Title: Post Libertam
Author: Victoria LeRoux
Rating: T
Chapter WC: 720
Story WC: 720
First Written: September 3, 2011
Last Edited: September 4, 2011
Posted: September 4, 2011
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. This work has not been endorsed by any holding copyright or license (ie. USA Network) to the television series Burn Notice. No connection is implied or should be inferred. Other names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author receives no financial gain from its production or distribution.
Story Companion: Regrets Unspoken (Not a series, just a tie in)
Summary: After leaving her, he'd find some excuse just to hear her voice. Common sense is telling him he is being stupid. He can remember almost every time he called her after he left, for some reason or another, but each time he has the same moment of panic as hands pick up the telephone.
He called her on the road
From a lonely cold hotel room
Just to hear her say 'I love you' one more time.
The phone is smeared with his blood as he turns the plastic in his hands. Common sense is telling him that he is being stupid – again, it reminds him – but blood loss combined with the heavy painkillers and maybe something else is telling him to go ahead.
The latter won out, as it always does, and his fingers skim over familiar numbers of their own accord. He can remember almost every time he called her after he left, for some reason or another, but every time he has the same moment of panic as hands picked up the telephone thousands of miles away.
"Hello?" The Irish accented voice asks crossly, and he feels his heart fumble and plummet as he realizes that it is not her, that it is instead Connor this time. It could be Sean, he scolds himself crossly, that would be worse; at least Connor might hand over the phone.
"Good-" he checks the clock quickly and estimates the time distance. "Morning. May I speak with a Miss Fiona Glenanne?"
There is a long pause and Michael briefly hesitates in fear- he used a light, Irish flavored accent, correct? Did he speak in Swahili or Korean, or Mandarin? He did not think so, but what if he had spoken in Russian or German?
"I'll get her for you," Connor says flatly, and the middle-born of the Glenanne children disappears from the other side of the line to be replaced by a hoarse-sounding voice, almost if its owner possessed a sore throat, a unique lilt in her tones.
"Who's there?" she asks, and for a moment words fail him as they always do, but he finds his voice soon enough and manages to retain the identity he used the first time after he called her and had not touched again. He hates causing the hope to catch in her throat, but he allows himself to be selfish just one more time.
"Miss Glenanne," he begins, "It is a pleasure to speak with you once again. I don't know if you recall me. It's Nate – Nathaniel – McBride."
He heads the intake of breath on the other end of the line, and he curses himself for not being able to let her go and sever himself completely from her life.
"Y-Yes, I recall you," she says quietly, a note of hope on her tone. "Have you heard from Michael?"
Michael closed his eyes and cursed his foolishness for falling in – no, for caring about her. "My brother's not contacted me for several months. I was hoping you'd heard from him."
"No," was that a trace of bitterness in her voice? Surely, she still did not… "I'd be the last he'd contact."
She is right, but for all the wrong reasons. She does not know why he keeps his distance, that he would lie to her with the barest hint of regret and is still lying to her once again. She does not know that whenever he tried to change his emergency contact, it always ends up as her once again.
There is an awkward pause on the line, and they both rush to fill in the silence at the same time.
"If I see him I'll-"
"If you see him, will you tell-"
They both stop, and laugh, and she hesitates. Michael can hear a voice calling her, and he knows that he too must go.
"I need to leave," she tells him. "Don't wait three years before calling again…. Nate."
He feels the hesitation on the name, and wonders if she knows who is really speaking with her. He longs to divulge everything he has hidden from her and plead her forgiveness, but all he says is, "Take care of yourself, Fiona." His response lingers in the air just a second before he ends his call and rests his head in his still-bloody hands, feeling too tired to clean up the blood from the gunshot wound.
He was a fool, he knows, but it does not stop his from calling against three months later posing as an insurance agent just to hear her voice.