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Entry tags:
- bingo,
- emma frost,
- moira,
- sean
XM:FC Bingo - 2nd square
Title: Mistakes
Rating: gen
Content notes: none
Bingo square: wildcard - AU: Fusion
Summary: Moira has her on-again-off-again boyfriend sleeping on her mattress, when her friend Emma brings some interesting news. Burn Notice fusion.
My name is Moira MacTaggert. I used to be a spy. Until I ended up on the blacklist.
When you're burned, you've got nothing: no cash, no credit, no job history. You're stuck in whatever city they decide to dump you in. In my case: Miami, Florida.
You do whatever work comes your way. You rely on anyone who's still talking to you. A trigger-happy ex-boyfriend, an old friend who used to inform on you to the FBI, and family too...if you're desperate. Which I'm not.
But the bottom line? Until you figure out who burned you... You're not going anywhere.
Moira leaned on the kitchen counter and watched Sean sleeping on the lone mattress on the floor. The mattress wasn't that big and he took most of the space sprawled like that, arm slung over his eyes, the sheet tangled around his wisp thin waist. It had been awhile since she had had a chance to watch him sleep. It had been awhile since he had been in her bed.
She sighed and scooped the last of the blueberry yogurt from the cup. Their relationship had always been complicated, but this was a new low. Or new high, depending which direction they were headed. The only thing she was sure was that there was no casual sex between them. Sean had wanted to talk, but they hadn't gotten that far. In a way, that was great. She hated the Talks.
“Damn,” Moira muttered to herself and scraped the bottom of the cup before tossing it in the trash. She should've put a stop to it, but Sean knew how to get under her skin. He played dirty, that's what it was.
The bass line thrummed in the walls from the downstairs club, but she could hear the light steps on the stairs. High heels. Moira guessed who it was, but she hadn't made this far by being careless. People did have a nasty habit breaking in the loft.
She had a gun in the kitchen drawer and she pulled it out quietly, holding it pointed at the door. The lock rattled, the door opened and the electronic music streamed in with the bright pink neon light.
The sound woke Sean and he stumbled up, Walther PPK in his hand, the stainless steel finish gleaming in the slanted light. The move was more learned instinct than actual wakefulness, and for a split second Moira worried he would shoot Emma right in the doorway.
”Easy, it's me,” Emma said, stopping for a short moment until Sean's sleep fuddled brain registered there was no danger and he clicked the safety back on.
”Right, you,” he said, uninterested, and he laid back down, slipping the gun back under the pillow before tossing his arm over his eyes again.
Emma gave her a pointed look, but Moira ignored it, slipping her gun back to the drawer and nudging it shut with her hip.
“What's up?” Moira asked. “I thought you had special plans with your boyfriend.”
Emma walked to the fridge, handing her a brown envelope in passing. “I found this in my car. I had a feeling it would interest you.” She opened the fridge and took a beer. “And what's with all the hostility? In my experience, people are in better mood after they get laid. But you two...Huh.”
“Drop it,” Moira said. “What's this?”
“Remember that guy I dated a few years back? The one who sunk my yacht, stole my money, and ditched me for some jailbait stripper?”
“Sure. You were pissed.”
Emma pressed the beer bottle against the counter and slammed her hand down, the cap clattering somewhere on the floor. “He's dead.”
“And now you want to throw a party?” Moira ventured, looking at her dress. She wore what ever she wanted, and didn't care what anyone had to say about it. This time her dress glimmered in aqua blue, her hair whiter than usual. She looked like a frosted shot of Curaçao, but on Emma's standards that was pedestrian.
“Party? You bet, a few actually, but that's not the point. Look in the envelope.”
Moira opened the envelope and slid out the photographs, the bundle held together with a paperclip. She flipped through them. The pictures were from an autopsy. She didn't remember every detail of the boyfriend, Emma tended to change men on a whim, but Moira was sure she recognized the yacht sinker. He was dead, that was for sure.
She stopped at the picture of the skull, the skin pulled down to show the white bone, and the shape of the wound. She took the photo closer to the light, noticing the millimeter reading from the ruler placed next to the fracture. Single hit, small and narrow, clean edges. She had a cold feeling in the back of her neck. She had seen an identical wound in another morgue, during one of her tours through the East-Europe.
“It can't be.”
“First I thought the pics were some elaborate prank, so I took a few calls,” Emma said, taking a swig. “There was no consensus about what kind of object burrowed in his skull, but the coroner gave a list of things that would fit the shape, and a coin was somewhere in the middle of it. I don't think the coroner believed it was possible to kill someone with one, he just threw it in there.”
“But Lehnsherr is dead,” Moira said, gathering the pictures back to a neat pile and slipping them back in the folder. “Last year, some altercation in South-America. I saw the report. It was damn thorough.”
“Please. You know it takes only a bit of planning and funds to fake your death, and craft a new identity. Like that's the problem.”
“True.” Moira pulled open the fridge and took a beer. "You found the photos in your car? Doesn't sound like Lehnsherr's style. He likes the drama. The front page."
Emma shrugged. “But he's also a crafty player. Because the envelope wasn't the only thing I got. Someone from his old crew called, asked if I would set up a meeting with you. I agreed.”
"You what?"
Sean sat up, his hair tousled mess. “What? Have you lost it?”
“He's in town tomorrow," Emma continued, like he had said nothing. "I think you should see him. I don't know anyone else who hates the Establishment more. Enemy of my enemy, that sort of thing.”
“I doubt he'll see it that way,” Moira said and took a swig of her beer. “I might be sidelined now, but I wasn't when we met. And it wasn't a friendly meeting.”
“Near death experiences tend to make people see things in new light,” Emma noted.
"I don't know. Lehnsherr is the type to hold a grudge."
“I'm with Moira. That guy is one card short of a full deck, threw me out the window once,” Sean said. “I'm not going anywhere near him.”
“You can be the spotter then,” Emma said brightly and left the half-empty beer bottle on the counter, reaching to take the envelope before heading to the door. “We'll take your car, right?”
“Em...”
She waved. “Go back to your fun. Call me in the morning. Not too early though, we're going dancing. I'm having a wake, remember?”
Emma closed the door behind her, and Moira sighed. It would be smart to stay away from trouble like Lehnsherr, but Emma was right. No one had the dirt on special ops like Lehnsherr, and it never hurt to know more. Especially when he had asked for the meeting. That was curious. Something interesting was definitely happening.
She walked to the mattress, pulling her tank top over her head before getting back to bed. She laid next to Sean, leaning on his shoulder. His skin was cool under her cheek.
“You know it's a mistake,” he said quietly, trailing his fingers down her arm.
“Yes. But I'm used to those.”
Sean laughed. “I hope you don't mean me.”
“No. Not you,” she said, reaching to kiss him. "Never you."
Rating: gen
Content notes: none
Bingo square: wildcard - AU: Fusion
Summary: Moira has her on-again-off-again boyfriend sleeping on her mattress, when her friend Emma brings some interesting news. Burn Notice fusion.
My name is Moira MacTaggert. I used to be a spy. Until I ended up on the blacklist.
When you're burned, you've got nothing: no cash, no credit, no job history. You're stuck in whatever city they decide to dump you in. In my case: Miami, Florida.
You do whatever work comes your way. You rely on anyone who's still talking to you. A trigger-happy ex-boyfriend, an old friend who used to inform on you to the FBI, and family too...if you're desperate. Which I'm not.
But the bottom line? Until you figure out who burned you... You're not going anywhere.
Moira leaned on the kitchen counter and watched Sean sleeping on the lone mattress on the floor. The mattress wasn't that big and he took most of the space sprawled like that, arm slung over his eyes, the sheet tangled around his wisp thin waist. It had been awhile since she had had a chance to watch him sleep. It had been awhile since he had been in her bed.
She sighed and scooped the last of the blueberry yogurt from the cup. Their relationship had always been complicated, but this was a new low. Or new high, depending which direction they were headed. The only thing she was sure was that there was no casual sex between them. Sean had wanted to talk, but they hadn't gotten that far. In a way, that was great. She hated the Talks.
“Damn,” Moira muttered to herself and scraped the bottom of the cup before tossing it in the trash. She should've put a stop to it, but Sean knew how to get under her skin. He played dirty, that's what it was.
The bass line thrummed in the walls from the downstairs club, but she could hear the light steps on the stairs. High heels. Moira guessed who it was, but she hadn't made this far by being careless. People did have a nasty habit breaking in the loft.
She had a gun in the kitchen drawer and she pulled it out quietly, holding it pointed at the door. The lock rattled, the door opened and the electronic music streamed in with the bright pink neon light.
The sound woke Sean and he stumbled up, Walther PPK in his hand, the stainless steel finish gleaming in the slanted light. The move was more learned instinct than actual wakefulness, and for a split second Moira worried he would shoot Emma right in the doorway.
”Easy, it's me,” Emma said, stopping for a short moment until Sean's sleep fuddled brain registered there was no danger and he clicked the safety back on.
”Right, you,” he said, uninterested, and he laid back down, slipping the gun back under the pillow before tossing his arm over his eyes again.
Emma gave her a pointed look, but Moira ignored it, slipping her gun back to the drawer and nudging it shut with her hip.
“What's up?” Moira asked. “I thought you had special plans with your boyfriend.”
Emma walked to the fridge, handing her a brown envelope in passing. “I found this in my car. I had a feeling it would interest you.” She opened the fridge and took a beer. “And what's with all the hostility? In my experience, people are in better mood after they get laid. But you two...Huh.”
“Drop it,” Moira said. “What's this?”
“Remember that guy I dated a few years back? The one who sunk my yacht, stole my money, and ditched me for some jailbait stripper?”
“Sure. You were pissed.”
Emma pressed the beer bottle against the counter and slammed her hand down, the cap clattering somewhere on the floor. “He's dead.”
“And now you want to throw a party?” Moira ventured, looking at her dress. She wore what ever she wanted, and didn't care what anyone had to say about it. This time her dress glimmered in aqua blue, her hair whiter than usual. She looked like a frosted shot of Curaçao, but on Emma's standards that was pedestrian.
“Party? You bet, a few actually, but that's not the point. Look in the envelope.”
Moira opened the envelope and slid out the photographs, the bundle held together with a paperclip. She flipped through them. The pictures were from an autopsy. She didn't remember every detail of the boyfriend, Emma tended to change men on a whim, but Moira was sure she recognized the yacht sinker. He was dead, that was for sure.
She stopped at the picture of the skull, the skin pulled down to show the white bone, and the shape of the wound. She took the photo closer to the light, noticing the millimeter reading from the ruler placed next to the fracture. Single hit, small and narrow, clean edges. She had a cold feeling in the back of her neck. She had seen an identical wound in another morgue, during one of her tours through the East-Europe.
“It can't be.”
“First I thought the pics were some elaborate prank, so I took a few calls,” Emma said, taking a swig. “There was no consensus about what kind of object burrowed in his skull, but the coroner gave a list of things that would fit the shape, and a coin was somewhere in the middle of it. I don't think the coroner believed it was possible to kill someone with one, he just threw it in there.”
“But Lehnsherr is dead,” Moira said, gathering the pictures back to a neat pile and slipping them back in the folder. “Last year, some altercation in South-America. I saw the report. It was damn thorough.”
“Please. You know it takes only a bit of planning and funds to fake your death, and craft a new identity. Like that's the problem.”
“True.” Moira pulled open the fridge and took a beer. "You found the photos in your car? Doesn't sound like Lehnsherr's style. He likes the drama. The front page."
Emma shrugged. “But he's also a crafty player. Because the envelope wasn't the only thing I got. Someone from his old crew called, asked if I would set up a meeting with you. I agreed.”
"You what?"
Sean sat up, his hair tousled mess. “What? Have you lost it?”
“He's in town tomorrow," Emma continued, like he had said nothing. "I think you should see him. I don't know anyone else who hates the Establishment more. Enemy of my enemy, that sort of thing.”
“I doubt he'll see it that way,” Moira said and took a swig of her beer. “I might be sidelined now, but I wasn't when we met. And it wasn't a friendly meeting.”
“Near death experiences tend to make people see things in new light,” Emma noted.
"I don't know. Lehnsherr is the type to hold a grudge."
“I'm with Moira. That guy is one card short of a full deck, threw me out the window once,” Sean said. “I'm not going anywhere near him.”
“You can be the spotter then,” Emma said brightly and left the half-empty beer bottle on the counter, reaching to take the envelope before heading to the door. “We'll take your car, right?”
“Em...”
She waved. “Go back to your fun. Call me in the morning. Not too early though, we're going dancing. I'm having a wake, remember?”
Emma closed the door behind her, and Moira sighed. It would be smart to stay away from trouble like Lehnsherr, but Emma was right. No one had the dirt on special ops like Lehnsherr, and it never hurt to know more. Especially when he had asked for the meeting. That was curious. Something interesting was definitely happening.
She walked to the mattress, pulling her tank top over her head before getting back to bed. She laid next to Sean, leaning on his shoulder. His skin was cool under her cheek.
“You know it's a mistake,” he said quietly, trailing his fingers down her arm.
“Yes. But I'm used to those.”
Sean laughed. “I hope you don't mean me.”
“No. Not you,” she said, reaching to kiss him. "Never you."