bed, he only found cool silk each direction. Experimentally, he struck out blindly with his legs - still nothing. The headache was mild, but his mouth felt like he'd been chewing wool all night. Apparently he'd slept harder and longer than he'd actually intended to. "Zechs?" He asked quietly, not yet ready to open his eyes. "You here?"
Mun is up for single smut only scenes (random encounters or building a friendship) or smut in the context of a job or long term story line - just try to give her a heads up if it's not obvious where things are going. That said, springing it on Michael can be kind of fun.
Mikey is bisexual with an inclination toward women, not that he advertises it. He's comfortable in his sexuality, but doesn't have much interest in romance - it's too dangerous to stay around anyone for too long. Though, stranger things have happened.
Michael tends to roll with any sort of situation. He enjoys pleasing his partner as much as getting off himself. He's a situational switch, but more comfortable with taking a dominant role with people he doesn't trust - however, comfort can be negligible.
Things That Are Likely To Get His Attention: Flirting, he's pretty easy going. Typically he will not make the first move (unless decided ooc that will be the case or it's for a job).
Acceptable Acts: oral, penetration, frot, mild-moderate roughness, mild bondage, group scenes, planned D/s themes (but he's nobody's slave - this stays within specific confines), manipulation, toys, mild fetish.
Please Talk To Mun First: dub-con, non-con, anything that can leave scars, fluff (if he's under cover, this is significantly easier than usual), hard fetish.
Please No: animals, children, non-humanoids, bathroom play, necrophilia, snuff.