http://ficwize.livejournal.com/ (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
ficwize.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
crack_van2009-10-29 08:23 am
ficwize.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2009-10-29 08:23 am
Entry tags:
Burn Notice/Bandom (NC17)
Title: People Say A Lot Of Things They Don't Mean
Fandom: Burn Notice/Fall Out Boy RPS
Pairing: Michael Westen/Pete Wentz, Pete Wentz/Patrick Stump, Michael Westen/Fiona Glenanne
Author on LJ:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
scribblinlenore
Author Website: Her LJ
Why this must be read: Folks, I don't ever read Bandom fics. But I read this one and I cannot express how much love I have for it. It is brilliantly funny, wonderfully intense, and if all Bandom fics are like this, I've been missing out.
Plus, there is a fantastic plot, quite a bit of action – in all snses of the word- and an ending that tugs on your heartstrings.
I really can't rec this highly enough!
Excerpt: Michael is dreaming when the infernal banging begins. He doesn't remember much about the dream once the racket jolts him awake, just a few fuzzy after-images. There's Fiona, smiling with such a complete lack of disappointment that it must be a hopeless fantasy or a memory from years ago. There's also, for some odd reason, a dancing bear, and even more disturbingly, Carla. That's like cold water in the face, and he rolls out of bed, his brain instantly online, calculating. He glances at the clock, just past eight, too early for a friendly visit. So it's either trouble or another party-addled hipster who's taken a wrong turn on the way home from the club. He grabs the 9mm out of the nightstand. Either way, he figures it'll come in handy.
He peers out the peephole, and standing there is a dark, skinny mess of a soon-to-be-dead man, covered in tattoos, wearing yesterday's makeup. Apparently, it's not early for him, so much as very, very late. Michael considers the possibilities, black ops maneuvers for hiding bodies that involve duct tape, cuticle scissors and a bag of quick lime. The banging gets even louder, the soon-to-be dead man really putting his back into it, and Michael flings open the door. Pistol-whipping in broad daylight, he figures, will work just as well as stealth.
The soon-to-be dead man blinks at him, all big, dark eyes of doom and quivering lip.
"I lost Patrick," he says mournfully.
Michael sorts through all the code phrases he's ever memorized, not that they'd be current anymore, not that this guy looks like anybody's idea of an agent. Old habits die hard. He comes up with nothing.
He crosses his arms over his chest. "Nice eyeliner."
"Guyliner, dude," is the automatic answer, as if the subject has come up before. "I'm looking for Patrick. Have you seen him?"
Michael adopts the slightly threatening politeness that's been his first line of defense for years. "Can you be more specific?"
Guyliner scowls as if Michael has said something utterly scandalous. "Patrick," he reiterates, as if this explains everything. "I had him. But then I lost him. And now I can't find him anywhere. Is he in there? Can I just--"
Michael has guarded heads of state, kept terrorists out of sensitive government installations, fended off Nate's every attempt to steal money out of his wallet. You'd think he'd be better at keeping a nuisance like Guyliner out of his home. But Guyliner proves a slippery piece of business, all preternatural skinniness and slinky hips, sliding into the apartment before Michael can so much as get a restraining hand on him.
People Say A Lot Of Things They Don't Mean
Fandom: Burn Notice/Fall Out Boy RPS
Pairing: Michael Westen/Pete Wentz, Pete Wentz/Patrick Stump, Michael Westen/Fiona Glenanne
Author on LJ:
scribblinlenore Author Website: Her LJ
Why this must be read: Folks, I don't ever read Bandom fics. But I read this one and I cannot express how much love I have for it. It is brilliantly funny, wonderfully intense, and if all Bandom fics are like this, I've been missing out.
Plus, there is a fantastic plot, quite a bit of action – in all snses of the word- and an ending that tugs on your heartstrings.
I really can't rec this highly enough!
Excerpt: Michael is dreaming when the infernal banging begins. He doesn't remember much about the dream once the racket jolts him awake, just a few fuzzy after-images. There's Fiona, smiling with such a complete lack of disappointment that it must be a hopeless fantasy or a memory from years ago. There's also, for some odd reason, a dancing bear, and even more disturbingly, Carla. That's like cold water in the face, and he rolls out of bed, his brain instantly online, calculating. He glances at the clock, just past eight, too early for a friendly visit. So it's either trouble or another party-addled hipster who's taken a wrong turn on the way home from the club. He grabs the 9mm out of the nightstand. Either way, he figures it'll come in handy.
He peers out the peephole, and standing there is a dark, skinny mess of a soon-to-be-dead man, covered in tattoos, wearing yesterday's makeup. Apparently, it's not early for him, so much as very, very late. Michael considers the possibilities, black ops maneuvers for hiding bodies that involve duct tape, cuticle scissors and a bag of quick lime. The banging gets even louder, the soon-to-be dead man really putting his back into it, and Michael flings open the door. Pistol-whipping in broad daylight, he figures, will work just as well as stealth.
The soon-to-be dead man blinks at him, all big, dark eyes of doom and quivering lip.
"I lost Patrick," he says mournfully.
Michael sorts through all the code phrases he's ever memorized, not that they'd be current anymore, not that this guy looks like anybody's idea of an agent. Old habits die hard. He comes up with nothing.
He crosses his arms over his chest. "Nice eyeliner."
"Guyliner, dude," is the automatic answer, as if the subject has come up before. "I'm looking for Patrick. Have you seen him?"
Michael adopts the slightly threatening politeness that's been his first line of defense for years. "Can you be more specific?"
Guyliner scowls as if Michael has said something utterly scandalous. "Patrick," he reiterates, as if this explains everything. "I had him. But then I lost him. And now I can't find him anywhere. Is he in there? Can I just--"
Michael has guarded heads of state, kept terrorists out of sensitive government installations, fended off Nate's every attempt to steal money out of his wallet. You'd think he'd be better at keeping a nuisance like Guyliner out of his home. But Guyliner proves a slippery piece of business, all preternatural skinniness and slinky hips, sliding into the apartment before Michael can so much as get a restraining hand on him.
People Say A Lot Of Things They Don't Mean