MM-Verse: A Familiar Face in a New Case

[luvs_yogurt]

 The Love Hotel was nothing more than a dream from the moment it sent Michael back to his timeline. He woke up in the early morning the day after sleeping off a gunshot graze to the shoulder in a knotted mess of sticky sheets that clearly wasn't only sweat. Whatever it was, it'd been a hell of a wet dream.

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.

Comments

[lighteningcount]

Half an hour later, the door opened and in stepped a man. He was tall, about 6'1" or so, and slender. He was dressed immaculately in a dark grey pin-strip suit with a dark blue shirt and pale gold tie. His long blonde hair was pulled into a ponytail. Glasses were perched on his nose. In one hand was a briefcase.

Milliardo Peacecraft, rather Zechs Merquise, was a quiet man. Not much was known on him. All his files only went back ten or so years, to right around the time he was twenty. He shut the door softly and turned to look at the man sitting in the chair. His pale blue eyes took in every aspect of him. The way he sat, his appearance... Deep in his gut, something felt off.

"Mr. Syriana?" he asked, voice even, face neutral. Nothing he did or said gave away what he was feeling or thinking unless he wanted it to. Years of controlling himself had guaranteed that.

[luvs_yogurt]

Thankfully, Michael Westen was no stranger to the affect of the underworld - he hadn't expected his mark to stroll in giving away the game from the get go. The name was legitimate, and about all he had to go on other than the time and the place.

"You'd better hope so," his voice affected a vaguely western European accent that could reliably be from most anywhere. He folded down the Cuban newspaper he'd been halfheartedly flicking through and rose up to his feet; "Would you care for a drink?"

Anything to stall, to make him feel comfortable and get more information.

[lighteningcount]

That comment. For some reason, that comment set his nerves off. Zechs didn't tense, he just watched him stand up. A generic European accent. Anywhere was right. Germany, France, England...

He turned and locked the door, taking care to keep an eye on Michael at all times. He was no fool, he wouldn't have lasted this long as a thief if he was. He set the briefcase (locked with a combination and a key) down on the table before walking towards Michael.

His suit was well tailored, obviously to him. Not cheap, not off the rack either. "What do you have?" he asked. His own accent was a mix from Luxemburg and France.

[luvs_yogurt]

His eyes easily caught the unusual shock of blonde hair, neatly tied back and it seems to remind him of something - though it was impossible to tell what. He turned his back to the younger man, having already familiarized himself with the minibar and a small bottle of his favorite high end tequila, and gave him the illusion of absolute trust - as close as one could get among thieves anyway.

"Typical American miniature assortment these places like to play with. Tequila, scotch, bourbon, vodka and gin. Some Coke, ginger ale, tonic water... I could call for wine, if you prefer. They've got an excellent Spanish selection, though their French vintage is lacking variety."

He turned back and flashed a brief, confidant smile.

[lighteningcount]

"Who are you?" he asked after a moment of studying Michael.


"Because you are not the man I was supposed to meet." Zechs said unbuttoning his jacket, "Mr. Sryiana doesn't drink alcohol." The blonde man stood there, arms crossed over his chest.

"He was very clear even though I drink, I was to not ask for an alcoholic beverage." He stood a good distance away from Michael. Again, nothing passing over his face. It was like he was made of stone.

[luvs_yogurt]

Michael let his hands linger on the smooth metallic finish of the minibar before turning back toward him with a half-cocked smile. "Has it occurred to you that it's bad manners to ask for a drink? It would be rather presumptuous of me to tell a pawn about my vices."

He folded his arms over his chest, leveling his gaze at the stranger's angular face - watching him clearly through the glass spectacles. "You're right to be on your guard, but I assure you - it's only a drink."

[lighteningcount]

He moved closer, at least three feet. It was then that the smell hit him. Tequila. Zechs' tight composure broke and he brought his hand to his face, a look of confusion coming over him.

Tequila. Yelling. Pain.

What the hell?

He looked at Michael before shaking his head, strands of his hair falling free around his face. "You are not the man I am meeting."

[luvs_yogurt]

The moment of confusion was enough for Michael to step back against the minibar, his fingers closing around the neck heavy green bottle of Perier behind his back. Unfortunately, the moment is fleeting and before he can react those clear blue eyes are once more bearing down on him.

He let out a nervous laugh, genuine but still affected to the moment, and easily replied; "Your dedication will be rewarded, but if you don't cease these accusations the deal is off."

It's a last ditch effort and there's probably a better way to dodge it, but he's distracted by the familiar frame of soft blond falling around the man's face - he's certain he's seen the face before.

[lighteningcount]

He straightened and stared at Michael. "Très bien alors monsieur.*" he said evenly.

Zechs buttoned his suit jacket closed and then turned. He walked back over to where he left his briefcase. He picked it up, tapping his finger against the firm leather. "Then tell your employer that the deal is off. I'm sure there are plenty of other buyers."

(ooc: Fine then sir)

[luvs_yogurt]

His French may not be perfect, but the words strike another familliar chord. Without missing a beat, he manages; "Quelqu'un de très puissant sera plus mécontent d'entendre cela." He paused only the briefest moment, searching for the right word before adding; "Je ne vais pas être rabotés."

With an exaggerated laugh, forced a wide smile and then took a step forward and opened the bottle. "I'm not frightened of your games, thief. If they want it, they will get it with or without your deal."

(ooc: Someone very powerful will be displeased with this. I will not be blamed.)

[lighteningcount]

He turned and smirked at Michael. "Comment pouvez-vous être blâmé pour ce que vous avez pas fait?"

Zechs shook his head. "Au revoir monsieur." He was confident, distant.

(ooc: How can you be blamed for what you have not done?)

[luvs_yogurt]

The voice, that accent... he had to know the man from somewhere. It would have been easy to let him go; Sam and Fi could easily take him by surprise, but he needed to know why there was such a sudden shift - and he was sure it had nothing to do with offering a drink.

Refusing to once more put on the not-so-great French accent, he replied simply; "I know who you are, we've met before." It's mostly a bluff, but if he can get the young man to play along, it was worth the risk.

[lighteningcount]

"Monsieur, I doubt you know who I am." He said. There was something about the faint hurt in his voice... Something. Just something.

He looked at Michael, watching him. Zechs watched the way that his suit stretched around him. It... That confident attitude. It struck something inside him.

[luvs_yogurt]

He took two confident strides forward, not as close as they had been a moment before - but significantly closer to the gun in plain view on the end table. He waited for the man to leave, and when he didn't it was clear that he had his attention. Stalling, he drank deep of the bottle before allowing himself to speak.

"You don't sound so sure about that. I've done business all over the world, men like you are toys to me."

[lighteningcount]

Zechs stiffened. His carefully constructed expression crumpled away. There was rage and anger, there was a bit of confusion under that look as well.

"I am no toy." He said coldly, "Let me guess. You're a spy. Now spies... They're the real toys. To be used and thrown out by their governments." Zechs was not happy.

[luvs_yogurt]

It was a cheap shot and he knew it, but something about the reaction made his back stiffen and toes clench inside his socks and it wasn't the empty threat.

He blinked, and for a moment his dream from several nights before flitted through his mind; warm, soft skin that had been scarred many times. His lips against muscular flesh, biting down until he could taste the tang of blood. My favorite toy...

"I won't argue with you about such trivial nonsense. A spy would have made a grab for the dagger by now - I'm only here on business for someone bigger than me."

[lighteningcount]

"Or not." He said finally regaining his composure, "Spies play much bigger games. Just another example they're pawns. Expendable pawns."

He moved, trailing his fingers along the wood of the table. He cocked his head to one side, his hair falling over his shoulder. He watched Michael, an easy smirk on his lipss.

Though his casual attitude hid his thoughts. The idea of someone holding him down and screwing him senseless. Teeth biting into his skin, hands running over his scarred chest.

[luvs_yogurt]

Michael snorted and let out another chuckle, clearly less nervous than before; though not for the reason the boy might think. He knows that move well, the man was trying to rile him up - make him defensive. It wasn't going to work, he agreed with the statement too much.

"We all play games, don't we?" He took another easy step forward, now within clear range of both the 9mm and the blond. It was easy to figure why his brain went back to the curious dream; he filled out a suit well and showed obvious athletic muscle - not the sort your average gym bunny would build but from actual work and training. Clearly he wasn't a catburgler, no... more a foot soldier.

"That's why you're still here, isn't it? You and I playing this cat and mouse game, waiting for the other to show weakness. Maybe if I think you'll leave, I'll raise the offer out of desperation. Maybe if you think I'd leave this room without the merchandise you'll stop questioning who's in charge here."

He let out another affected laugh; "Negotiations bore me. We both know neither of us is leaving this room until this deal is done."

[lighteningcount]

His pale eyes caught the movement. He tensed and then in a moment he lunged, not at the gun, but Michael.

He intended to take the man down. Zechs didn't want him to get the gun. But for some reason... He wanted to touch the other man. That reason was just secondary to what he was really thinking and feeling. Or was it?

He had been having strange dreams lately. A mysterious man controlling him, having sex with him. Of course, it all turned him on.

[luvs_yogurt]

Michael wasn't expecting the attack, and that was exactly what he viewed it as. The younger man was just as strong as he'd anticipated and knocked him away from the table, sending the mostly full glass bottle skittering across the carpeted floor until it hit the wall. Even off guard, he was tough to knock down but the slam of hard hands against his shoulders is enough to drive him back several steps and skew his glasses.

"Oh, so you wanna fight?" He growled, angling his arm against the close proximity and delivering a hard punch to the chest; "Come on, boy."

[lighteningcount]

He stumbled back, a hand coming to his chest. He growled before grabbing Michael's wrist and twisting. Strong he was. Deceptively so. Yes he was slender, but all of it was muscle. The blonde stepped close to the other man, still holding his wrist.

"Not a fight, a way to get the gun away."

[luvs_yogurt]

The twist was just enough to send a little throb of pain - but not nearly enough to feel the scrape of bone against bone - the guy had training or he'd have gone for an easy breaking point.

"If I wanted to shoot you, I'd have done it well before now," a faint smile crossed his lips and he turned his off knee inward, catching him the side before throwing his body weight against him to take down against the heavy table - pinning him chest to chest.

"It wouldn't benefit me any to kill you and I don't shoot to injure."

[lighteningcount]

Zechs grunted when his back hit the table. He looked up at Michael, staring at him. Staring at that rugged face. Why did it feel like that this wasn't the first time they'd been in this position? He thought quickly. He was in a tricky situation.

This was no ordinary man. Zechs could tell that much about his situation. The way he moved and spoke. His easy fluidity from one persona to the other. The way he was confident without being overly confident or smug.

He'd heard stories, rumors of ya man in Miami. Of course, it would be his luck to run into him. This was an easy in and out job. Or it was supposed to be. Now here the was grappling with the very man he'd wanted to avoid. "Or would you? Guns make noise and I'm assuming you want to avoid the attention of the police." Zechs said evenly the German of his accent thickening. When he became nervous, it came out over the French. It was just how it had always been.

[luvs_yogurt]

His eyes locked down on his gaze and he thrust down against him even harder - the rough grind sending a nearly electric jolt through him. He was brilliant with faces, voices - there was no question he'd had this man in a compromising position before. There was no sense keeping cover, and no way he'd be getting that case without a fight.

"This hotel is no stranger to our element." He grunted, the affect slipping as he thrust against the man again; "One shot they won't even alert security. Two, maybe... Good for me it won't take that many."

He leaned fully over his assailant and with his free hand seized hold of the base of his hair, giving a rough tug to show the skin above his collar. He was scarred, it was faint - at least a month old - but he knew a bite mark when he saw it. "Who are you?"

[lighteningcount]

Zechs' mind was a whirl of thoughts and images. He grunted when Michael ground down against him. He whimpered.

"Zechs Merquise."