AN: Another Burn Notice fic. Set after Bloodlines, this story deals with Mike's childhood, and the memories he wishes he could erase.

This one's a one-shot. Finally, I think I'm getting the hang of those. LOL Anywho, please read and review!

Memories

By: Scarlet79

Michael Westen remembered everything.

As a spy, he had to. Lives depended on his impeccable memory, on the tiniest detail he might pick up and tuck away for later. He had to recall names, places, even historical facts in order to get his job done, and done well. If he let one piece of wrong info slip, he could put not only himself in danger, but others around him as well. In short, his memory was a good tool to have.

Other times, it was a curse.

Now was one of those times.

He knew he was dreaming – he hadn't been ten years old for over two decades – but despite everything he tried, he couldn't wake himself up.

"Get in here, boy!" His father's voice shouted from the living room. Michael immediately jumped off his bed and rushed into the living room. Whenever his father shouted, Michael jumped. In fact, everyone did. Nate usually ended up crying, frightened by the loud noises, and their mom, Madeline, would just plain jump. Michael often wondered if his father ever actually told her to jump, if his mother would ask, "How high?"

"Yes, sir?" Michael asked, his eyes trained on the spot in front of his father's feet. That was another thing he'd learned – never forget to say "sir", and always keep your head down. Not only did it show respect, but it also cut down on the shock when you either got slapped upside the head, or backhanded across the room.

It was while he was staring at the carpet that he saw it – a small, purple stain near his dad's left foot. Inwardly, he groaned. He remembered that Nate had been eating a popsicle the day before; a purple one, to be exact.

"Did you do this?" His father was asking, his finger pointing down at the stain.

Immediately, Michael nodded. He knew he would be punished – that, at least, was a constant in their house – and for something his brother had done, no less. But it hadn't even crossed his mind to let his brother take the blame, although that would have been fair. He had to protect Nate from their father, no matter what.

He couldn't let Nate find out how hard their father could hit, how harsh his "lessons" could be.

"Yes, sir," he squeaked, his breath already coming in short gasps, preparing his small frame for the fists he knew were coming next. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone come into the room, standing on the line just between the living room and the kitchen.

His father saw the person, too, and shouted, "Maddie, get in here and look what your son did!"

Madeline Westen crossed her arms over her chest and stayed put. "I can see it from here, Frank. So what?"

Frank's face turned as purple as the splotch. "So what?" He roared. "I want it cleaned up, that's what!"

She glared at him for a moment, then reached down under the sink and grabbed a bottle of cleaner and a rag. She waited until Frank had moved out of the way, and then knelt down on the floor and scrubbed out the spot. When it was gone, she moved to stand, but his father grabbed her by the hair, pulling back hard. She gasped, unbidden tears springing to her eyes, and he leaned down until his face was so close that she could see the scar above his eyebrow, the one he got in a bar fight when he was nineteen.

"You better watch how you speak to me, woman," he growled at her. "Don't be teachin' these boys any disrespect."

"Sorry," she replied, her voice barely more than a whisper. He yanked her hair one more time, then let go. Maddie tried again to stand, but Frank seemed to think she was taking too long, and roughly grabbed her arm. Hauling her to her feet, he ignored the shout of pain she let out and tossed her across the room.

"Mom!" Michael shouted as she landed near the couch, her head mere inches from hitting the coffee table. He was so focused on her, that he wasn't prepared for the fist that caught him on his side, right up in his ribs.

Michael dropped to his hands and knees, gasping for the air that had been knocked out of him. His father used a foot to roll him onto his back, the steel toe of his boot dragging across Michael's stomach. Nausea roiled through the boy, made worse by the stench of alcohol emanating from his father.

Frank pulled his fist back, ready to loose his rage on his eldest son. Michael saw what was coming, and covered his face with his arms, his eyes squeezed shut.

"Frank Westen, you leave that boy alone right now!"

Michael looked up, peeking under one elbow. Maddie stood in front of the couch, her hands on her hips and her eyes flashing angrily.

Frank was likewise surprised, but recovered quickly. He stood up and reached out to grab her, but she scrambled to the other side of the coffee table. Her body visibly shaking with either fear or anger, she said, "If you touch him again, I swear I'll kill you."

Frank considered that for a moment, and then waved dismissively at her. "Aagh," he grumbled, as if suddenly they weren't worth his time.

"Go to bed, Frank. You're drunk."

Frank must have thought that was a good idea, because without another word, he left the room. Maddie dropped to her knees beside Michael, her eyes full of unshed tears.

"Oh, Michael," she said, taking him into her arms. "I'm so sorry."

Even back then, he felt as if he had to protect her, make her feel better. Looking up at her with his big, brown eyes, he said, "I'm okay, Mom. It's okay."

She shook her head and pressed him against her chest. Her voice even, almost robotic, she said, "It wasn't you, was it? The stain wasn't your fault."

"No," he replied quietly, just in case his father overheard them. "It was Nate's."

Tears that he hadn't known he'd been holding in now burst forth, sliding from his wide eyes down his face. "I just had to protect him."

"Protect who, Michael?"

Mike opened his eyes and found Fiona Glenanne staring back at him, a puzzled look on her tanned face. He scrubbed a hand over his face and was surprised to find that he had been crying in his sleep. As he covertly wiped them away, Fiona shifted a little to the side and repeated her question.

"Who did you need to protect?"

Mike rolled onto his side, and she laid down to face him, her arm resting across his ribs and her hand slowly rubbing his back.

"My brother, Nate," he finally said, his voice barely above a murmur. "I was…it was my dad."

As if that explained everything, Fiona nodded and gently kissed him on the lips.

"Poor thing," she whispered, her finger tracing over his eyebrow. "Must've been pretty bad, huh?"

It was his turn to nod.

"Well, it's all over now."

"I know," he replied, ducking his head to drop a kiss on her mouth, then another on her bare shoulder. "Thanks, Fi."

"You're welcome, Michael."

He closed his eyes, and she continued to use her hands to soothe him, first stroking the hair at his temple, then running her fingertips up and down the soft skin on his bicep.

Half-asleep, he muttered, "He's the reason I don't drink."

Confused, Fiona asked, "Who? Your father?"

"Mm-hmm. Always came home smelling like beer." He sighed quietly. "Beer and hate."

His voice was so sad, so full of pain, that Fiona felt tears welling in her own eyes. She'd had a much different, calmer, childhood than Mike had, and it hurt her to know that his father had treated him so poorly. He was a good man, someone who least deserved that kind of behavior. Still, she wondered if it was because of his childhood that he was the man he was today, if he would have turned out differently had he experienced a "normal" life.

Thinking he had finally drifted back to sleep, she leaned forward and kissed his stubbled cheek. He made a happy noise in his throat and wrapped his arm around her, pulling her closer.

"Love you, Fi," he mumbled, and she smiled in the darkness.

"I love you, Michael."