Trouble Child

Michael lay in the middle of his bed, gazing up at the ceiling and listening to the rain. Methodically, he went through each event of the day, sorting them into a mental catalog of what was finished and what was either ongoing, or likely to have future repercussions.

The first to come to mind was Consuela, the new recruit who had threatened suicide that morning, and not for the first time. Madeline felt that the threats were hollow, and so far, Michael was inclined to agree. Consuela had the potential to become an excellent cold op, if she could only be made to accept the situation. If she couldn't, well, it would be a shame to have to cancel her, but there was no other alternative.

His mind moved on to the Bucharest mission. The new intel had proven correct, and even now, the Crystal Sky plant was in the White Room. She was young enough, and inexperienced enough, that she would break quickly, and Ops had been quite pleased both with Michael and with Birkoff.

Birkoff. Michael had been getting some odd signals from Birkoff lately, and the possibilities concerned him. It wasn't that it was so very unusual for a younger op to develop a crush on an older one. The rookies, particularly those who didn't go out in the field, had a tendency to romanticize their more experienced colleagues, and Michael had learned how to gently, but firmly, let someone know that an attraction of that sort was futile.

No, the problem wasn't Birkoff's hypothetical crush on him. The problem was that Michael found himself singularly disinclined to discourage it. He was, in fact, quite attracted to him, and despite all the very good reasons he should forget any thoughts of acting on it, that attraction still remained.

A knock at his front door startled him, and he grabbed his gun off the nightstand as he rose to his feet. He moved silently to the door and looked through the peekhole, muttering a soft oath when he saw Birkoff, rain-soaked and shivering, standing in the hall.

Yanking the door open, he grabbed Birkoff's arm and hauled him inside, taking a moment to make sure there was no one else around. "Have you gone mad?"

Birkoff hunched down inside his jacket, gazing at the floor. "I'm not sure. Maybe."

He looked so miserable that Michael softened. "Why are you here, Birkoff?"

"I was in the neighborhood?" When Michael didn't reply, Birkoff sighed. "I, um... I wanted to see you."

Michael tensed. "Why?" he said, wary of the answer that was already obvious.

"You know why." Birkoff's voice was soft, but steady, and Michael's heart sank. "You've...you've felt it too."

He tipped Birkoff's chin up with gentle fingers, gazing down at him for a moment. "Birkoff...no. You know better."

Birkoff gave a short, humorless laugh. "Apparently I don't, or I wouldn't be standing here dripping rain all over your floor."

Michael shook his head. "Go back to Section, and forget you ever came here."

"I, um, I can't." Birkoff's face reddened. "I kind of got on the wrong bus a couple of times, and I ended up using all the money I had on me to get here."

Michael groaned. "You're lucky you made it here at all," he scolded as he fetched a towel from the bathroom. "Have you even been out by yourself before?" The moment the words left his mouth, he cursed himself. Ostensibly, only Operations and Walter knew Birkoff's true history.

He breathed a sigh of relief when Birkoff didn't seem to notice the slip. "I haven't been out of Section at all in over a year," he said, his voice muffled by the towel as he dried his hair. "But, no, I've never been out by myself." He handed Michael the towel and glanced down at himself ruefully. "Maybe this is someone's way of telling me I was better off inside."

"You were." Michael looked him over and sighed. He couldn't very well shove Birkoff out into the rain with no way home, though it would probably have been the wise choice in the long run.

"Wait here." He went into his bedroom, rummaging around until he found some old Section-issue black warm-up pants and a faded Sorbonne t-shirt. He brought them to Birkoff and pointed him in the direction of the bathroom. "Go change. I'll make some tea."

***

Shivering in the chill of the small bathroom, Birkoff stripped to his underwear. Even his socks were soaked, and with a sigh he hung everything over the side of the tub. He grabbed another towel from the linens shelf and dried off thoroughly before dressing in the clothes Michael had given him. The pants were a little loose, but not so big that they'd fall down - they must have shrunk in the wash. The shirt, however, insisted on slipping down off one shoulder, and he rolled his eyes at his reflection in the mirror on the back of the door. "You look like you're about twelve," he informed it. "You'll be lucky if he doesn't pat you on the head and offer you animal crackers and cocoa."

He dried his glasses on the tail of his shirt and took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. Okay. I'm going to walk in there and say, "Michael, I want you, and you want me, so what's stopping us?" He snorted. Yeah, right. And then I'm going to flap my wings and fly away.

He jumped as Michael knocked on the door. "The tea is ready."

"Thanks. Be right out." Well, he had to go out there some time, might as well do it while the tea was still hot.