scribblinlenore | Burn Notice/Fall Out Boy Xover: People Say A Lot Of Things They Don't Mean (3/3)

In the other bedroom, Michael takes a shower, standing beneath the hot spray until the scent of sex is erased from his skin. He dresses, ignoring the bed on his way back out to the living room. He checks his gun, charges his phone, stretches out on the couch and stares up at the ceiling. Mistakes aren't something a good operative can afford to ignore, because then they'll just happen again. But this, tonight…this isn't so much a mistake as a bout of temporary insanity. Michael puts it away and rehearses scenarios for the rescue, waiting for Sam's call.

It comes before dawn, the sun not even a hint on the horizon. Michael has put the phone on vibrate, specifically so Pete won't hear it. He keeps his voice down while he gets the details, an abandoned warehouse out in Dade County, surrounded by a fortune in cannabis plants. Sam runs down the layout, the number of kidnappers, the exact location inside the building where Patrick is.

"I'll be there in half an hour," Michael tells him. "Think you can line up a diversion?"

Sam laughs. "Fi already has the gas can out. You know how she enjoys arson. We should have half the county high by the time you get here."

Michael should say something deadpan and hang up, but a picture suddenly flashes through his head: smooth, tan skin, the delicate line of spine. It's Pete, but it really would have been so easy to pretend.

"Hey, Mike, you there?"

Michael knows Sam well enough to understand what he's really asking: you okay?

"Yeah, Sam. Good plan. I'll see you soon."

He hangs up, and in the scant minute he's been on the phone, Pete has materialized, as if alerted by some mysterious Patrick-radar. He looks nearly as wrecked as when he'd first shown up at Michael's door.

Before Michael can get a word out, Pete glares. "Not without me. So don't even."

Michael considers explaining all the reasons why this isn't a good idea, and then more seriously, knocking Pete on the head and leaving him passed out on the floor where he'll be no trouble to anyone.

Finally, he settles for, "Fine, but just remember any screw up could get Patrick killed. So when I tell you to do something, you'd better be listening."

Pete turns a sickly shade of gray and follows Michael silently down to the car.

It's early enough that there's hardly any traffic. They speed out of the city. The houses start to thin, and they pass flat stretches of farmland. When Michael spots smoke curling on the horizon, he knows they're close. He pulls out his phone to dial 911.

"Oh, hey, how ya'll doin'?" he puts on his best slack-jawed drawl. "I'm out here in my truck on 997 near Redland, and I can see flames and smoke something awful. Somebody's field is burning up down here. Growin' some of them funny herbs too by the smell of things, if you know what I mean. Huh-huh-huh. Anyway, ya'll better hurry on out here before these dang potheads burn down the whole county."

He snaps the phone closed on the operator telling him to hold the line. Pete is staring at him like he's never seen him before.

"We need to get in quick, get out, before the police arrive," Michael outlines the plan. "We want the kidnappers caught by surprise while they're trying to save the marijuana."

"How do you know they won't run away before the cops get there?" Pete asks in a scratchy voice.

"They'll be too greedy to be smart. That's what we're counting on. If all goes according to plan, they'll be put away for the drugs, and Patrick never has to be mixed up in any of it."

Pete scrunches up his forehead. "What if they confess to kidnapping him?"

"Hopefully, they're not that stupid. But even if they are, I highly doubt anyone will believe them. They'll just look like they're trying to get more publicity for whatever their cause is."

They round another bend in the road, and Fiona's car is right where it's supposed to be, pulled off onto a side road, half hidden by magnolia trees.

"Stay here," Michael tells Pete.

He gets out, goes over. Fi rolls down the window.

She eyes him for a moment. "You're looking very morning-after, Michael."

This is always the problem with Fiona. She sees too much.

"What's the situation?" he asks tersely.

Sam's eyes go a little wide, but he gets right to business, "Well, we got their attention all right. Everyone's out trying to save the crop, except one guy they left to keep an eye on Patrick. No guns that we've seen. And, hey, Fi got you a little present."

Fiona reaches around in the back seat and comes up with a taser.

"Don't say I never gave you anything." Her mouth curves into the not-very-sweet smile that Michael will always equate with being naked and under her, his wrists tied to a cheap motel headboard.

"Thanks," Michael manages.

Sam half smiles, sympathetically. "The side door takes you right to where they have Patrick. We'll go around the back, in case our merry band of pot-growers wises up."

Michael nods, turns on his heel, goes back to the car. Pete fixes big, demanding eyes on him.

"Almost there," is all Michael tells him.

He follows Fi's car down the muddy road. They pull off and park just before the warehouse comes into sight. Sam and Fi jog around to the back of the building. The sunlight glinting off the gun in Fi's hand is dementedly cheerful.

Michael assumes that Pete will have enough sense to stay put, but three paces down the road, he feels a presence. He spins, grabs Pete by the arm, drags him bodily back to the Charger. Only the need for stealth keeps him from slamming the door to make a point.

He skims the perimeter, staying out of the warehouse's line of sight until he's ready to make a break for the side door. It's locked, but not hard to get in. The door has a convenient window in it. Michael slips out of his jacket, wraps it around his arm, and breaks the glass with his elbow. There's no shattering, just a delicate tinkling as the shards fall. Years of experience. Michael flips the lock, lets himself in, and steals down the corridor. The place is so empty it echoes, and Michael hears breathing long before he sees the shaggy headed, half stoned excuse for a guard outside the padlocked room where Patrick is being kept.

Michael walks noiselessly up to the foldout chair where Shaggy Hair is slumped.

"Can you help me? I'm trying to find the Everglades," Michael says.

Shaggy Hair practically jumps out of his skin, the metal chair skidding on the concrete floor with a loud, percussive scrape as he scrambles to his feet.

"Hey--"

Michael lifts his arm, and Shaggy Hair doesn't get to finish the sentence before the taser drops him.

Tools lie scattered here and there, holdovers from the days when this place was used for some sort of licit commerce. Michael picks up a wrench, bashes at the padlock until it breaks. He takes his gun out of his waistband, opens the door cautiously just in case, but there's only one person inside, presumably Patrick, huddled on a stained cot, pale and rumpled, with strands of red hair peeking out of a trucker cap.

"Pete sent me," Michael explains.

Patrick blinks, a little disbelievingly. "Pete did?"

Any moment now, Michael knows, they'll hear sirens in the distance, an armada of Dade County police and firefighters descending on them.

"We need to go." He reaches for Patrick's arm, guides him up and out of the room.

Patrick stumbles when he sees Shaggy Hair laid out on the floor. "Is he--"

"No." Michael hurries him down the corridor.

Outside, he keeps Patrick shielded with his body, his gun raised. They round the corner of the building, into the bright glare of the rising sun, and there's a familiar messy-haired silhouette stumbling toward them, then running, right out in the open where anyone could have a gun trained on him.

Idiot, Michael thinks.

Patrick draws in a sharp breath and utters a soft, "Pete."

For just a moment, maybe Michael doesn't blame Pete quite so much for not staying in the car.

***

The day after one of Pete's seemed-good-at-the-time ideas feels a lot like a hangover. The daylight makes everything too blisteringly clear. His mouth tastes dry. Whole patches of the night before are kind of staticky and lost like someone dubbed over his memory. Not that he really needs to remember specific details, because every time he moves, he gets the picture. Jesus his ass is sore. That little realization starts up a replay of last night's sound track, fuckmefuckmefuckmefuckmetilican'tsitcan'tstand. Really, he doesn't know why he does these things, why he thinks he enjoys pushing people until they snap. It always kind of freaks him out after the fact.

And now he's waiting, waiting, waiting for Patrick, alone in the car and feeling like he's going to come out of his skin. He pulls his feet up onto the seat, presses his forehead against his knees, arms wrapped around his legs, rocking like disturbed children do for comfort.

It doesn't help. His body is tensed for sound, for footsteps, gunshots, Patrick's golden voice, Pete and I attacked the lost Astoria with promise and precision and a mess of youthful innocence, even though that's just crazy. Why would Patrick be singing? Except that the Patrick in Pete's head always is, sweet, sweet voice belting out a melody, diving into the lower range that is all deep and dark and chocolaty and Pete just wants to roll around in it. Patrick singing from their last tour, and three years ago, and all the way back to argyle and dark socks and basement dust.

Time is a torture device, Pete has always thought so, the tick-tock secret weapon of Guantanamo and boring high school teachers alike, but it's never been as bad as this. Michael went off after Patrick at least a hundred years ago, Michael and Loud Shirt and Hot Chick, with guns in their hands, Jesus, guns. Like for actual shooting. In a place where Patrick is.

Suddenly Pete can't breathe. The metal sides and roof of the car press in at him as if it's going through a junkyard crusher. He flings the door open and stumbles out. Air. God, he needs air. And yeah, yeah, Michael said, but Pete doesn't care. No one could possibly expect him to stay in a car that's trying to swallow him whole.

He feels better for maybe five seconds, and then guns and Patrick and not knowing a damned thing. He's creeping closer to get a better view before he even registers what he's doing. If he can just see something, maybe it'll keep him from going totally insane. No doubt, Michael would not approve of this move. Pete imagines a dark scowl and a warning incongruously a la Lost in Space: Danger, Pete Wentz, danger! But right now, he can't believe there's anything more likely to kill him than not knowing.

Pete moves a little closer. Little closer. Closer still. Then he sees him. Patrick. Squinty and startled in an endearingly mole-like way. And Pete's unconscious mind is just full of brilliant ideas today, because suddenly he's running, his lungs burning not so much from exertion as sheer fucking joy. Patrick, Patrick, Patrick.

He sails past Michael, whose expression practically screams seriously, how fucking stupid are you, and Pete so doesn't care. So doesn't. Because Patrick, Patrick, Patrick. Pete lands on him with a soft "oof," wraps his arms around with all his strength, because if he holds on tightly enough maybe he can make Patrick understand. Neverletthemtakeyouagainneverletthemneverlethem.

Michael's hand closes around Pete's shoulder, and Pete clings to Patrick even harder, maybe a little too hard if Patrick's surprised gasp for air is any indication. Michael doesn't go away. Pete's hands ball into fists, because he may be so fucking grateful he's ready to give up his firstborn, but no one should try separating him from Patrick right now. That's like a declaration of fucking war or something.

"We need to get to cover," Michael insists.

He's sensible enough not to try to pry them apart, just hustles them as a single entity out of the open, back toward the car, then handily makes himself scarce. Pete is trembling, and he wants to crawl right in and take up residence inside Patrick's skin. Relief and residual fear and happiness that is so big it could break him are all tangled up together, making his throat hurt. He's lost his words. Seriously. All of them. The only thing he can think to do is hold on even tighter.

Patrick snuffles a laugh, tickling Pete's neck with it. He's not naturally as big a hugger as Pete is, but he hasn't made any move to pull away. In fact, his grip is just as fierce as Pete's. The way Patrick feels in Pete's arms is not exactly a revelation, but he marvels at it anyway, how solid Patrick is and real and his. God. His. He's been so fucking stupid.

He rubs his cheek against Patrick's shoulder, buries his face in his neck.

"I'm pretty sure I smell," Patrick says, trying to make light.

Pete pushes his nose deeper into Patrick's skin. "Dude, you totally reek."

Patrick laughs, his hands warm on Pete's back. "I missed you, too."

Pete's stomach turns upside down, because this could be another moment when he disappoints those folk hero expectations he has of himself, and he really can't take that. "No," he thinks firmly.

Only apparently he actually says it.

Patrick pulls back, raises an eyebrow at him.

"No. I mean, yes. Of course I missed you! Only this isn't just-- Oh, fuck. Here."

He takes Patrick's face in his hands and kisses him, just light, dry little touches of their lips, but still, Pete's heart is slamming in his chest. Patrick's lips taste pink--apparently Patrick isn't the only one who can have a flash of synesthesia every now and again--and they're just as sweet and soft under Pete's mouth as he's always imagined.

He gets so caught up in the experience of Patrick'smouthfuckingfinally that it takes him a moment to realize that Patrick has gone perfectly still. The bottom drops out of Pete's stomach, and he's already queuing up some I'm sorry, I'm sorry, no, I swear I haven't lost my mind desperate babbling. But then, Patrick is pressing against him, into him, mouth opening, hands grappling at Pete's shoulders, tongue licking at his lips, promising dirty, filthy things.

Dirty, filthy Patrick. Oh, hell yeah.

They kiss until Pete starts to see red behind his eyes, a sure sign that he's going to pass out if he doesn't come up for air soon. He pulls away gasping, and Patrick is blushing gorgeously and panting. Pete breaks into a huge grin and is about to dive in for more, figuring, hey, breathing is really kind of overrated, when he hears insistent throat clearing behind him.

Sam and Fiona have materialized from somewhere, and everyone is staring at them impatiently. Michael jerks his head toward the car. "If we don't go now, we're going to run into the cops."

Cops would require explaining, and explaining would take time, and Pete plans to use every minute he has for the foreseeable future exploring the dirty, filthy Patrick he's been promised. He drags Patrick to the car and pushes him into the backseat and tumbles in after him.

***

As weird as it was being kidnapped, and that was plenty weird, thank you very much, Patrick's rescue manages to be even weirder. He thinks that this is probably some comment on his life, although he's not sure what it means exactly. Knowing much about anything right now is not Patrick's strong suit. Pete kissed him, but that could just be a fuck-you-were-kidnapped freak out. Then again, Pete does currently have a death grip on Patrick's hand and he's practically sitting in Patrick's lap, although, hey, this is par for the slinky-hipped karmic payback course, and again with the possible freak out explanation.

Then there's the 007 character at the wheel--the 007 character who works for Pete, what the fuck--greeting the sound of approaching sirens by swerving hard, leaving the nice, paved road to cut through a patch of underbrush. They have to dodge trees as the car bounces crazily over the rough ground. Patrick's hat goes flying, but Pete remains grimly attached to his side.

"I'm confused," Patrick says, to no one in particular. "We're running away from the police because…why? Don't we want the guys who kidnapped me in jail?"

"Dude, I want those fuckers dead!" Pete spits out vehemently.

Patrick leans into him, not that he should be encouraging this really, but somehow Pete wanting to commit homicide on his behalf is just dementedly sweet.

The 007 guy catches Patrick's eye in the rearview mirror. "They're going to jail, Patrick, for about twenty-five years thanks to mandatory drug sentencing. The same amount of time they'd get for kidnapping, but this way, there's no publicity, no testifying at trial, and no copycat getting the idea that snatching someone from your band is the fastest way to a recording contract."

"Copycat," Pete whispers, sounding truly horrified.

Patrick's not so crazy about the idea, either.

"Yeah, okay," he says a little weakly. "Good. Good plan. You know, avoiding the police and all."

Pete curls closer, his death grip on Patrick's hand getting a little deathlier. The car finally careens back onto the actual road, and they speed down the highway toward the city, and Patrick feels like he can maybe, sort of, finally breathe again.

It seems strange after the misadventures of the past two days just to go back to the hotel like nothing happened, but that's what they do. 007 pulls up to the front entrance, and they all get out, and Patrick thinks that a rescue involving guns, off-roading and busting a drug operation shouldn't feel quite so anti-climactic.

"Hey man--" Pete starts and then stops for some reason.

So Patrick jumps in, holds out his hand. "Thanks sounds kind of lame after everything you did. But-- Seriously. A lot."

007 shakes his head. "Forget it. I'm just glad it all worked out."

"Yeah," Pete says, shifting his weight. "I hope for you too, man."

Patrick doesn't miss the glance that passes between them. He recognizes Pete's day-after expression--a slightly manic combination of awkward and grateful and ready to flee to Mexico. Patrick looks away quickly. There are some things he'd really rather not know.

On the way inside, Pete says, "Oh hey, there's something I need to--" He pulls out his phone, and Patrick can hear the tinny ringing. "So you don't need to come down here and kick my ass. Seriously. He's right-- No! I'm not faking." He pushes the phone at Patrick. "They want proof I'm not just being an asshole."

"Hello?" Patrick says warily, because it's been that kind of day.

"Patrick," Andy's voice pulses warmly in Patrick's ear, decidedly relieved.

Andy is not one to sound ruffled, like, ever. This more than anything else brings it all home for Patrick. Oh, hey, fucking kidnapped.

"I guess Pete really does have people," Joe muses.

"Um. Yeah." People he's slept with. Patrick keeps this to himself.

"Okay, so looks like I don't have to kill him after all," Andy says serenely. "Not this time anyway."

"As much as I enjoy blaming Pete for, you know, everything," Patrick tells him, "this wasn't actually his fault."

"Uh-huh," Andy says, not like he believes it.

"Dude. Just don't get kidnapped anymore, okay?" Joe chimes in with the helpful advice.

"I'll do my best." Patrick hands the phone back to Pete, and then something occurs to him. "Who else-- Do I need to call my mom?" Suddenly he can't breathe again. Jesus. His mom must be freaking out.

Pete steers him into the elevator. "Nope. I didn't tell anyone. The guys just figured it out. I didn't think you'd want--"

Patrick nods gratefully. "Yeah. Yeah, thanks."

Pete pulls Patrick back against him, wrapping his arms around his chest, hooking his chin over his shoulder, ignoring the startled looks from the middle-aged couple in sun visors sharing the elevator with them. From anyone else, this would no doubt feel like a grand declaration, but from Pete, it's...well, yeah. Patrick is increasingly confused about what actually happened back at the warehouse. Did Pete even kiss him at all? Being kidnapped could cause hallucinations for all Patrick knows.

They get off on their floor, and Pete holds Patrick's hand all the way down the hall to their room. Inside, Patrick just kind of stalls, because it feels like he's home, only not, like it's been forever, only not. He trails into his room, and his stuff is right where he left it, all over everywhere, and he thinks distractedly, damn, I'm a pig. He has no clue what to do with himself.

Then Pete is standing right there, with ideas apparently. "Take off your clothes."

Patrick blushes. So. Not hallucinating then. He's imagined this moment, on and off since he was sixteen, and never once was there kidnapping involved. Never once did he freeze up like some kind of terrified virgin instead of the guy who's been in love with his best friend since, oh, kind of forever. This just goes to show the limits of imagination.

Pete misunderstands and kicks into persuasive overdrive. "I'll make it worth your while!" He snatches up Patrick's hand, clutches at it. "Just-- let me."

"I--" Patrick's tongue gets tangled up in his own mouth. Yes. How hard is that really?

Pete's face lights up, that maniac look he gets when he's really happy. This is one of the many reasons they just work. Patrick doesn't actually have to speak for Pete to hear him.

"Patrick," Pete says, like it's the first time he's ever heard the word and it absolutely delights him.

He pulls Patrick by the arm, tugging him into a kiss, and then pulls away again to get at Patrick's clothes. Pete is actually bouncing on his toes, as if he's the one who's waited for this forever. And if that's true, then why has there been any waiting at all? Patrick is confused.

But then, his shirt hits the floor, and he has more important things to focus on. Pete gets his hands on Patrick's jeans, fighting to get them open, too frantic to be much actual use in the cause of nakedness. Patrick bats him away, because as much as he wants Pete's hands on him, he wants them both naked more.

"You do you," he tells Pete. "I'll do me."

"Okay, okay." The words get muffled as Pete yanks his T-shirt up over his head. "Just-- Fuck. Come on."

Now it's Patrick's turn to struggle with his jeans, and they're not even painted on like Pete's, and just shit, shit. Maybe there really is a God, and maybe that God really does have a grudge against the gay sex, because why else would Patrick's zipper choose now to get stuck?

"Oh fuck that," Pete declares, with what sounds like very real animus for Patrick's pants.

He grips the two sides of the fly and pulls as hard as he can, and Patrick forgets sometimes how freakishly strong Pete is for such a little guy. The zipper makes a loud, desperate scrape that probably means the jeans are ruined forever, and Patrick kicks them off. Fucking finally, and Pete launches himself at Patrick, all over him in an instant, hands and mouth and all that beautiful, marked skin.

Patrick traces the tattoo on Pete's belly, like he's always, always wanted to do. Pete shivers, and warmth curls in Patrick's stomach, and he wants to make Pete shiver some more, a lot, wants to make him tremble and beg and shake like he's going to fucking come apart in Patrick's hands. He uses his nails, scratches along the inky edge, into the hair above Pete's cock.

Pete's cock, that is flushed, and curving up toward his belly, and glistening wet. Because of Patrick.

Pete grabs his wrist. "This is already going to be over way too fast."

"But--"

Pete bulldozes him back onto the bed and clambers on top, rubbing against him as he goes, and okay, so maybe Pete does have some good ideas every now and then. It's even better when Pete commandeers Patrick's mouth, biting and licking his way inside. Years of Pete laying big, smacking, friendly kisses on him does nothing to prepare Patrick for the truly filthy things that Pete knows how to do with his tongue. Patrick tangles his fingers in Pete's hair and holds on and kisses back so fucking greedily. Because he's just-- fuck, he's waited so long.

But then, Patrick suddenly finds himself flailing at air, because Pete has pulled away, and the distressed noise that comes out of him sounds something like "nnnnnghr," which would be embarrassing, except for the fact that Patrick really fucking means it.

"Nnnnnghr!" he says more insistently.

Pete grins, a quick, bright flash of teeth. "Don't worry, Pattycakes. I got you."

Then he's slithering back down Patrick's body, rubbing and kissing, that sweet, dirty mouth all over Patrick's skin, and Patrick realizes he's going to have to revise the big list of "Things Pete Can and Can Not Be Trusted With." Still firmly in the no column are fireworks, embarrassing secrets you don't want everyone to know, and caulking guns, but sex? That's an emphatic yes.

"Patrick, Patrick," Pete whispers, and it's Patrick's turn to shiver.

Pete settles between his legs, and it would be a big, stupid lie to say that Patrick has never imagined this. He's just never actually expected it. So the sight of Pete's dark head bent over him, the feel of Pete's hands on his hips, fingers pressing in, the touch of Pete's tongue to his cock, blazing a speculative path from root to tip, nearly undoes him, nearly makes Pete prescient with the "over all too soon" thing.

Patrick runs his hands over Pete's shoulders. Gently rubs his thumb in circles over the delicate bones of Pete's neck. Skims his fingers up into Pete's hair, which is rough and smooth at the same time. Pete opens up, takes Patrick's cock into his mouth, sucking, tonguing that place where he was cut as a baby, and oh fuck! Patrick's thighs tremble, and he tries not to pull Pete's hair, not particularly successfully. Pete's head bobs between his legs, and that's the most obscenely beautiful thing Patrick has ever seen. Every touch makes the heat pool blisteringly in his belly.

Just like that he's coming, God, in Pete's mouth.

Pete pulls off, licking his lips, wiping Patrick's come off his chin, sucking his fingers, utterly shameless. Patrick grins. Pete grins back, stretches up, kisses him. Patrick licks at the taste of his own come in Pete's mouth. Pete is still hard, cock messy and straining against his belly.

"Let me," Patrick murmurs against his lips, trying to push Pete over onto his back.

"Not gonna last," Pete pants.

He stays there, braced on his arms over Patrick, reaching for his cock, reaching for another kiss.

"Let me," Patrick says more insistently, pushing Pete's hand away.

Patrick curls his hand around Pete's cock, and it's hot and wet in his grip. He squeezes and pulls, and Pete whimpers.

"Fuck!" He's shaking, coming apart in Patrick's hands, and it's even more fucking awesome than Patrick imagined. "'ve wanted this since--"

Pete's eyes fly closed, and he bites his lips, and then he's coming in Patrick's hand. Pete collapses on top of him, and it's clear he has no intention of moving any time soon. Patrick reaches out, gropes for the Kleenex box on the bedside table, cleans them up the best he can, and tosses the used tissues onto the floor.

Pete plants his head on Patrick's shoulder and presses tightly to Patrick's side, making his colonial intentions perfectly clear. Patrick strokes his hand over Pete's back, unconsciously picking out chords on Pete's skin.

"How long?" he wonders out loud, because Pete never finished that sentence.

Pete's answer comes muffled against Patrick's shoulder, "Always."

Patrick frowns. "Why didn't you say something? Or, I don't know, do something? You're not exactly shy when you want--"

Pete shakes his head. "I promised your mom I'd keep you out of trouble."

Patrick blinks up at the ceiling. "That makes no sense. Also, it was nine years ago."

"Didn't want to fuck you up," Pete mumbles.

It shouldn't still have the power to surprise him that Pete can be at once the boldest person Patrick knows and also the most self-loathing, but there you have it. He's as startled by this fact as ever.

Patrick sighs, pulls Pete closer. "Yes, it's truly sucked the way you've ruined my life, you know, with the letting me into the band, and getting me to sing, and writing songs with me, and cheerleading every single thing I do, and making pretty much every dream I've ever had come true. I really don't know why I haven't kicked your ass for that."

"I'm serious!" Pete insists.

"So am I," Patrick insists right back. "I've been in love with you since I was sixteen years old. If you haven't turned me into a crack whore or whatever by now, I think I'm probably safe. Also, it's pretty fucking insulting that you think I'd actually let you fuck me up. You're not that powerful. You get that, right?"

"I guess." It's the small, tight voice that means Pete is still kind of scared, and then his head springs up, all belated realization. "Wait. Did you just say you're in love with me?"

Patrick rolls his eyes.

"You're kind of a moron, you know," he tells Pete fondly.

Pete pokes a finger into his chest. "You like me that way."

Patrick smiles. "Yeah, I really kind of do."

***

For a while after Patrick is rescued, Michael keeps an eye on Brad and his band of hare-brained screwups, just in case. Their arrest is splashed all over the evening news. The police have a field day holding press conferences, taking credit for shutting down one of the largest marijuana growing operations in the county's history. The judge denies bail, calling them a flight risk, so it looks as if Michael won't have to worry about them going after Pete or Patrick for payback while they're waiting trial. There's no mention of the kidnapping. Apparently, the gang is smart enough to keep at least some of their crimes to themselves.

This leaves Michael free to concentrate on his own work again, figuring out who burned him and why. He's up early this morning, coffee in hand, the tiny shreds of evidence he's collected spread out in front of him. He stares at it all, pondering, searching for the next thread to follow. The apartment is quiet, empty, a decided contrast after all the Wentz-related drama.

When he hears the knock at the door, for a moment he thinks he's imagined it, or at least, he hopes so.

No luck, though, and he goes to answer it, sighing a little.

"Michael."

"Fi."

She sweeps past him, and Michael has pretty much given up on curbing her of this habit of just showing up. He closes the door, and Fiona settles at the kitchen island. Michael pours her a cup of coffee.

"Thanks." She makes an appreciative "mmm" as she sips at it
.
There's an envelope sitting on the counter, and Michael slides it over to her. "For the job."

She raises an eyebrow, takes a look inside, whistles softly. "Pete's very generous."

The check arrived by messenger a few days after the rescue, along with a note, or really a snippet of song, time for that girl to catch you/a key to unlatch you/just need a new blueprint/and maybe a hard hat. Pete is a cryptic lyricist, but not the most subtle yenta in the world.

"I needed to give Sam and Nate a cut, but the rest is for you," Michael tells Fiona.

She tilts her head inquisitively.

He shrugs. "You're the one who wanted to help him."

"True." Fiona flips her hair back over her shoulder. "But you're the one who made him see what was really important."

Michael has a sudden picture of Pete, the way he looked walking into the hotel after it was all over, his hand tucked into Patrick's back pocket.

"Pete figured that out all on his own."

Fiona leans closer. "So, did you have any revelations, Michael?"

All the things that Michael could say to her pass single-file through his head. That there's this spot on the inside of her wrist that is the softest thing he's ever touched. That he can still catch the scent of her hair hours after she's gone. That she's the closest he's ever come to being able to love someone, or even wanting to. That in his nightmares, his enemies always have her in their crosshairs. And that there's a part of him that would like to believe any of that could make a difference.

But he's learned the hard way not to pretend, least of all to himself.

"There is something," Michael tells her, and it's a credit to his training that he doesn't hesitate, doesn't rush, doesn't sound anything but sincere. "Campbell is a good guy. I'm glad you've got someone like him in your life."

Fiona's expression freezes, just for a second, and then she lifts her chin. "I'm glad you approve." She gets up casually. "See you around, Michael." She strolls out of the apartment like it's nothing.

A credit to her training.

It's not what Michael wants, of course, but it is what it is. Happy endings are for regular people, and maybe the occasional rock star.

He picks up his coffee and bends over his papers, trying to tease something apart, something that will help him pick up Carla's trail again. Everything is quiet and empty. Just him and his work.

Just the way it always is.

***

Notes: The lyrics in Pete's note are adapted from Pete himself. Some of Patrick's dialogue relies heavily on his AP.net article.

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From:

anitac588.livejournal.com

Michael considers explaining all the reasons why this isn't a good idea, and then more seriously, knocking Pete on the head and leaving him passed out on the floor where he'll be no trouble to anyone.
This line had me laughing very hard for minutes!

Missed your witty lines, chicqua, *G*.

From:

Not a homecoming queen

Burn Notice/Fall Out Boy Xover: People Say A Lot Of Things They Don't Mean (3/3)

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