Comment_fic: QAF-Burn Notice (Michael/Michael)

[rivestra]

Ummm... I should probably stay away from the porn when I have this much liquid stupid (what, that's what my friend calls it!) running through my veins but... I was irresistibly drawn and I can't tell you why. (Because I don't know.) I'd say you should all consider it a birthday present from me, for my birthday, but, once again, I have ventured into fandoms no one I know reads. Also into long, meandering, babbling sentences and an alarming lack of proof reading (ETA: I couldn't stand the typos. I think I've murdered at least the worst of them now).

So I should probably apologize in advance. Read at your own risk.

comment_fic  for pipisafoat , to whom I should definitely apologize. She asked for Queer as Folk (US)/Burn Notice, Michael Novotny/Michael Weston, "Your mom sure looks and acts exactly like mine." (can be gen instead of slash.) and got this bit of babble that is, once again, too freaking long for a comment. I'd also like to apologize to the English language.


There was a body next to him, coiled and tense and, part of Michael’s mind insisted, dangerous, but maybe not to him, laying there sweat-slicked and familiar as last night’s sin. Last night, he’d learned every angle and line of that body with his tongue, tasted every hill and valley, and those fingers had danced over him and that mouth had consumed him whole.

He had no idea who the guy was, of course. He didn’t even know where he was, really. It was time he finally learned to stay out of Brian’s damn trail mix.

Humid Miami air moved across his exposed ass and back, and suddenly Michael remembered smoke and lights and bubbles slicking across his skin. White-white-white everywhere.  Dancing, getting swept along in the ebb and flow of the sweltering night, and Brian doing what Brian does and disappearing into the foam. Floating along in the tide until he’d connected with something solid, alive and hot and just a bit menacing, in a not-quite-familiar way. There’d been words, an exchange of “Michael-no-what’s-your-name?” that his floating-colored-fuzzy mind couldn’t grasp and, against all odds, the guy’d been interested. They’d sparked, eyes locked on each other, right there in the mass of writhing bodies and foam.

Michael groaned and brought a hand up to his head. It throbbed viciously and his body was a deep ache, but a good one, coupled with that good burn that would stay all day, all week maybe. It had been too long since he’d felt that simplicity, too long since he’d let someone overtake him like that, let himself just ride the whirlwind and not think, just feel and touch and give himself to someone who wanted nothing more complicated than to take what he was offering and to lose themselves in return.

He was being watched. He was sure of it, so he made himself turn and face the other man’s wide-awake stare. He watched for a moment, then stretched deliberately, arching up like a cat. The sheet slipped and gravity caught up with it, pulling it off the bed to pool on the floor, and he watched the look turn to hunger, watched the intent to pounce form in the other man’s eyes, familiar from a thousand sharp disappointments as Brian locked his sights on whoever he wanted and… but this time that look was on him, because of him. The man shifted in a blink, blanketing Michael’s torso and claiming his mouth, open and messy and slick and his hand reached down, brushing over Michael’s cock before sliding lower and inside, re-claiming territory still slick and welcoming from the night before, sinking in easy and deep and brushing fire along ever-sensitive nerves and…

“MICHAEL! What are you…” Female, shocked and familiar, so familiar except it couldn’t be... it couldn’t even be a nightmare, because his brain wasn’t that cruel…

“DOING?!?”

… and the only one who even might be that cruel was Brian, but even he wouldn’t go this far, and…

“I come by to bring you some yogurt and to see how you’re …” she sputtered, and Michael screwed his eyes shut tight, and tried to remember if he’d ever learned to pray, anything to make her go away. The guy moved off him and started toward her with a growl, and Michael’s hand shot out, grabbing frantically, and the back of his brain screamed danger, and he tried to make words form, to tell him it was ok, that she was just like this, to leave her alone, that he'd get rid of her, but the guy was standing now and shook his grip off easily.

“You’re…you're..." He winced, sinking into the bed when she finally found words again, as she continued. "Michael, I just can’t believe this. I raised you better than this…” and, no, this was wrong, she was… disappointed? Angry, not amused, not mocking him. Michael opened his eyes and couldn’t look away as the guy stalked, naked and kind of breath-taking across the room, muscles tense and firm, sliding under his skin. He tore his eyes away from the guy’s perfect ass and finally looked at her, then boggled and looked again, because her hair was blonde and short and Debbie hated blonde, said it washed all the color out of life, and she was scowling, her face pulled together tightly, jaw clenching a cigarette.

Michael scrambled for the sheet, finally covering himself just as the guy grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her toward the door. She wasn’t looking at him, and she wasn’t ogling the naked man either and that was… almost the strangest part of this whole morning. She kept her eyes on his host’s face as he pretty much dragged her out the door, never even looking toward the bed, eyes burning daggers at the guy until he slid the door shut right in front of her face. What the fuck?

The guy shot the bolt home and sagged against the door for a moment, eyes coming to rest on Michael after spending a moment tightly closed. Calmly, ignoring the pounding coming from outside, he said, “Sorry about that.” His disarming smile took away what was left of Michael's balance, and he couldn’t make the words he was hearing make sense. “I knew I’d regret giving her a key, but it was unavoidable at the time.”

Michael shook his head, trying to clear it and instead getting a violent reminder that moving suddenly was a very bad idea. His stomach lurched in direct counter to the spinning room, and the guy was at his side in an instant, solicitously offering water and a solid, steadying hand on his shoulder.

It took a while for his stomach to settle, and by the time Michael was paying attention again, the guy wasn't anymore, instead staring off across the room. It couldn’t be good,and Michael really didn't want to know, but he followed his line of sight across the loft anyway, finally locking onto the woman standing still as stone in the kitchen.

Her eyes didn’t twitch toward him, but he knew she was aware of his gaze, just like he knew he was in way over his head here. She said, “Client?” in clipped Irish tones, and the guy said, “No,” all even and certain and reasonable. The woman pulled a gun from somewhere, seemingly out of the air, and the guy stood again, moving toward her and the kitchen, hands out a bit to his side, radiating a harmless vibe that Michael hadn't even been able to make himself believe last night, let alone now.

Michael scrambled for his clothes as they talked in the kitchen, their voices angry and hushed, but not quiet at all. He was relieved when they let him slip out the door, even though he’d only managed to find one of his shoes, and he had to limp for almost a mile before he managed to find a cab.

He had no idea what was going on, and he was pretty sure he didn't want to. He did know  he was never going to tell Brian about this.

Not ever.