This is a FTH gift for the very talented Dark Tidings.
Coming out of the store, Michael Vance breathes a sigh of relief as he looks down at his bounty. Surely six bags of differently flavored life-savers - the last ones on the shelf - along with that economy-sized bag of sour lollipops, will last long enough until the mall opens in the morning, and spare him a drive to the next county.
He's crossing the street to get back to his car when he notices that the light inside the PO Box office a little ways down the street is still on, and, after a glance down at the bag, he changes direction. Yes, Jeanne is waiting for him, but the day he walks away from a potential robbery in progress, is the day he's no longer able to walk at all.
Passing the big window, he glances inside, a frown appearing on his face when all he sees is an empty room. Scanning the room more thoroughly, doesn't make any robbers magically appear and he has to admit to himself that the place is definitely not being robbed. "Besides, what kind of thief would be stupid enough to leave the lights on anyway, you fool," he mutters to himself, and without thinking Michael lifts his hand to card his fingers through his hair, only to get smacked in the face by the heavy bag of lollipops. Rubbing the bridge he has to admit that it still begs the question: Why are the lights on at five minutes to midnight on a Wednesday night?
He scans the room again, brow furrowing, half-way convinced that some employee unintentionally must have left the light on, before he notices the small sign on the window.
The sign that boasts: NOW OPEN 24/7.
Not a moment later he can hear Jeanne's laughing voice in his head clear as day: Forgetting things is the first sign of getting old honey, she'll tease, and Michae lshakes his head at himself, feeling beyond foolish at his own forgetfulness. Because, now that he thinks about it, he already knew that they changed their opening hours. He was the one who told her about it over breakfast the morning before after all.
Thinking that he might as well check both Boxes now that he's here, Michael heads inside.
In the one in Jeanne's name, there are a few baby- or pregnancy-related magazines, sent by some of their well-meaning family members, as well as two letters. One from an old high-school friend of hers, and the other from a childhood friend of his. Both letters go into his jacket-pocket and, even though he doubts they're gonna get more than a good laugh out of the magazines, (it's not like they have the budget of someone like Kim Basinger after all) they still join the sweets in the bag, before he goes around the corner to find the other PO Box.
He honestly doesn't expect there to be anything in the one he rents under an old army alias. He hasn't had a need to use that alias in years after all, so, it's more a force of habit that pushes him to keep his work separate from his private life that has led him to keep paying for it over the years
Which makes the waterfall of magazines trying to escape its confines as soon as he opens the small door, all the more of a surprise.
"Shit." Quickly reaching out, Michael manages to catch them all except for one - a Playboy by the look of the scantily clad woman on the cover - which slides to the floor. Muttering to himself about what he's gonna do to the sender, when he finds out who it is, he crouches down, only to freeze at the sight of the white envelope that slips out from between the pages when he picks up the magazine.
An envelope without an address.
An envelope he knows won't carry an option to return to sender.
An envelope he recognizes all too well.
In short, an envelope that rarely comes bearing good news.
Forcing himself to remain calm, Michael resists the temptation to look around to see where the security cams are pointed. Shoving the envelope back into the magazine, he gathers up all of his belongings and leaves.
One normal step at a time.
And if his brain is screaming at him to hurry up, if his heart is racing a mile a minute, then it ain't nobody's business but his.
Tossing the bag onto the passenger side, he deliberately takes the turn that will lead him in the opposite direction of home.
Thank God he knows the surrounding roads so well by now.
Thirty minutes later, he has looped through town from three different directions, and, considering he hasn't spotted anyone other than a cat on a fence, whose green eyes has watched him every time he's driven by, he deems it safe enough to head down the road that'll lead him home.
But first.
The envelope.
Pulling into the truckstop halfway between the town's center and home, Michael rolls his car through the parking lot, before finding an empty spot off to the side near to the woods.
His hands are admittedly shaking when he tears the envelope open and pulls out its contents. First with nerves, then with disbelief, and finally with anger.
The first thought that scrambles to the forefront of his mind once the red haze of anger has cooled enough for him to actually think somewhat rationally is: 'How?' The second is 'Who?' And the much distant third is, if he's honest, not so much a question but more of a wish.
A wish that the contents of the envelope had been an order for a job to be done. Because, thanks to whatever stroke of luck he's had, fate has been good to him, as opposed to Eliot, who must have managed to seriously piss off some higher deity at some point in his life, considering all that's happened to him.
And now it seems that bad luck is calling on his friend yet again.
Because… well … Shit!
Michael looks down at the grainy copy of an FBI surveillance photo again, eyes immediately drawn to the figure half-hidden underneath an awning outside Damien Moreau's villa. The man that might as well have a big-ass neon sign with his name written on it above his head, with how easily Michael recognizes him.
Eliot Spencer.
He can only pray that this is the only shot the FBI have of his friend, and that whatever name Eliot's currently working under, is not one he's got too many strings attached to. And that one of those strings won't be tied back to either Michael, Jeanne or anyone else they call family.
The selfish thought makes him grimace because, deep down, he knows that Eliot would never be that stupid, and yet…
And yet, he's stupid enough to, however loosely, be connected to a man like Moreau, a voice in the back of Michael's mind pipes up, and he glares at the image again.
"What the fuck were you doing there, E?"
There's no answer from the tiny figure this time either. Not that he really needs one, because, in a way, he already knows why Eliot was there.
Money.
Lack of options.
Stubbornness.
Money.
After stuffing the photo back into the envelope he got it from, Michael tucks it into his inner pocket, then unfolds the note that had been taped to the back of the photograph.
It might have been written in code, but there's no mistaking the message in it: Tell T to Get Outta Dodge. Beneath it is a date. The day after tomorrow, to be precise.
Michael feels a bead of cold sweat roll down his neck at the thought of what might have happened if he hadn't thought the PO Office was being robbed on his way home today.
Carding a hand through his hair for the umpteenth time - he won't be surprised if he's looking like someone who's been fiddling with a power-outlet by now - Michael tries to resist the urge to hit his steering wheel. Again.
A part of him - minuscule, but still there - considers ripping up the contents of the envelope and leaving Eliot to fend for himself. He's a big boy, and considering he got himself into that mess, he can get himself out of it too. The rest of him however…. The rest of him tells him to get his ass in gear, because no matter how much deep shit Michael has to wade through to pull the other man out, he'll still do it.
Eliot is family.
It's as simple as that.
He sighs, then tucks the note into his inner pocket to join the photograph before he exits his vehicle.
Luckily it only takes a minute to find the phone booth, and he quickly taps in a number he memorized months ago.
He ends up taking several breaths while he waits for the call to connect, reminding himself each time that yelling at Eliot over the phone isn't nearly as satisfying as doing it in person. Once he's sure that his friend ain't going to jail.
The connection crackles for a moment, before Eliot's voice comes through the speaker: "It's me." He sounds scratchy and tired, and Michael's previous urge to yell at him is overpowered by worry.
Which means that, instead of the quick message he'd meant to deliver, what comes out is: "When was the last time you slept?" The silence that follows is an answer in itself, and Michael smothers the sigh that wants to escape.
He knows first hand how bad it can get, and how difficult, if not impossible, it is to sleep during an episode. What he also knows is how much it helps to talk about it. Which he does. With Jeanne. With his pops. And with the shrink. The one that was assigned to them when they returned, but Eliot only went to see twice in total before disappearing, instead of twice a week during the mandatory four months.
"I sleep." Even through the shitty connection, Michael can hear the defensiveness in those two words, and again he pushes down the urge to yell (Much better done in person or better yet let Jeanne do it, he reminds himself) at his friend. "In fact," Eliot continues, "I'm gonna go sleep right now, cause I didn't get much sleep last night."
This time the words drips with implications of a different sort, and despite the whole fucking mess Michael finds himself grinning, because at least some things never changes.
"Yeah well loverboy, sleep's gonna have to wait." The words pop out unintentionally sarcastic, and he can hear Eliot's huff of confused laughter that accompanies his next words: "And here I thought you were calling just to nag me to sleep more."
"I do, but not right now…" He pauses as a bout of last-second nerves makes him wonder what'll happen to him if this ever comes to light, then shoves them down, because living with himself knowing he could've saved his friend - his brother - from whatever is about to happen is worse. "Right now. It's time to leave San Lorenzo." The silence on the other end makes him wonder if he's lost the connection, and with his brain already busy trying to figure out a contingency plan, he instinctively tacks on an: "You hear me?" breathing a sigh of relief at the audible inhale before Eliot's confused voice trickle down the line:
"How'd yo-"
Suddenly aware that the clock is ticking all too rapidly - and that the FBI might be closing in on Moreau (and therefore Eliot) even as they speak - Michael cuts him off: "No time. Just Get Outta Dodge."
There's a clatter on the other end, a muffled "fuck" before Eliot's voice is back, sounding much more alert now than he was prior: "I'm as good as gone."
They hang up after that, because what else is there for Michael to say? Or to do, for that matter? Besides waiting that is.
It's alright though, waiting is definitely something he can do. He's been waiting more or less patiently for several things throughout his life thus far after all.
He waited for the acceptance letter from West Point, then in a twist of pure irony couldn't wait to leave either.
He waited - admittedly without an ounce of patience - on word that they'd rescued Eliot, and then waited on his friend to wake up again. In a way some days, it still feels like he's waiting on that.
He waited for Jeanne to say yes to his marriage proposal. She still insists it only took her a second to answer, he still remembers that moment as taking years.
They're both waiting on the twins to arrive, though this wait is eased by the set time frame, and by the fact that they're almost at the halfway mark already.
And now, well now it seems he'll add another round of worried waiting to the already long list titled Eliot. But at least he knows that E should have a better chance at avoiding whatever it is that's about to go down with Moreau at the center.
It's not much of a comfort, but it'll have to be enough for now.
Heading back down towards his car, Michael sends up a silent thank you to the guardian angel, who seems to be watching over his friend tonight, before tacking on a request for her to please continue to do so. God knows E needs it, but if tonight is anything to go by, it definitely seems she's gonna be up for the challenge.
A month later, almost to the date, Michael's out for another midnight cravings shopping trip, and figures that he might as well stop by to check on the PO box now that he's out. It's empty like all the other times he's been by and, driving back, he tries to remind himself that no news is good news.
Coming home, his eyes fall on the mailbox and, despite balancing bags of lifesavers (why he still haven't found a way to buy them wholesale considering how quickly Jeanne goes through a bag, he can't explain) on top of precariously stacked boxes of Chinese take-out, he still shakes out his keys to check it.
At first glance he thinks the postcard might either be delivered at the wrong address or that it could be an advertisement for the travel bureau that opened down the street last week, but flicking it over reveals that it's much, much more than that.
Because there's a postmark.
There's even an address that isn't printed.
And there's a message, written in a very familiar scrawled script.
Hi mom and dad. London is exciting. There's so much to see, even at night-time. I haven't met any old friends yet, but I'm always on the lookout. I'll be home when the money runs out or in time for your wedding anniversary, hopefully you'll recognize me. Until then stay safe.
A wave of relief crashes over him, strong enough to make his knees buckle. Eliot's safe. At least it sounds like he is. And what's even better, is that Michael now knows without a shadow of a doubt that his friend has escaped all the arrests they've read about in the paper.
After reading it for a second time, Michael flips it around to look at the image on the front again.
It only takes a second before he spots it. The little grinning bear-sticker pasted over the face of one of the royal-guards - guarding Buckingham Castle if he's not mistaken - illustrated on the postcard. It has a tiny "papa" in front of it, and despite the fresh wave of relief, Michael promises himself that he's gonna get the cheeky bastard back for this.
Hell yeah, he's gonna get E back for this. Once he's seen with his own two eyes that his friend is alright that is.
And besides, there's no rush.
He's good at waiting after all.