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10 December 2012 @ 11:51 am
Burn Notice/James Bond fic; "Kabul"  
Title: Kabul
Author: lastinthebox
Pairing: Michael Westen, James Bond (preslash)
Rating: R (language, implied violence)
Length: 450
Summary: Michael’s work is compromised.
Disclaimer: I don’t own any of these characters. Just playing in the fandom sandbox.
Notes: Written in response to daria234’s Burn Notice prompt of won you over, on comment_fic.


Michael’s kneeled in the dirt scrubbing blood and brain matter off his hands when their paths cross again.

His eyes might be burning from the CS gas, body aching and riddled with shrapnel and bruises, and ears ringing from the rifle fire, but he’s damn good at his job. He knows when he’s got company, unwanted or otherwise. He drops the soiled cloth, pulls the throwaway piece from his boot, and spins on his heel in one fluid motion.

“You’ve compromised my work,” Michael says as levelly as he can manage. Which is a lot more difficult, considering he’s pretty sure he’s got at least three busted ribs from the initial blast. Breathing is hard enough. Holding his gun up with proper sights is like fucking torture.

His unwelcome guest shoves one hand in his sports jacket pocket, the other holding an M4 limply at his side. “You compromised yourself, when you decided to step on my toes and shoot holes through my story. And my targets.”

Michael takes a step forward, then another. He can feel the pain ebb away, giving way for the quick, fiery burn of anger. His hand wavers slightly, so he brings up his other to steady his aim. “I don’t recall ever agreeing to work with you on this one. In fact, I have never agreed to work with you.”

“Going to shoot me, Westen?” the man taunts. “Don’t you think enough people have died today?”

“That’s because you get involved,” Michael hisses. “You stick your fucking nose where it doesn’t belong. And don’t even pull some bureaucratic bullshit excuse. We may work for bosses who won’t work for each other, but I know you got word we had this. You knew we had the intel, you knew we had a way into this cell, and you got fucking involved.”

The man’s grip on the rifle tightens, eyes darkening, deadly. “I saved you back there.”

“But at what cost? Good people are dead. Good agents, good terps, innocent people. Damn it!”

“The cost, Westen, is the risk of this job description,” the other man snaps. “So we wipe the blood off our hands, and we bury our dead, and we get on with it.”

Michael laughs humorlessly, sending shockwaves of agony up and down his sides, black spots dancing in his periphery. Takes the deepest breath he can. He knows from experience, he’s got but a few moments before the pain and the exhaustion swallows him whole. So he makes a decision. He lowers his weapon. “Get out of here, Bond. Get out of country. I’ll clean up the fucking mess.”

In here, everything is beautiful...: (bn) Mike Westen Readsrise_your_dead on December 13th, 2012 11:42 am (UTC)
Mmmm, it's been awhile since we've had some good Bond/Michael fic. This is lovely!