Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Michael expertly parallel parks his black Dodge Charger down the street from the cafe. You can’t be a spy and not be able to handle a car, he thinks.

Smoothing his black suit, Michael walks down the sidewalk, using the shop and restaurant reflective windows to keep an eye out for tails or threats.

When he gets to the cafe, Michael sits down across the small round table from Carla, his latest handler. His back faces the corner and from his view he can see all the exits and entrances to the cafe should something go wrong.

A waitress stops in front of the two spies, placing an iced tea in front of Michael and a lemonade in front of Carla.

“I went ahead and ordered your favorite drink.”

“You’re too kind,” Michael says with that bright but forced smile of his, showing all his teeth as if he’s a cornered predator, which he is. This is just another way for Carla to demonstrate her intimate knowledge of her unwilling asset. “But let’s get down to business shall we?”

Carla pulls a manila folder out of her bag and slides it across the table to Michael.

He flips it open to see an army photo of a young white man then a heavily blacked out dossier detailing the man’s military career and then CIA career. Michaels’ eyebrows raise at Army Ranger and Delta Force listed in the file. The last page is just an interdepartmental NYPD memo about a Man in the Suit described as a vigilante.

“You want me to look at another spy in Miami?”

Carla grins at Michael, leaning back in her chair. “No, New York.”

Michael looks up at her with surprise. “I’m to leave Miami?”

“This man is of interest to us. He was supposed to be dead, killed in the field by the enemy. We want to know what he’s up to with his new life.”

And gain another asset, Michael thinks. Poor bastard.

Carla throws an envelope at Michael who catches it against his chest. As she stands up, Carla says, “You leave tonight. And leave your little A-Team in Miami alright? They aren’t exactly covert when looking for a spy as talented as this. If he wasn’t “dead” he might have given Michael Westen a run for his money.”

Michael opens the envelope. An airplane ticket and some petty cash. His face on a New York drivers license.

He sighs and dials Fi on the phone. She’s not gonna like this, he thinks. Fi doesn’t like Michael going out on his own.

Chapter Text

Harold Finch is walking to the library when the pay phone nearest him rings. He hurriedly walks over and answers, writing down the words the Machine says. There are two sets of numbers.

Reese appears around the library corner, carrying the usual green tea for Harold and black coffee with a hint of creamer for himself.

“A new number already Finch?” he asks, stepping up to the board.

Finch places the tape on the picture of a young man, about 17, just enlisted in the Army. “Well, actually two numbers.”

“Two?”

“Yes. I’m fairly certain this one is going to be a perpetrator while I’m not sure what the other one is.”

“Why’s that Finch?”

“Because he is like YOU,” Harold places emphasis on the you.

John glances at the rest of the board, emptier than usual. The only information written on the board for the male number:

Abusive father (now dead)

Enlisted in Army at 17

Special Forces

Joined CIA

Known as Michael Westen

Burned for civilian casualties

Mother lives in Miami

Brother has substantial gambling debts

As for the woman, blond and white, Finch has everything down to the salon and church she visits written on her board.

“I thought you were an expert hacker, Finch,” Reese chuckles then takes a sip of coffee. This is gonna be an interesting case, he thinks to himself.

“Yes, well someone in the government has done a fairly good job at hiding his tracks. Obviously his civilian life I could get information from family members. But as for his time out of the Army? That’s been moved beyond my reach. Someone very powerful is backing Michael Westen.”

“Maybe he has a Finch.”

Harold raises his eyebrow. “Yes, because most spies end up as vigilantes.”

“Well, maybe an evil Finch.”

“We need to figure out what he’s up to in New York. From what I can tell he’s usually based in Miami based on the amount of contact he has with his mother Madeline.”

“This is gonna be difficult, Finch. He has all the same skills I do. But for now, let’s focus on Miss Carthage. At least we know where to find HER.”

John sits in a car outside the elementary school where Miss Carthage works. School is about to be out of session.

When the bell rings, John waits for the target to leave the building and he steps out of the car to start tailing her.

She apparently lives within walking distance of the school, and after about 15 minutes of walking through pretty normal, middle income New York neighborhood streets, John watches the woman open her front door.

He steps into an alley across the street and using a long lens takes photos of her brownstone building. “I think she’s just home for the night,” John updates Harold, who’s currently trying to hack into more info about Michael Westen.

“Well, she is just a first grade teacher. I’m sure she’s exhausted from dealing with children all day.”

“They’re not that bad,” John muses, a gentle smile on his face, remembering some of their other numbers involving kids.

“Yes well if those students are to keep their teacher we need to assess the threat to Miss Carthage’s life.”

“What kind of trouble can an elementary school teacher have gotten into?” says John.

As evening approaches, a nondescript black car parallel parks outside Miss Carthage’s building. Two white men with swastikas tattooed on their necks step out of the car and jog up the steps. One of them begins picking the lock on the door while the other stands in front to hide the activity. Within seconds they’re stepping inside.

“Finch, there are two men breaking into her home. I’m going in.”

“Let me know if you need anything,” Harold replies.

John runs across the street, gun in hand after the men.

He slams open the door that was left ajar, sloppy work, he thinks to himself.

It catches one of the men and causes him to stumble, turning around to face his attacker.

John pistol whips him and he goes down like a felled tree.

The other man who had made it further into the apartment starts shooting but his shots go wide in the hallway, putting holes in the wall to John’s left.

He’s barely put off more than 2 shots when John’s hit takes him in the knee.

The man screams and clutches his leg as John steps over to him and kicks him in the head. He pulls back the black sleeve of the man’s shirt and sees a tattoo of lightning and the number 21.

“Wha-what’s going on?!”

Miss Carthage clutches a can of pepperspray and stands in a doorway from down the hall where she had stepped out after the first gunshots.

“Abigail Carthage. I’m here to protect you.”

Her hand trembles but she lowers the can. “From what?”

“That’s what I’d like to know. Here, let’s go somewhere safe.” John puts out his hand and Abigail takes it, stepping over one of the men’s prone bodies.

John leads her out of the building. “Where should I take her Harold?”

“I’ve gotten a hotel reservation under my name. Just texted you the address. Check her in there.”

Chapter Text

Michael Westen watches from behind the police barrier as the cops haul the two suspects out of the elementary school teacher’s house. From the file, he knew that John Reese was particularly fond of shooting out kneecaps and leaving the scumbags he dealt with alive so when he heard about the shooting on a police scanner he had “borrowed” from a cop patrolling a local park, he drove straight away to the scene.

He takes note of the neck tattoos on the scumbags as they are shoved into the police car by a black female officer and a white curly haired male officer.

He walks away and pulls out the radio again at a safe distance, listening for more clues. He overhears a young officer complaining about the existence of yet another white supremacy gang cropping up in New York, this one called Lighting 21.

Let’s see if I can be of help, Michael thinks. He now has a way to get into contact with this John, who is protecting Abigail Carthage for some reason.

After the police are long gone, Michael breaks into the first story apartment through the back door. He has to pick through not one but three locks.

He walks around the apartment, searching for clues as to why members of a white supremacist gang would be targeting a teacher. He doesn’t see any valuables. He does notice however that plenty of spots along the wall are gone where frames used to be hung. Ones of Abigail and family members are hanging up, but no sign of any spouse or boyfriends.

In a filing cabinet, he finds the divorce papers. Then the restraining order. And old hospital bills.

Michael’s heart twinges. The apartment feels a lot like what his Mom would do when his father got especially rough with his family and she would kick him out for a week before letting him back in when he had “calmed.” She’d change the locks but then change them back when he came home.

When infiltrating a gang, Michael thinks to himself, it’s all about being useful. He doesn’t have the time to get recruited into the gang undercover, that would take too long. But he could be an interested third party.

Stepping out of his stolen car that he picked up his first night in New York, Michael adjusts his tan suit then pushes through the door to a bar that doesn’t know the fact that segregation is over, but it accomplishes it with all of the white supremacy related memorabilia that someone thought was a great decorator tool which keeps most folks out.

He sits down at the bar and orders a drink which he makes sure to only sip, keeping his faculties together.

He watches men leave and go. Trying to figure out by body language who’s the head honcho around here.

Finally, one man enters and sits at a back booth, his lady friend tucked in next to him. Men approach, sit down, whisper into his ear, and leave.

Michael puts money down on the counter for the drink, then saunters over to the booth and sits down, immediately man spreading, one knee threatening to knock against the other man’s.

“What do you think you’re doing?” the tall bald man glares at Michael, one hand reaching into his jacket, where Michael recognizes the shape of a Magnum in its inner pocket.

“Well, I don’t think you’re gonna wanna pull that Magnum out on me,” says Michael leaning back. “I’m here to make your life easier.”

“Oh yeah, how’s that?”

“Let’s just say I’m a man with information. Information about who attacked two of your members last night, shot em in the kneecaps.”

The man glowers but pulls his hand back out of his jacket and waves his cronies who had approached away.

“How did you come across this information?”

Michael leans forward, one arm still splayed on the back of the booth. “I’m after the man who done it. He attacked my crew once, and I’m looking for a little payback.”

The gang leader nods at Michael, understanding now that it’s the enemy of my enemy is my friend.

“And what do you want in exchange for this information?”

“Why hardly nothing at all. I just want to know where this man is so I can hello. You know, with a blow torch and eventually a bullet to the back of the skull.” Michael guffaws loudly, clapping the bigger man on the back.

“He took one of our, let’s say jobs,” the man says. “We are eager to find him so we can finish. But you can have what’s left after my boys are done.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

The man waves at the bartender, “Sal, a round for us back here.”

As they wait for their drinks, the man extends his hand to Michael. “My name is Henry Ford. Please, tell me more.”

Michael releases the man’s crushing grip but doesn’t grimace. “He’s a no-good vigilante wanted by the NYPD….”

Chapter Text

While Michael is sweet talking a white supremacist gang leader who sells coke and guns for a living, John paces the hotel room with Harold and Abigail seated on two chairs.

“I don’t know why gang members would want to harm me,” Abigail insists for the second time.

“Please, you can’t think of anyone who would want you harmed?” Harold asks gently.

Abigail’s eyes darken and John catches it. “Abigail?”

She sighs. “I am recently divorced. The proceedings didn’t go over very well with my ex, Patrick. But that was months ago. And he isn’t involved with any gangs, is he?”

Harold looks up at John, who’s grimacing. He knows all too well how terrifying husbands can be. Like with Jessica.

“Where’s your ex-husband living now?”

Abigail shares what she knows and John leaves to confront the man who must have put a contract hit out on his wife. Often, new gangs will try to wrack up change with cheap hits. Just 20k for inexperienced hitmen that the gang can always replace if they get caught.

Abigail collapses against the back of the couch.

“Are you okay, miss?” Harold asks.

“I’m just tired. And hungry. I haven’t had anything to eat since lunch yesterday.”

“We could order room service.” Harold picks up the phone.

“I usually don’t risk it eating out. I have a severe nut allergy and I don’t eat anything I haven’t prepared myself. And I don’t have my epi-Pen because your friend brought me straight here tonight.”

Harold pauses for a moment. He thinks that they are safe. Nobody can possibly know they are here. “What if I go down to the kitchen while you rest here? I can get you a salad and watch the whole process. Hotels are used to that sort of thing.”

Abigail smiles gently. “You’re too kind.”

“Just wait here.” Harold puts his coat back on and steps out, making sure the room locks behind him and puts the keycard in his pocket.

His footsteps are barely fading when Abigail sits up. “Omg the school will be wondering where I am.”

She glances at the hotel phone. John had confiscated her phone last night, tossing it out the window of his car, saying it could be traced. But the hotel can’t be traced if the gang doesn’t know she’s even here, she thinks.

She’s dialing the school, feeling slightly guilty, but also defiant. So much of her life has been out of her control until she divorced her abusive ex, and she doesn’t want to lose her job that means everything to her.

She makes up an excuse about a family emergency coming up when she calls the front office.

By the time Harold returns with two Cobb salads, she’s seated back on the chair, legs tucked underneath her. Phone back in its cradle.

A man of medium height, medium looks, and dressed in a blue polo shirt and tan pants walks up to the school front desk counter.

“Can I help you?” the brunette behind the counter asks.

“My name is Patrick Carthage. I’m looking for my wife Abigail.”

The woman’s nose scrunches slightly. “Didn’t Abigail get a divorce?”

The man chuckles and nervously scratches the side of his nose. “Well actually we’re still in the midst of completing all the paperwork. Force of habitat I suppose. I should get used to just calling her Abigail.”

“What is it you want sir?”

“Do you know where she is? I have some papers for her to sign. I know she wants to get this divorce as quickly as possible. And her cell seems to be turned off, I’ve been unable to reach her.”

The woman hesitates.

“Honestly, you’d be doing her a favor. You know she’d rather focus on the kids in her class than legal stuff.”

The woman smiles. “Well, she did just call from the Hilton hotel not five minutes ago. Said she missed work this morning for a family emergency. Perhaps you could ask for her there?”

The man grins widely. “Well that’s just perfect. I’ll leave my name with the concierge then.”

Chapter Text

Henry Ford’s cell rings. He pauses his conversation with Michael about the best way to hide drugs inside cars to answer it.

Michael nurses his drink, pretending to take a sip.

“We got a tip about the gal your man carried off last night. We know where she is.”

“Well that’s just splendid. If you tell me where, I’ll go after our vigilante myself.” Michael moves to stand.

“No. No, my guys will take you. We get first crack at him, remember.”

“Of course Henry. Of course.” Michael stands up and adjusts his jacket then strides off with a few of Henry’s men.

One man Henry grabs before he leaves and whispers in his ear to kill the man named Charles. His stooge just nods yes.

Michael gets in the car with the men. He strikes up a conversation about the price of housing in New York. They don’t seem up for much conversation. Michael’s instincts twinge, something is off. He gets ready for a double cross of his own because of course he isn’t going to let these racist fools kill some elementary school teacher.

John climbs through a back window into Patrick Carthage’s cheap shitty apartment. He clears all the rooms but the man isn’t home.

He climbs back out the window to head back to the hotel.

Michael and four guys enter the hotel. Michael pauses in the entryway. “Guys, let me handle this. I can get her room number so we don’t have to search every floor.”

They watch from a corner as Michael approaches the concierge.

“Can I help you sir?”

“Yes, I was told to meet a Miss Carthage here? Abigail Carthage?”

“One moment sir. Let me see if any messages were left for you from Miss Carthage. Your name?”

“Charles Winslow,” Michael rattles off the name on the New York drivers license that Carla had made for him.

“I’m sorry sir but there are no messages left for anyone by an Abigail Carthage. Or left for a Charles Winslow.”

“She might be checked in under a different name. You see, Abigail is divorcing her abusive ex and well,” Michael sighs, “he’s not taking it well. She’s had to take out a restraining order on him, and I’m here to help her finalize some paperwork as her lawyer. I’m sure she just forgot about our meeting today although she had told me the hotel and time last week.”

“Do you have an alternate name for me to check sir?”

“How about I show you a picture of her and you can tell me if she’s here?”

The concierge nods and looks at Michael’s phone where he’d downloaded a photo of Abigail from her Instagram, which while privated, the pfp is still visible. People share too much of themselves online, Michael thinks. Although it makes spycraft easier.

“Yes, I recognize her. She came in last night with a handsome fellow, 6 feet tall and dressed in a suit.”

“That must be her brother,” Michael says. “Here for emotional support. Can you give me their room number so I can knock?”

The concierge hesitates. Michael reaches over the counter and strokes his hand. “It would be a big help to me, this is my first big case as a paralegal. I’d owe you big time.”

The man flushes red at the attention from such a good looking man, but doesn’t move his hand from under Michael’s finger. “She’s in Room 310.”

Michael flashes that all too bright smile at him. “Thank you sir. I’ll see you on my way out.” He winks and turns immediately for the elevator, wanting to get ahead of his keepers.

The gang members are too slow and have to take the next elevator.

Michael had punched in floor 5 and when he arrives, he runs down the stairs to level 3.

He knocks on Room 310.

Mr. Finch flinches when he hears the knock at the door. It doesn’t sound like Mr. Reese.

“Who’s that?” Abigail asks frightened.

Harold says into his microphone, “Mr. Reese are you back at the hotel?”

“I'm about 5 minutes away. Why Finch?”

“Because someone’s at the door.”

“I’m coming Harold.” Reese floors it.

“Abigail? Are you in there?,” says a voice at the door.

Harold steps up to the door. “There’s no Abigail here now leave or I’ll call hotel security.”

“There are four gang members who will be here soon and security will be too late unless you’ve already called them which I take it you are reluctant to do.”

“How do you know?” asks Harold.

“Ah, so she IS in there. I’m here to help. I’m a friend,” Michael intones with as much charm as he can muster.

Harold sighs, unsure what to do. He moves to look out through the peephole when he sees Michael Westen standing on the other side of the door.

He gasps and moves away from the door. “Mr. Reese we have a problem. Michael Westen is here.”

“Who’s Michael Westen?” Abigail asks, moving towards Harold.

“Nobody you want to know,” whispers Harold.

On the other side of the door, Michael rolls his eyes and takes out his gun. He surveys the hallway for weapons. The gang members are sure to be here any minute and he needs to be ready. He’s not surprised they won’t let him in, but he is surprised that there’s another man in the hotel room. John must have a partner he muses.

He finds a fire extinguisher and puts his gun away for now. He stands next to the stairwell, out of sight of those coming through the door.

When the two tattooed men walk out they get a face full of white foam. They scream and claw at their faces and Michael shoots them in the kneecaps with his silenced gun after dropping the fire extinguisher. That is fun, he smiles. I see why John has taken a liking to it.

He checks the stairwell and nobody else is coming down it.

He runs back to the elevator.

When the door opens the two men see a smiling Michael Westen. “Hey there fellas.”

He stays in the entrance of the elevator so it doesn’t close and so only one man can rush him at a time. The second can’t shoot without hitting his comrade.

Michael re-directs all the blows and slams the heel of his hand against the first man’s nose and he’s down for the count.

The second man he swipes his feet out from under him and then gets behind him, holding him in a chokehold until he passes out.

Michael pulls the first man back into the elevator and steps out. He lets the door close behind him.

He walks back to the locked door. “Okay I took care of the four out here but more are gonna come lookin now that they know you’re here. Take her to a safe place okay?”

And he leaves.

Chapter Text

John comes rushing up the stairs, people were crowding the elevators with the unconscious men downstairs in the lobby. People were dialing 911.

His heart leaps in fear at what he will find but when he slides his key card into the door he rushes into the room to find Harold and Abigail calmly packing their bags.

“Harold?”

“Mr. Westen seems to have taken care of the gang members currently in the building. But we need to leave. Our location as been compromised.”

“What do we do now?” asks Abigail.

“For now, we take you someplace safer.” John puts his gun back in its holster and helps guide them out to the parking garage, gauging for threats the entire time.

He doesn’t seem to see Michael Westen tail them with his tan sudan back to the library.

On the building across the street, Michael lays on the roof, looking through an unloaded rifle scope. The library is boarded up, when he did some research on his phone while also still keeping watch, he learned it was foreclosed by a bank and kinda sitting in building purgatory. So he can’t see inside, but he can watch the exits. He saw the target enter the building and he hasn’t come back out the way he came in. Yet.

Stake outs can be so boring, Michael thinks.

Yet, it’s only 15 minutes later when the tall, handsome man dressed all in black struts back out of the library building. He places an ear piece in one ear and taps it on.

Michael quickly packs up and moves to follow.

He ends up at a stake out of a stake out. John has been sitting in his car outside of Patrick Carthage’s place for five hours now.

Michael opens up a blueberry yogurt from a small cooler in the passenger seat and proceeds to carefully lick it out with a plastic spoon. Still carefully watching.

Finally, Patrick Carthage arrives home in a beat up old car that’s definitely seen better days.

He’s walking up to the stairs to his apartment when John comes up behind him, gun to the man’s ribs.

Michael watches as the man is taken back to John’s car. He turns on the car and after a few heartbeats moves to follow the fellow spy.

This would be so much easier with a team, he thinks to himself. Tailing John all day just increases the chances the other ex-CIA man will realize he has a tail without having other cars to pick up where one leaves off.

John takes them to a park and walks the husband into the woods.

Michael sighs and looks down at his shoes. Not exactly made for this kind of thing. He shrugs and follows after them.

John has the man kneel down in the park. He puts the gun up against the back of his head.

Interesting, Michael thinks as he hides in the brush. John doesn’t usually kill. He disables.

“This is what you wanted for your ex wife isn’t it?” John says. He roughly shoves Patrick’s head with his gun. “You wanted her scared, and alone, at the mercy of murderers. Well now you’re at MY mercy. And unless you do what I say, I’ll give you exactly what you deserve.”

The man cries silently, shaking his head.

John moves to the front and hands the man his cellphone. “Call them and say the hit is off.”

“I can’t. I can’t, they told me that once I paid they would do the job to keep their cred no matter what.”

John frowns at this, clearly not expecting the situation to be so, irreversible.

Michael makes a calculated move. He steps out of the brush.

“Maybe I can help.”

Immediately John has stepped back from Patrick and knelt to one knee on the ground in one fluid movement with the gun aimed directly at Michael’s heart.

That’s kinda hot, Michael thinks to himself as he holds both empty hands up. “Now look, you saw my handiwork back at the hotel. I’m not the bad guy here.” At least I don’t want to be, Michael thinks inwardly.

“You’re Michael Westen. A burned CIA spy.”

“Well nobody’s perfect. You’re a burned CIA spy too.”

John’s eyebrows raise at that.

Michael nods in the direction of a trembling Patrick. “Look, how about we fix it so Abigail can go back to school tomorrow and leave this mess behind her. Then we can work out our issues.”

John flips the safety back onto his gun. “Ok then.”

Michael steps closer, lowering his hands. “Now that’s more like i-”

And John rushes him. Michael barefly is able to deflect the first blow aimed to knock out his windpipe and leave him gasping on the ground.

Michael has thirty years of karate under his belt. But John Reese is his equal.

He was also in Special Forces in the army. Also trained by CIA handlers, athough his instructors chose Wing Chun instead of karate.

They keep to close quarter combat, grappling with each other. Each trying to find an opening. To get the other off their game or at least off balance.

“I’m..not..your…enemy” Michael gets out between blows.

John just smiles.

Michael risks a look over John’s shoulder to say, “He’s getting away!”

John refuses, to look, but Michael backs away as John tries to kick him. “Patrick is getting away man! Talk about trust issues.”

John finally risks a quick look back to see indeed that Patrick has decided to try to make a break for it through the woods from the crazy James Bond type people he witnessed in front of him.

John gives Michael a piercing look, then turns and runs after Patrick. Michael keeps pace with him, both of them being about the same height.

The two men march Patrick Carthage out of the woods, his feet slightly dragging in defeat, one man holding onto each shoulder.

“Alright Westen, what’s your plan?”

“Please, my friends call me Michael. But never Mikey.”

“Michael. What’s the plan.”

Chapter Text

The plan is this. If they can’t get the hit called off, then they have to scare the gang with a bigger one that puts the hit completely out of their minds. The Lighting 21 already know Michael as supposedly another local gang thug. They just now need to introduce his team. It’s something Michael has done a lot with success in Miami which he had explained to John who had just sighed and called up one of his partners, a police detective named Fusco to come join them.

When Fusco arrives, Michael recognizes him from the crime scene two days ago.

“What’s up? We’re taking down some racist thugs?” huffs Fusco. “Who’s the new guy? Where you’d pick him up?”

“Fusco, this is Michael Westen. Another ex-CIA spy.”

“Oh great now there’s two of you,” and Fusco rolls his eyes but he smiles good naturedly to soften his words.

Michael is reminded of a less flashy Sam. Someone who always knows how to sow laughs.

He joins in with the teasing, trying to create more connections between him and this current team. “At least this one knows how to match,” and gestures to Fusco’s tan-ish suit. John is still all in black and white per usual.

John just shrugs and picks up a small grenade launcher from the trunk of his car.

“Okay pulling out all the stops,” Fusco remarks to that.

Michael puts on his sunglasses. “Follow my lead guys.”

The three men walk down the carless street to the gang’s headquarters, Michael in the middle flanked on each side by the others.

He stops and holds his hand up. He snaps his fingers and John aims and fires. The blast takes out an empty gang member’s car parked in front as well as the giant front windows of the bar which was the intention.

Henry Ford comes rushing out of the ruins, gun up.

“Stop right there,” yells out Michael across from the middle of the street.

“I’ll kill you Charles!” screams the bald man.

“Charles?” asks Fusco.

“Hey, it’s a good undercover name,” Michael says then gets back into character.

“No, I’m going to kill you!” he yells out at the other gang leader who has paused in the street with four of his men who were at the bar. The rest are all out slinging drugs as per usual. Michael got their routine down when he spent hours chit chatting with Henry while waiting to hear where the man in the suit was.

“I’ve got you outnumbered!” yells Ford.

Michael smiles that maniacal smile when he gets to blow stuff up. “You see this?” He holds up the detonator.

Ford and his men pale as Michael puts his finger down over one of the buttons. Another car explodes, some of the glass from the windows putting one of Ford’s men down for the count. Earlier, John had snuck around placed small focused bombs underneath members’ cars.

Michael struts forward and Ford’s men turn tail and run.

He stands in front of Ford who has thrown his gun to the side. “You tried to have me killed.”

Ford just grinds his teeth.

“But all I’m going to do to you is shoot you in the knee.”

Ford’s eyes widen and then he’s howling on the ground clutching his knee.

Michael turns to John who has just stood there watching. “Actually, how about both.” And he turns back to the worm on the ground and shoots out his other knee.

Michael saunters back to his partners in crime, whistling. Then he says, “Let’s go home boys. This gang is over.”

“He’s crazier than you,” Fusco says to John as they follow Michael. This time he’s not joking.

“Yep,” is all John says.

Detective Fusco drives Abigail to her home and explains nobody is going to be after her anymore. While the boys took down the gang, Detective Carter arrested Mr. Carthage for attempted murder. Patrick was so scared of both John and Michael that he called the police himself and was waiting for them, seated at his kitchen table.

Abigail cries in relief, ready to handle the drama of elementary school children's woes instead of misogynistic abusive assholes and white supremacists for hire.

In the library, Michael walks around the bookcases, spoon in one hand and blueberry yogurt in the other. “Nice place you got here Glasses.”

Harold looks over at John who shrugs and says, “Fusco told him we were taking him to see Glasses.”

“No really. My base is nowhere near as nice.” Or quiet, Michael thinks.

“Just what is it you want, Mr. Westen?” Harold is eager to get him out of their business.

Michael stops walking and approaches the two men. Harold still seated at his computer and John standing at his left shoulder, hovering protectively.

“I was sent here by my handler to report on Mr. Reese here. Seems they wanna know what a burned spy is up to in New York.”

“And what are you gonna tell them?” John asks.

“What would you LIKE me to tell them?” Michael says bluntly.

Harold looks surprised at that. John just smiles.

“Look, we’re a lot alike. Your team and my team in Miami.”

“So not an evil Finch after all,” muses Harold.

“Evil what now?” Michael drops his empty yogurt in the trash can.

“Nothing important,” says John. “As for your handler, you can just tell them the truth. But leave Harold out of it,” and his voice grows rougher with the second sentence.

Ah, I see how it is. Michael recognizes what’s going on here, even if the two men have not acknowledged it yet to each other.

“I’ll warn you. I’m still burned and being black-mailed by this other group. I didn’t come here willingly. But maybe we can help each other out. They won’t be expecting that.”

“No, they wouldn’t.” John looks wistful for a moment.

“I’ll just say you’re like me, with a side gig as a bodyguard / fixer. Not too far from the truth anyhow. I’m to fly back to Miami after gathering enough intel to satisfy them.”

“Well, I thank you Mr. Westen for your assistance back at the hotel. I dread to think what would have happened had you not been there.” Harold seems to have come around to Michael’s side now.

“You know what, Finch, I bet you would have surprised me.”

John smiles, knowing Harold can be quite resourceful. His mind is the weapon whereas for John it’s mostly been his body and instincts he relies on.

Michael leaves the Team to their library. He has a flight to make.

Chapter Text

Same cafe. Same tea and lemonade. Michael pushes a manila folder over to Carla.

She eagerly flips it open to find just one page, both sides, of handwritten notes. She reads quickly through. “You expect me to believe that this other burned spy goes around playing vigilante like you do?”

Michael grins. “You guys recruit people like me and John, who signed up yes to get away from our homes but also to do something good with our lives, and what. Think we lose it fighting in the dark for you all?”

Carla frowns at him. “This is not cooperating Michael. Management won’t like this.”

“You gonna punish me for telling the truth?

Carla looks at him for a moment. Michael almost wishes she would believe him. Let her be scared by what one more member to his team of loyal supporters could mean. He already has Sam and Fi. What he could do with men like John and Harold on his side.

But spycraft involves games within games. She moves on with, “They’ll probably send a secondary team just to confirm.”

“Not like I have anything to say about it.” Michael shrugs. Wonder why she’s telling me this. To see if I pass it along to John and thus determine if he’s MY asset instead of theirs?

Carla throws money down for the bill and stalks away.

Michael pulls out his cellphone. He doesn’t dial anyone but just starts talking to it. “See, I told you guys I was on your side.”

On the airplane ride home he’d gone into the bathroom and pried open his phone to find a bug installed by John. A bug he’d put there after stealing Michael’s phone during their fight in the woods and then snuck back into his pocket later. Michael is impressed.

He gets up, putting the phone back in his pocket when he sees Fi’s car arrive. He gets into the passenger seat.

“How did it go darling?”

“Oh you know. Games within games, Fi.”

“I do hope you stop playing these games soon Michael.”

“Me too Fi. Me too.”