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jedibuttercupT; B:tVS/The Hitman's Wife's Bodyguard; 1300 words. For ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
twistedshorts.
Michael had been hoping he had at least one family member he didn't need to blush for, and that he wasn't actually a living nexus of Murphy's luck. Alas.
Title: The Hitman's Wife's Bodyguard's Sister
Author: Jedi Buttercup
Disclaimer: The words are mine; the worlds are not.
Rating: T/PG-13
Spoilers: B:tVS post-canon; The Hitman's Wife's Bodyguard (2021)
Notes: Hey, I made it to ten entries for TwistedShorts this year! And not all retreads either - hopefully I can pick some of these threads back up next year. :) Anyway, crackiest premise of the lot: I saw the new movie, looked up Ryan Reynolds' age, then looked up SMG's ... and a certain old trope came instantly to mind.
Michael had been hoping he had at least one family member he didn't need to blush for, and that he wasn't actually a living nexus of Murphy's luck. Alas. 1300 words.
Trapped on a tiny boat for a month with Sonia and Darius Kincaid really throwing themselves into their belated honeymoon, Michael Bryce had a lot of time on his hands. There was only so much swimming he could really do without drowning or risking getting separated from the boat, and he wasn't actually suicidal. Fucked up, sure. Impossible not to own that, at this juncture of events. But if this was Future Michael's life, he had words for Past Michael.
In the meanwhile, though: thank god for satellite data, Bluetooth earbuds, and his smartphone. His stepfather might have been lying to him for years, but his mother had loved him, at least-- his original mother, god, he still couldn't believe he'd blindly signed any paper Sonia put in front of him. He knew she was a con woman; why had he done that? Something about the Kincaids just bypassed every logic junction in his brain and went straight to Crazytown.
Population three, now. Fuck. Michael Bryce Kincaid: Sonia had shown him the papers again later, still pinching his cheeks and calling him 'Breece'. Couldn't let that go, apparently. That asshole O'Neill really should have warned him. There was one name missing from the list, though: the one he'd decided to finally track down, now that he'd literally burned and salted Michael Bryce Senior's legacy.
His mom hadn't been married when he was born; she'd been a secretary in Los Angeles. Michael didn't have any cliché terrible childhood stories about his bio dad, though; the guy just hadn't been there. It hadn't mattered when he'd been little, and he had decided it never would matter when his mother had married Dad and legally changed his name. For reasons that seemed more than a little suspect, now. Regardless, since his whole parental situation had undergone a rather drastic sea change, he'd decided he'd kind of like to know if there was anything to be concerned about in those drops of DNA-- thanks Darius-- before giving up and surrendering his sanity entirely.
Tracking her records back, calling in a few favors from past protectees who still remembered him fondly, and a clandestine DNA test later-- luckily, the hairbrush left behind in his Amsterdam safehouse had supplied enough material; nothing more drastic had been required-- and he finally had a name.
Well, names. Turned out his sperm donor's name was Hank. But not like the hall of fame baseball player, the singer-songwriter, or even Beast from the X-Men: just your generic lecherous businessman, who'd had a wife and, as it turned out, two daughters, the elder about six months younger than Michael. Three guesses why his mother hadn't still been working for him when Michael was born, and the first two didn't count. Anyway, he was kind of a letdown. The daughters, though....
"Interesting reading?" somebody quipped behind him, and Michael startled, nearly flinging his phone into the water as he spun around. Another boat had come up alongside them while he'd been indulging in some tunes while reading through the older half-sister's record; after what had happened with Sonia, maybe he should rethink that particular habit.
"Um," he said, blinking at the very face that had been looking up from his phone's screen as he took out the earbuds. "A little bit, yeah. Interesting case study for nurture versus nature here, as it turns out. Did you really burn down your first high school's gym and then claim it was 'mice that were smoking' that caused it?"
She was blonde, though the roots of her upswept 'do looked about the same color as his; she had green eyes, and had to be a good ten inches shorter than him, if you didn't count the heeled sandals. Which she was wearing. On a boat. Paired with a stylish outfit Sonia would probably approve of. But despite that, she stood like she knew what to do with her body; like she'd been trained. Sharply appraising gaze, calluses on the palms, deceptively muscled arms under that flowy blouse.
"Wow," she said, eyes widening as she did her own once-over. "Starting from the beginning, huh. Would have thought the, you know, whole blowing up the high school I actually graduated from thing would have been a bigger deal. Considering."
"Considering...?" Michael blinked at that, then narrowed his eyes. "Look. It's hardly my fault explosions tend to follow me around; I tell and tell my clients that 'boring is always best', but do they listen? You must have great data security, by the way; is it too late to tell you that I'm not a threat? To you, at least."
There were several other women on the boat with her, most of them with similar body language, all of them armed-- though curiously with blades, not guns. Blades a lot more assuming than his penknife. Another interesting point of data comparison, actually; made him wonder who'd put the first one in his sister's hand. And really hope they reached an understanding before the current one ended him.
...Also, before the Kincaids stopped for a breather, realized they weren't alone anymore, and came investigating; their brand of enthusiasm was the last thing this situation needed.
"That depends on exactly why you've been investigating Hank Summers," she said, tilting her head curiously. "Kinda thought you might be after some leverage on me, but if you're just now getting around to reading my official greatest hits, kinda wondering what the actual sitch is."
"Funny story," he said, "or, not so funny I guess; hey, let me start over. Hi, I'm Michael Bryce. Kincaid, I suppose. Depending-- did you know you could be adopted as a grown-ass adult? I did not know that. Anyway, Michael Bryce Senior was my stepfather; for reasons that do not need exploring at this juncture, I recently burned up his Jaguar and sent him to the bottom of the Viareggio Trench. So. Thought I'd see if I had any other options out there. Surprise, it's a half-brother?" He held out a hand.
She let it hang there, staring at him with wide eyes. "I'd almost think this was a setup, except. Do I sound like that when I babble?" she asked over her shoulder.
"'Fraid so, B," one of her friends replied, grinning.
"Nature versus nurture, huh," she turned back to him. "That really all you were looking for?"
The noise from inside climbed back into the unavoidably audible range, and Michael gave his half-sister a pleading look. "Well, I wouldn't turn down a ride? Pretty sure at this point Agent O'Neill's just trolling me, but even if there is still a Red Notice out, I almost don't care anymore. Your sister's actually as straightforward as she appears to be on paper, right? Please tell me I have at least one family member I don't need to blush for, and I'm not actually a living nexus of Murphy's luck."
She snorted at that and finally took his hand. "Hi, Michael; I'm Buffy Summers. And, sorry to have to tell you this, but I'm pretty sure it runs in the family. Anything you need off your boat?"
Dear Future Michael, he thought to himself as he shook his head hurriedly; god, I hope this isn't the new stupidest thing you've ever done. But even if it was jumping from frying pan to fire, at least the burn would be different. Right?
"No, not at all. Although, full disclosure: once they finally notice I'm gone, the Kincaids are probably gonna try to track me down? And unasked-for or not, I'd kinda prefer if all my remaining family members stay unperforated."
"I think we can handle that," Buffy replied, grinning. Then she pulled on his hand, and-- wow, she was strong.
...Surely, surely things could only go upward from here.
(x-posted on twistedshorts and on AO3)
twistedshorts.Michael had been hoping he had at least one family member he didn't need to blush for, and that he wasn't actually a living nexus of Murphy's luck. Alas.
Title: The Hitman's Wife's Bodyguard's Sister
Author: Jedi Buttercup
Disclaimer: The words are mine; the worlds are not.
Rating: T/PG-13
Spoilers: B:tVS post-canon; The Hitman's Wife's Bodyguard (2021)
Notes: Hey, I made it to ten entries for TwistedShorts this year! And not all retreads either - hopefully I can pick some of these threads back up next year. :) Anyway, crackiest premise of the lot: I saw the new movie, looked up Ryan Reynolds' age, then looked up SMG's ... and a certain old trope came instantly to mind.
Michael had been hoping he had at least one family member he didn't need to blush for, and that he wasn't actually a living nexus of Murphy's luck. Alas. 1300 words.
Trapped on a tiny boat for a month with Sonia and Darius Kincaid really throwing themselves into their belated honeymoon, Michael Bryce had a lot of time on his hands. There was only so much swimming he could really do without drowning or risking getting separated from the boat, and he wasn't actually suicidal. Fucked up, sure. Impossible not to own that, at this juncture of events. But if this was Future Michael's life, he had words for Past Michael.
In the meanwhile, though: thank god for satellite data, Bluetooth earbuds, and his smartphone. His stepfather might have been lying to him for years, but his mother had loved him, at least-- his original mother, god, he still couldn't believe he'd blindly signed any paper Sonia put in front of him. He knew she was a con woman; why had he done that? Something about the Kincaids just bypassed every logic junction in his brain and went straight to Crazytown.
Population three, now. Fuck. Michael Bryce Kincaid: Sonia had shown him the papers again later, still pinching his cheeks and calling him 'Breece'. Couldn't let that go, apparently. That asshole O'Neill really should have warned him. There was one name missing from the list, though: the one he'd decided to finally track down, now that he'd literally burned and salted Michael Bryce Senior's legacy.
His mom hadn't been married when he was born; she'd been a secretary in Los Angeles. Michael didn't have any cliché terrible childhood stories about his bio dad, though; the guy just hadn't been there. It hadn't mattered when he'd been little, and he had decided it never would matter when his mother had married Dad and legally changed his name. For reasons that seemed more than a little suspect, now. Regardless, since his whole parental situation had undergone a rather drastic sea change, he'd decided he'd kind of like to know if there was anything to be concerned about in those drops of DNA-- thanks Darius-- before giving up and surrendering his sanity entirely.
Tracking her records back, calling in a few favors from past protectees who still remembered him fondly, and a clandestine DNA test later-- luckily, the hairbrush left behind in his Amsterdam safehouse had supplied enough material; nothing more drastic had been required-- and he finally had a name.
Well, names. Turned out his sperm donor's name was Hank. But not like the hall of fame baseball player, the singer-songwriter, or even Beast from the X-Men: just your generic lecherous businessman, who'd had a wife and, as it turned out, two daughters, the elder about six months younger than Michael. Three guesses why his mother hadn't still been working for him when Michael was born, and the first two didn't count. Anyway, he was kind of a letdown. The daughters, though....
"Interesting reading?" somebody quipped behind him, and Michael startled, nearly flinging his phone into the water as he spun around. Another boat had come up alongside them while he'd been indulging in some tunes while reading through the older half-sister's record; after what had happened with Sonia, maybe he should rethink that particular habit.
"Um," he said, blinking at the very face that had been looking up from his phone's screen as he took out the earbuds. "A little bit, yeah. Interesting case study for nurture versus nature here, as it turns out. Did you really burn down your first high school's gym and then claim it was 'mice that were smoking' that caused it?"
She was blonde, though the roots of her upswept 'do looked about the same color as his; she had green eyes, and had to be a good ten inches shorter than him, if you didn't count the heeled sandals. Which she was wearing. On a boat. Paired with a stylish outfit Sonia would probably approve of. But despite that, she stood like she knew what to do with her body; like she'd been trained. Sharply appraising gaze, calluses on the palms, deceptively muscled arms under that flowy blouse.
"Wow," she said, eyes widening as she did her own once-over. "Starting from the beginning, huh. Would have thought the, you know, whole blowing up the high school I actually graduated from thing would have been a bigger deal. Considering."
"Considering...?" Michael blinked at that, then narrowed his eyes. "Look. It's hardly my fault explosions tend to follow me around; I tell and tell my clients that 'boring is always best', but do they listen? You must have great data security, by the way; is it too late to tell you that I'm not a threat? To you, at least."
There were several other women on the boat with her, most of them with similar body language, all of them armed-- though curiously with blades, not guns. Blades a lot more assuming than his penknife. Another interesting point of data comparison, actually; made him wonder who'd put the first one in his sister's hand. And really hope they reached an understanding before the current one ended him.
...Also, before the Kincaids stopped for a breather, realized they weren't alone anymore, and came investigating; their brand of enthusiasm was the last thing this situation needed.
"That depends on exactly why you've been investigating Hank Summers," she said, tilting her head curiously. "Kinda thought you might be after some leverage on me, but if you're just now getting around to reading my official greatest hits, kinda wondering what the actual sitch is."
"Funny story," he said, "or, not so funny I guess; hey, let me start over. Hi, I'm Michael Bryce. Kincaid, I suppose. Depending-- did you know you could be adopted as a grown-ass adult? I did not know that. Anyway, Michael Bryce Senior was my stepfather; for reasons that do not need exploring at this juncture, I recently burned up his Jaguar and sent him to the bottom of the Viareggio Trench. So. Thought I'd see if I had any other options out there. Surprise, it's a half-brother?" He held out a hand.
She let it hang there, staring at him with wide eyes. "I'd almost think this was a setup, except. Do I sound like that when I babble?" she asked over her shoulder.
"'Fraid so, B," one of her friends replied, grinning.
"Nature versus nurture, huh," she turned back to him. "That really all you were looking for?"
The noise from inside climbed back into the unavoidably audible range, and Michael gave his half-sister a pleading look. "Well, I wouldn't turn down a ride? Pretty sure at this point Agent O'Neill's just trolling me, but even if there is still a Red Notice out, I almost don't care anymore. Your sister's actually as straightforward as she appears to be on paper, right? Please tell me I have at least one family member I don't need to blush for, and I'm not actually a living nexus of Murphy's luck."
She snorted at that and finally took his hand. "Hi, Michael; I'm Buffy Summers. And, sorry to have to tell you this, but I'm pretty sure it runs in the family. Anything you need off your boat?"
Dear Future Michael, he thought to himself as he shook his head hurriedly; god, I hope this isn't the new stupidest thing you've ever done. But even if it was jumping from frying pan to fire, at least the burn would be different. Right?
"No, not at all. Although, full disclosure: once they finally notice I'm gone, the Kincaids are probably gonna try to track me down? And unasked-for or not, I'd kinda prefer if all my remaining family members stay unperforated."
"I think we can handle that," Buffy replied, grinning. Then she pulled on his hand, and-- wow, she was strong.
...Surely, surely things could only go upward from here.
(x-posted on twistedshorts and on AO3)
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Date: 2021-09-01 06:16 pm (UTC)