Finley Briefly After

By: The General

TG/N: I certainly never expected this to be my first piece for Burn Notice (I was fully prepared to write some ensemble, Fi/Michael stuff because BN is probably in my top five television shows), but after watching episode 4x08 "Where There's Smoke", I really couldn't help myself. I blame the fact that Bruce Campbell looks so good in a tux. I also blame any incoherency on the fact that I haven't slept in the past six hours. Any faulty characterization, though, I take full responsibility for. In any event, this takes place during the events of "Where There's Smoke." Is there a hint of shipping in this? Probably? I don't know. You decide. I just love Fi and Sam so much, and I blame the actors' chemistry on the show. Anyway, please enjoy!

For the briefest of moments (and by brief, she certainly meant miniscule, as in the time between heart beats), Fiona thought her ingenious little light bulb trick—for it was quite clever, if she did say so herself (and she did)—was not going to work. Obviously, with her line of work a certain familiarity developed when it came to having guns pointed in your face, but this time had been different. When Jacob pointed that gun at her face and then later, her chest, (really, her performance had been quite good; she figured it warranted a daytime Emmy, at the least, possibly a Tony, even, if she was being modest—and she was), a torrent of half thoughts clouded her mind, covering every panicked thought imaginable. She wondered if Michael had been too stubborn, too set on playing the white knight to have left and instead would end up bursting into the room at any moment and getting both he and Sarah killed because of his chivalrous and guilt-induced stupidity. She also had the fleeting epiphany that this was a horrible way to finally die (although she did look positively fabulous in her dress, so that made it a little less horrible), and she truly wished she had not left things as they were with Michael.

This was only briefly, mind you.

Because, of course, the bulb finally did blow, and she could finally quit playing the whiny damsel in distress and start playing the role of her very own, well-dressed, kick ass white knight. Getting the chance to beat her captor into a bloody pulp had merely been a bonus, as far as she was concerned. Maybe the Spice Girls hadn't been just about the catchy pop tunes and those fabulous platforms; this girl power thing certainly was exhilarating, Fiona had to admit. And it cut the middle man out of the equation entirely.

But then another one of those brief moments occurred when the other henchman entered the room, his gun trained directly at her, and the stream of half thoughts once again made rational thought moderately difficult. She briefly wondered if this guy would be as interested in allowing her an open casket, or if he would abandon any consideration at all and fire a bullet right in between her eyes. (Though by the looks of him, he didn't look like a terribly good shot if she was being perfectly honest—and she was).

And, of course, once again, this was only briefly.

In a rush of black and white, though, came Sam playing the unexpected white knight by plowing the gun wielding guy into the wall. The sound of plaster crushing, and the satisfying crunch of a broken bone or two completely cleared her mind of any doubts she may or may not have had about making it out of this entire situation, let alone this room, alive. And, of course, she allowed him to play the mildly handsome, quipping hero afterward because his right hook had been pretty impressive, and because, well, he did sort of save her life, after all. Even though, you know, she had everything under control even before he showed up.

As a general rule of thumb, Fiona didn't like owing people. The mere thought that she owed Sam of all people made her shudder with something akin to abject horror, to say the least. Not to mention the fact that it put her in the uncomfortable position of having to . . . thank Sam, as in showing him appreciation for his assistance. This made her feel even more like she was going to be ill. It was one thing to owe someone like Sam a favor. It was something else entirely to owe him something like . . . like . . . gratitude. Knowing him, he would probably make a huge deal about it and proceed to tease her about the huge slice of humble pie she had to scarf down in order to thank him in the first place.

Still, she thought to herself grudgingly as she added the final touch to her outfit (a few silver bangles and not, she recognized bitterly, the side bag Michael destroyed and had yet to replace), he did sort of, maybe do something similar to, but not exactly save her life. She supposed she could at least swallow her pride and offer up something similar to, but not exactly a small 'thank you.' Or, at the very least, 'thanks.'

So, mind set, Fiona grabbed her sunglasses and car keys, hopped into her Hyundai, and drove the familiar distance to Madeline's house. In the back of her mind, she vaguely recalled mention of a leaky pipe or a broken faucet he had to fix for Madeline, and sure enough, when Fiona arrived, she found Sam—his knees, shins, and feet visible, the rest of his torso underneath the sink, a toolbox to his left, her right—in the kitchen. A quick survey of the home proved that both Madeline and Jesse seemed to be conveniently absent. Good, she thought, pleased. It would certainly make the prospect of humbling herself and thanking Sam far less embarrassing than it already was.

Gathering her resolve and coming to the conclusion that stalling was not going to make the situation any easier or more enjoyable in the slightest, she cleared her throat in order to get his attention. The next thing she knew, Sam's wrench had clattered to the ground, and then a thud (it sounded suspiciously like Sam's head hitting the pipe above him) followed by a slew of swearing occurred. A moment later, Sam contorted so he was no longer under the sink, and, she observed somewhat guiltily, he was rubbing the presumably sore spot on his head. He noticed her immediately.

"Fiona," he said with a peculiar mixture of misery and sarcastic joy, "to what do I owe this particularly painful interruption?"

"Well," she began tentatively, stifling any and every impulse to either roll her eyes or utter a scathing remark, "it occurred to me that I never exactly thanked you for coming to my rescue the other day." She fought the urge to add 'even though it was entirely unnecessary,' and instead took a seat at the kitchen table, crossing her legs and subconsciously showing off her new designer wedges she recently purchased from the outlet mall for only a fraction of their original cost. "So . . . thank you," she managed, attempting to pull off casual by glancing at her nails in a haphazard fashion.

For a moment it seemed as if Sam wasn't entirely sure how to respond to her statement. Either that or he had a minor concussion from the head bump, which could have been equally possible. "Oh, um, no problem. You're, uh . . . you're welcome," he said in what sounded like a surprisingly genuine tone. He remained silent for a moment (no doubt trying to figure out if this whole thing was some kind of joke) before something between a smirk and a smile broke out across his face. She was so surprised that smiling made him nearly bearable to look at (possibly even handsome, but she would never voice that out loud if she valued her sanity—and she did), she almost forgot to hate that tacky gold chain he wore around his neck all the time.

Almost.

"I meant what I said, you know," he added, this time with a full smirk on his face. "You really are growing on me. I don't resent your very existence anymore."

Fiona couldn't stop the grin that suddenly spread on her own face. She gasped, and feigned an air of urgency. "Do you think it's time we should both get matching friendship charm bracelets to mark the occasion?"

Sam laughed, but he didn't even take the time to consider the notion. "That's pushing it, Fi. I said I didn't hate you anymore. I never said anything about liking you."

"Well," she declared conspiratorily, getting up out of her seat and slinging her purse on her shoulder. "If that's the case, then no one can know about me thanking you. We wouldn't want anyone getting the impression that I don't detest every fiber of your being, now would we?"

Sam shook his head. "Absolutely not," he agreed, folding his arms over his chest. A devious smile suddenly made its way onto his face. "As a matter of fact," he continued, "I should probably keep any and all mocking of you thanking me for rescuing you private. You know, make it an inside joke between just the two of us, so thirty years down the line we can still laugh about how you had to swallow your pride first in our relationship before I did. You realize that makes me the victor in our unspoken pride contest, right?"

Suddenly, Fiona didn't much feel like joking lightly. She felt like punching something (or someone), if she was being completely honest—and she was. Her hands balled up into fists at either side of her, and she could feel her internal temperature rising at a deadly rate. "I didn't need to be rescued, Sam!" she practically shrieked. "I was handling the situation perfectly well way before you showed up."

Furious that she had ever thought thanking Sam was a good idea, Fiona stormed out of the kitchen, careful to grab her sunglasses and keys, so she would not have to double back. Sam, insufferable bastard that he was, laughed heartily and called after her, "Whatever you say, Fi. Hey, tell Mikey I said 'hi' if you see him before I do!"

She ignored him, and on her way out, she ran into Jesse, who greeted her casually. In response, she insisted, "I didn't need rescuing!" She managed to hear Jesse ask Sam in a bewildered tone, "What's up with her?" right before she slammed the door shut.

As she turned the key in the ignition and practically exploded out of the driveway, Fiona couldn't believe that for a moment, she briefly thought that being Charlotte Finley wasn't the worst thing that could ever happen to her. Now she realized it would possibly be the very worst misfortune that anyone, herself included, could ever be plagued by.

Of course, in case anyone needed to be reminded, her last thought wasn't very brief at all.