Michael Westen

Miliverse/Canon: Loose Ends

Sun, 09 Sep 2012 03:31:21 GMT

[ooc: This is a canon wrap up for the season 1 finale two-parter Dead Drop & Loose Ends. Spoilers obviously contained herein as well as some minor tweaking (particularly the removal of Fiona from the storyline) to accommodate current Milliways canon. All dialogue in italics directly from the episodes. The linked threads are still in progress, apologies!]

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.

Thursday 6pm

Alone

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.

“It’s complicated.”

“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’m listening.”

“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.”

“Fair enough.”

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.

“Shit.”

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Milli-Verse: Nightmare

Wed, 13 Jun 2012 03:54:56 GMT

[ooc: BIG OLE WARNING OF DOOM ON THIS.
TRIGGER WARNING FOR GRAPHIC PHYSICAL CHILD ABUSE.
YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.]

Please, please don’t ever call me a hero. Heroes don’t fear pain; they’re molded, tempered and honed by it.

“It was me!” Young Michael, barely an adolescent, stands in between his parents – staring his father straight in the eyes even as the hand that had just split mother’s lip is directed toward him. It’s early enough that he’s still drunk from the night before, still reeking of whiskey and beer.

The cops are gone now, they’d let Madeline off with a warning for shoplifting since the owners refused to press charges, but in the process they woke Frank up from his Sunday morning sleeping it off. Michael wishes they’d have stayed – that they had noticed the way his mother flinched and tried to hold back tears when she heard him tell the police he’d take care of the problem. Never mind that he would have actually done it if he’d known what they needed – and probably gotten away with it. Never mind that it was aspirin to bring down his little brother’s fever and some food because they were broke again when his father’s paycheck didn’t make it past the bar.

“I was stealing; she told them it was her so that I wouldn’t get in trouble.” Michael stands his ground even when a slap across the face closes his wild eyes. He can still hear the sound of leather clearing denim belt loops.

“Michael, no…” Madeline gasps, barely whisper that nobody hears above the hard and fast rain of blows from the belt.

Thighs, stomach, back – always places nobody bothers to look until a kid shows up with one too many black eyes to write off as ‘boys being boys’. Places Michael’s used to being hit. “Damn it Frank, that’s enough!” his mother’s voice cracks and he can hear her light a cigarette to cover the fact that she’s crying – a world away he can imagine Nate curled up in the closet doing whatever he can to block out the noise and pretend that nothing’s happening

“You’re next,” he growls.

“It’s your fault,” Michael yells, he knows he has to do something to draw the attention back to himself – he can handle it. “If you could pull your head out of the bottle long enough to think for two seconds you’d know that.” He opens his eyes only a second – just long enough to see buckle coming for his face. He’s aware of the strike, the yellow and red star of pain, and then wetness on his face as his mother screams at Frank to leave. The door slams and as Madeline’s smoke comes closer and her fingers tug at his clothes to check his bruises.

Something soft is pressed against his face and his mother sighs; “I… I can’t take you to the hospital, honey. Not like this. Here…” She blots at the cut on his face, ruining her best white washcloth in the process; “look at me, Michael.”

Forcing his eyes, he realizes the wetness is blood and it’s not as close to his eye as he knows his mother fears – but it’s deep and it hurts worse than anything else. “I’m fine,” he whimpers, the first big tears finally allowed to roll down his cheeks when he hears the thunder of the Charger blowing down the driveway.

After a long, quiet moment of staring at each other he knows that his mother’s breaking. She thinks he’s stupid for taking the beating, for forcing himself between them. “He’s not a bad man,” Madeline swallows hard, her mascara running dark lines into her tearstained foundation; “he’s only like this…”

“When he’s drinking,” the boy’s voice is barely a whisper and as she leads him to the bathroom to clean him up and teach him how to make a couple stitches with rubbing alcohol and fishing line. In the mirror, he can see Nate lingering in the doorway and watching him – confused, barely old enough to understand what’s going on and desperately pretending the lie they’re going to tell the school is truth. Michael was in a fight with a bigger boy, yes, he’s fine.

Spies are terrified of pain; their demons haunt them just as much as anyone else despite having many more of them. They’re just good at hiding it.

A very adult Michael wakes up shuddering and sweating, cursing at the darkness in a world so far from his own it’s the fucking end of the universe. It takes a long run to the bathroom (thanks to the anti-radiation drugs Ellen had pumped into him) to stop shaking enough that he can hold the almost empty bottle of whiskey still lingering in his room from his last visit from Emma.

Choking back the memory, the very real and very terrifying memory that only opens the floodgates of the last few weeks, he pours out the last double and stares at it in the dark room.

Back on Gunsmoke, he’d held a gun to a little girl’s head. He’d shot a man without even feeling it. There had to have been another way – he could have just knocked him out, tied him up with his buddies. Even if he did shoot Wolfwood, the preacher was fine. He didn’t have to put rounds in Pierre’s chest. Even if it was just the gut decision in the heat of the moment, the guilt still weighs heavily on him.

He laughs bitterly and picks up the heavy glass – rolling it in his hands as the limited light catches the amber liquid. His back still aches from the shard of shrapnel from the Wasteland, the circular scar from Paco’s ring is still obvious on the back of his head, and when he takes a deep breath he can feel the tingle of burned lung tissue from New York that’ll never let him breathe the same. Every time he runs further away from what’s waiting for him in Miami, he learns more and lets the pain shape him even further.

When he looks in the mirror and sees the scar he’ll bear the rest of his life he swears he can still feel the strike and knows that he’s not his father. Still, he clings to his drink – whiskey’s not the enemy, it’s a simple thing. A drink, a way to numb the pain – to forget the look of terror on the little girl’s face as he shoved his 9mm against her head with his finger on the trigger.

He takes a long sip, swallowing hard as the whiskey flushes his cheeks and burns his throat until he clears more than half the glass. He knows if he drinks the rest of it, maybe he’ll be able to sleep tonight. And maybe if he gets another bottle he won’t dream about something just as bad – Chechnya, St. Petersburg, Dublin, Fiona telling him she’s walking away, his mother held at gunpoint by people after him, a bomb in front of a store filled with civilians going off while he and William fought an assassin simply to get his attention.

Michael lets out a ragged breath and grips the neck of the empty bottle – room service is damn good at Milliways and he knows when he goes to pour again it’ll be full with the same cheap whiskey that he’s clinging to like a man desperate to hide his demons. The thought’s enough to curl his fingers tight around the glass.

With a loud, angry growl, the heavy bottle shatters against the corner in a spray of heavy glass and whiskey.

“I’m not a bad man.”

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OOM: William Evans Visits Miami

Sun, 27 May 2012 05:16:06 GMT

Michael's on his way to the door, his polo shirt and jeans dusty from training with Duncan and a lasso out by the stables most of the morning and a pair of new work gloves hanging out of his pocket already showing signs of wear. He's got a lot on his mind, not the least of which is a small list of items he's on his way to retrieve before heading out to Ellen's world again to fight robots - because that's something that happens now that Milliways has become a considerable part of his life. Spy, cowboy, futuristic robot slayer... why the hell not. Sure beats posing as another millionaire playboy looking to score hot guns.

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.

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Posted On The Board at Milliways:

Wed, 09 May 2012 07:07:43 GMT

[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.]

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OOM: Millways Room 15 with Emma, Take Two

Sat, 28 Apr 2012 03:34:41 GMT

It's been a long couple days and frankly Michael's not ready to go back to Miami. All he can think about is making things right with Emma, fixing the good thing they have as best he can. After stopping at the bar for a much needed beer he fished a napkin out of his pocket and left Emma a note to come find him.

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.

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OOM: Lady Troubles

Wed, 11 Apr 2012 17:45:34 GMT

After dropping Emma off, Michael doesn't go home right away. The Charger cuts through pre-dawn traffic with no particular direction, slowly rolling past palm trees, bodegas, warehouses and nightclubs - none of which he particularly cares to see.

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.

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OOM: Welcome to Miami, Emma

Sun, 01 Apr 2012 21:02:14 GMT

It'd been a strange day already and things were just getting started for Michael. Thankfully his hangover had abated over the course of his unexpected bartending shift and by the time he'd served his last cup of yogurt he was ready to get the ball rolling in Miami.

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."

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OOM: Milliways Room 15

Wed, 28 Mar 2012 20:29:52 GMT

After their quick walk, Michael let Emma lead the way back to the bar. He hasn't been up to his room since the apocalypse, but unsurprisingly it's exactly as he'd left it - looking vaguely like every single mid-range hotel room in Miami. A comfortable double bed occupies the center of the room with a small table and two chairs off to one side. Immediately beside the table is a minifridge on top of a small counter sporting a two-cup coffee maker and an unopened bottle of whiskey with two fresh tumblrs. Along the other side of the room is a small closet that Michael hopes still has a fresh change of clothes and assorted odds and ends he needed at one point or another.

"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?"

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TLH-Verse: Another Job

Thu, 22 Mar 2012 06:58:35 GMT

It's just supposed to be another job, Michael had been working almost a week on putting together his cover and infiltrating a small time gun runner's inner circle all in an effort to get close to their leader - a man named Douglas Moore who was proving to be more elusive than Michael had initially hoped. Of course, the problem with trying to get in with gun runners when you happen to have a history with one runner in particular is that you have to sell it. Without Fiona on his side, he'd had to pull off almost half a dozen shady deals to even get to the people that are allowed to drop Moore's name without getting a rifle stock to the back of the head.

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.

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OOM: Ticket To Ride... A Horse

Tue, 20 Mar 2012 04:22:44 GMT

Meeting Miss Kate was a bit of a surprise, not that he didn't expect to meet a woman from another century in Milliways... far from it - he just didn't expect to meet a lady with a sharp tongue and a knack for horses. Which is precisely how he's found himself dressed down in a pair of worn jeans and a white t-shirt swiped from his grease stained 'working on the car' collection.

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..."

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Milli-Verse: Things You Forget

Sat, 17 Mar 2012 23:04:36 GMT

It's not that happy hour wasn't exactly happy, he's getting out and meeting people... but just like in Miami, Michael seems to find the ones that cut him deep when it's the last thing he wants to think about. When he steps back through the door at the back of Carlito's, he stops for a beer only to find his wallet again empty.

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.

"Hey Mom."

"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?"

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MM-Verse: Unraveling Threads

Wed, 14 Mar 2012 16:34:58 GMT

He didn't sleep after his apparent reunion with one Zechs Merquise, he returned the dagger to it's owner and collected his small fee and then after a few beers with Sam and Fi got on to digging up what he could on the thief.

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.

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MM-Verse: A Familiar Face in a New Case

Thu, 23 Feb 2012 03:49:17 GMT

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.

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Milli-Verse: The More Things Stay Same, The More They Change

Wed, 22 Feb 2012 15:36:49 GMT

Stumbling out of the dimensional door, Michael finds himself back in the silent loft. He's had entirely too much drink as he's spent the better part of a week in that state at Milliways pondering what he's doing in Miami against the backdrop of the end of the end of the universe. It's pretty Zen, really.

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.]

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