Title: Reflections
Summary: Michael Westen is prepared for everything—until he isn't. And Fiona Glenanne never worries—until she does. Michael has nearly recovered from the bullet Jesse sent through his chest to save him. But there's no rest for the weary as a thoroughly unexpected ambush forces Michael and Fiona to revisit what almost was—and could be again. Set during Season 4, after "Eyes Open."
Author's Notes: As is says in the summary, this story is set midway through Season 4 of Burn Notice, a few weeks after Jesse shoots Michael. I'm proposing there's a time gap between episodes in there somewhere; I mean, I know Burn Notice operates on action movie logic (and I love that about it!), but they really glossed over Michael's healing process. This story stretches it out a little bit for the sake of drama (or feels, if you prefer ;)). There's some hurt/comfort, but also some action and (hopefully) some humour.
Review if you like! But most of all—enjoy! :)
Disclaimer #1: I definitely don't own Burn Notice, or profit (in a financial sense) from fantasizing about it.
Disclaimer #2: My characters always practice safe, consensual sex.
Prologue
Three weeks ago...
Fiona leaned forward on her knees and ran her fingers over her knuckles. She blinked slowly, acknowledging and denying her bone-deep exhaustion. The only sound was the gentle rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor and the dull hum of machinery. The only movement was the slow drip of the iv into the body of the man she loved.
It was the third day, now, that Michael had been unresponsive. Fiona wasn't prone to worry. She'd survived enough explosions and armed standoffs to be philosophical about death. Fiona knew you couldn't cheat death; you could just be a better shot than the next guy, and hope for the best. Fiona wasn't scared of dying; but she was worried about the possibility of living in a world that no longer featured the sometimes infuriating charms of Michael Westen.
Unconscious people were supposed to look peaceful, she thought, and maybe some did. But not Michael. There was no flicker of dreams on his eyelids, and his breathing was shallow rather than restful.
As the days piled up, Michael's familiar features seemed increasingly uncanny to Fiona's sleep-deprived eyes. More than once, she'd had to forcibly remind herself that it was, in fact, Michael's real body lying so still and lifeless in the crisp white hospital bed. Too often, she'd look down at Michael's face and think it looked like nothing so much as a plastic mask—a pale, insulting imitation of a living person.
Sometimes, Fiona prayed to gods she didn't believe in for the deep, beautiful pout of Michael's lips to depress or curve in a smile or a grimace of pain—anything to let her know that Michael was still in there, still trying to make his way back to the light. Other times, she sat or stood next to Michael's deathly still body and tried to make her peace. This always made her angry rather than peaceful. Between herself and Michael, there were too many unanswered questions, too many unresolved arguments; peace was impossible without some measure of violence, but she couldn't kick his ass if he didn't wake up.
Each hour was an exercise in bored tension. In a way, waiting for Michael to wake up was a lot like waiting in a sniper's perch. The longer you waited, the more the life-or-death tension of the situation became boring—domesticated into dull familiarity.
Since yesterday, when Michael had finally started breathing on his own, Fiona had watched and counted the tiny breaths that barely trembled his dry, slightly parted lips. Again and again, she'd count to a thousand and more, until she lost count. And then she'd start again, counting one breath… Two… Three… Four… She was so desperate for something to happen that she almost hoped the breaths would stop. Then she'd hate herself for thinking it, and start counting again. One breath… Two… Three… Four…
When she was alone at his bedside, Fiona would sometimes touch him. Standing over the hospital bed, she'd reach down and touch Michael's cheekbone, her index finger feeling the shallow indent of the scars around his left eye. Other times, she'd sit and touch his hand, running her fingers over the veins on the back and tracing patterns in his palm. Then she'd squeeze his hand. She'd squeeze gently at first, and then harder, then as hard as she could—with anger, followed by a growing desperation. Finally, she'd drop his hand and bury her face in her own hands, all her anger redirected toward herself.
Fiona hadn't left the hospital once. She was surprised and grateful that Sam hadn't tried to force the issue. If he'd thought it a lost cause, he was right; Fiona had been sleeping the first time she'd lost Michael, and she was damned if she was going to be caught sleeping a second time.
Staying awake didn't stop the nightmares that constantly tickled the back of Fiona's mind. Even if Michael did wake up, there might be complications. Brain damage was a significant possibility; Michael might wake up with impaired mental or motor functions. For a man like Michael, so defined by his intellectual and physically vitality, any such impairment could be devastating. At the very least, it would make him a different man, and Fiona wasn't sure if Michael could handle that. In the fleeting moments that she was honest with herself, she wasn't sure if she could handle it, either.
Today, on the morning of the third day, the sun was streaming into the room through the picture windows overlooking the bay. Somehow, the sunlight made Michael's already mask-like features seem even more lifeless; it accentuated the brutal contrast between inside and out, between the cold room and the warm world that continued on, carelessly, without them.
The scene was so similar—too similar—to the first time Fiona had seen Michael in Miami, passed out on a set of blood and sweat-stained sheets in a too-bright motel room. Then, too, she'd watched and counted his shallow breaths, wondering if each would be his last, and needing, more than she'd ever needed anything in her whole life, for him to wake up.
As much now as then, she hated herself for needing any man, and especially this man, so very badly. Her head told her—screamed at her—that Michael Westen wasn't worth it. He'd left her once, and would probably do so again; like the first time, it would be for a good reason, and this would make his leaving hurt even more.
But Fiona's heart screamed back that her head was wrong. And Fiona Glenanne was a woman who followed her heart—no matter the cost.
