Summary: Three years post 7x02 Michael Westen returns to Miami with only one thing on his mind, Fiona. But he's not the only one coming home. AU.
Author's Note: To be honest, this story was a little outside my comfort zone because the complexity of the characters but once I get an idea in my head, I need to write it. Enjoy and be sure to review if you want me to continue.
Need to Knows: Read before starting the story!
-This is set four years after 7x02's scene where Fiona kissed Michael's cheek.
-When Michael McBride left Ireland, he left behind a pregnant, betrayed Fiona who was forced to give up her son by her father once he found out that Michael was an American.
-Fiona never told Michael about his son knowing there was nothing either one of them could do about it.
-Michael's just completed his mission and is set to return home (he never enlisted the help of Sam and Jesse)
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xTie on Wings
presents
The Fallen Apple
A Burn Notice Fan-Fiction
{_.."… … … … … … …""(_}
Chapter One: Coming Home
"I'm coming home.
I'm coming home.
Tell the world I'm coming home."
-Dirty Money
Home is defined as any place of residence, shelter, or refuge of a person, family, or household but there so much more to it than that. After finally completing almost four years of deep a deep cover mission, they are sending Michael Westen "home." He is going back to Miami but going back isn't the same as going home, he realizes as he stares down at the tarmac through the airplane's window, landing imminent. Sure, he was born here, raised here, spent most of his life here but definition be damned, this isn't his home.
No, for Michael Weston, home will always be a trigger-happy Irish bombshell that can cause chaos with the mere flicker of one of her breathtaking smiles. But home closed its doors to him the same time he'd made his deal with the devil- the US government- and that's something that he has regretted ever since. The notable jerk of wheels landing shakes Michael from his musings and steely blue-gray flickers down to the amber liquid sloshing around in the culvert of his glass.
"Bottoms up," he mutters as he downs the rest of its content readying himself to face the millions of things that would constantly try to tell him he was home.
[xXx]
A thumping ache pulls at the darkest corners of his consciousness pushing him closer to alertness. Slowly, heavy lids flutter open, his surroundings a blur until several blinks later. Upon these blinks, he takes in the deep orange sunlight arced across the sky that bathes the ocean with a mirrored glow.
Sunrise. Though there are days you cannot see it, it's a constant in this world. The sun always rises. It's inevitable but, for the boy, it is something he never thought he'd see again. Taking in the sunrise, relief floods through him, sweet and empowering and suddenly everything is possible, if only for a moment. But as he tries to climb out of the small row boat onto the dock, the high of relief is replaced by a sharp reminder of why he never thought he would see the sun again.
Looking down at the area of discomfort, he notices the crimson stains bleeding through the fabric of his white t-shirt. Last night's nightmare becomes today's reality as he gently pulls at the fabric, lifting it to find the wound has bled through the thick gauze bandage that covers from his fifth rib to just below his pectoral muscle.
"Ah, bloody hell," he curses through gritted teeth, the amount of pain the simple task of climbing out of the boat and onto the dock causes alarming.
If he is going to live to see another sunrise, he needs help. Fast.
[xXx]
Madeline Westen is dragged from a deep slumber by an incessant knock, knock, knocking at her door. A gruff groan is expelled into the air as she silently curses whomever it is that has woken her up so early. Pulling the sheets to the side, legs that feel like the bones within are made of lead dangle from the side of the bed as she tries to get the rest of her fatigued body to awaken.
"Alright, alright. I'm coming," she shouts, her patience wearing thin with their rudeness.
Getting to her feet, Madeline shuffles out of the bedroom and out past the kitchen and into the solarium, the carpet beneath her feet soothing as she moves to answer the door. Living with her son and his colorful enemies has taught her a thing or two. Her eye narrows as it looks through the peephole but only sees the dirty blond mop of hair atop a hung head.
"Whataya want?" she questions not opening the door.
It takes a moment for the boy on the other side of the door to answer but when he does his voice is thick with pain and impatience. "Please, open the God damn door."
"I'm not opening this door until you tell me who you are," she says leaving the door to grab her 12 gauge shotgun and returning with it firmly pointed at the door.
"I'm Thatcher O'Connor," he admits with a long pause before adding, "but I suppose, if it'll help speed this along, you can call me your grandson."
Grandson. The claim is not only enough to get her to lower the shotgun but peer through the peephole once more and with a bit of a struggle, the alleged grandson lifts his head and looks directly at her. Instantly pictures of Fiona and Michael swirl around in her head making connections and tethers of resemblance. He has his father's height, athletic build, piercing blue eyes, and angular features; and judging by the shape of his nose, lips, chin, and Irish accent, it didn't take a genius to guess who the boy's mother could be.
Any hesitancy she had in regards to letting the boy in is abolished instantaneously. She twists the lock of the deadbolt and the lock of the handle with youth-like speed and she throws the door open so quickly she displaces the weight Thatcher has against it, causing him to stumble forward into the older woman's arms. His body is trembling, sweat dripping from his overheated skin causing alarm bells to ring in her head.
"Oh my God," she gasps as he pushes off to reveal the crimson stain engulfing the left side of his white tee, a stark contrast. "We have to get you to the hospital."
"No," he adamantly replies before gaining some semblance of composure. "No hospitals."
[xXx]
Fiona Glenanne leans casually against the railing of the dock with her eyes on the water and her mind clearly elsewhere. Today marks the seventh day since Madeline not so casually pointed out that Michael was getting debriefed and would return to Miami in a week; it also marks the millionth time this week her mind wanders towards him. In that sense, she is like the foamy white caps of the waves she watches. She is perched precariously on the top of the turmoil that is her life and the more she thinks about Michael, the more likely she'll be to drown beneath the powerful waves.
So caught up in thought, she doesn't hear her boyfriend of nearly four years sneak up behind her. Muscular arms slip around her waist from behind as Carlos gently rests his chin on her collar bone, a warm gesture that took her awhile to get used to- the first time she thought he was a threat and flipped him over her shoulder. She shutters as his lips traipse down his neck, the last one lingering on the crook of her neck.
"Hey, baby," he whispers softly, "trouble sleeping?"
It is not that she didn't love Carlos because she does… more than she ever thought she was capable of but Michael Weston has a piece of her no other man can touch. Their history, their past, and their love- it is undeniable. Though she is trying and will keep resisting it with every ounce of her being.
"Yeah, the storm last night kept me up," she offhandedly offers, an effortlessness in her tone that nobody should question if they don't know her. But he does. He knows she grew up in a warzone, knows she can sleep through a hurricane but he doesn't fight her on it. It is one of the reasons they get along so effortlessly. He knows better than to demand an explanation or push when he knows she doesn't want to be. But that doesn't mean that he won't hint at the elephant in the room.
"And you're sure you're not worried about the return of the prodigal ex?" he says, his tone teasing despite a slight concern he felt.
Sometimes she wishes he didn't know her so well. Moments like now but Fiona is a master of deception… even to herself. Turning to him, a feinting glance of oblivious dances across her features like she doesn't know who he was talking about. "Who?" she asks, a small smile tugging at the edge of her features as she drapes her arms around his neck before moving onto reassure. "I'll always care about Michael but I love you."
Her lips press gently to his as assurance and brings a smile to his face, as he naughtily suggests, "How about you come back to bed and show me just how much?"
She gives her lip a slight bite and the word yes dances on the tip of her tongue but before she can voice her agreement, a ringing filtered through the air emanating from the pocket of her jeans. She wants so badly to ignore the call, have Carlos take her upstairs, and forget what day it is but she didn't live a life where there was a choice of letting it go to voicemail. Sliding her thumb across the screen she unlocks her iPhone and answers, "Madeline, hi."
"You need to get here right now, Fi," Madeline orders, no room for objection conveyed in her tone.
"Alright," Fiona agrees before adding, "Is everything okay?"
"Well a kid with an Irish accent is in my living room, calling me grandma, and bleeding all over my house, so I'd say no. Everything is not okay."
Irish accent. Grandma. No. It isn't possible. Is it? A powerful emotional flood hits; a deafening tornado strikes. It doesn't matter that she is unprepared. It crushes and flattens everything in its wake just the same. Not that anyone can tell. Her lungs absorb the flood and her heart encircles the tornado. She keeps it all contained within because that's what she does best lately. Practice makes perfect. There's been a storm permanently raging inside her for years. She has a million questions, but it all has to wait.
"I'll be right there."
[xXx]
Up the steps of the porch, Fiona sprints and reaches for the handle of the door but instead of barging in, Fiona finds herself knocking on the door until Madeline answers.
"Hi," she says.
Fiona knows there is something better than a simple hi. Something is more appropriate for this situation. Something along the lines of "I'm sorry for not telling you about your grandson for all these years." But, only that inadequate hi comes out. Biting her lower lip a moment, as she attempts to obtain some form of composure then fights to add more, "I know you must have a lot of questions."
"You're damn right I do," the obviously frazzled woman bursts but stops herself before she can really lay into Fiona. "But, right now, your son needs your help. Thatcher's in the bathroom."
[xXx]
Despite his best attempts to suffer in silence, a colorful barrage of cuss words slips out reverberating off the tile of the bathroom. With such ragged, deep lacerations, resistance was futile but he tries none the less by taking a rough swig of the Jack Daniels he used to sterilize the wound before beginning the life or death process of stitching it up. Each bite of the needle feels worse than the initial shrapnel collision but stopping isn't an option. The risk of bleeding out is too great.
And though, he's in his own personal hell, he isn't dead yet.
Taking the needle, he braces himself for another pierce but before he can Thatcher hears another voice outside the bathroom door. Fear sinks through him like a cold marble- working its way down into the pit of his stomach where it leaves a dull sickness relentless in its nature. He knew the risks of coming to Madeline's house- knew that there was a distinct possibility that he'd run into one of them- but blood loss and desperation had painted him into the corner and all he could do was wish for the best… the best? All he's ever gotten was the worst. He should've known better.
With the turn of the knob, the ghost that has haunted him his entire life is caught in the reflection of the mirror his eyes are glued onto. He takes her in like a breath: the long, wavy, chocolate locks cascading down to her back, engaging smile, his nose, his chin, his mouth. He hates this woman, loathes the very breath she takes. So why does he feel like this? Why does the very sight of her freeze the air in his lungs leaving him waiting to exhale? What is wrong with him?
'Nothing' he immediately decides. 'It's just nature- a kinship anyone would feel when looking at the woman that gave them life.'
"Aw fuck," he hisses, turning to face her. "I must've died and gone to hell because I'm looking at the devil."
There's an unyielding hatred ravishing his very soul and she can sense it. Tears burn brightly in her eyes as she meets his piercing blue ones that bear a striking resemblance to Michael's. She never knew words can make her hurt like this, bleed like this. It not only tears at her heart strings but severs them completely. She inhales the words letter by letter sticking to her lungs until she can't breathe.
How is she supposed to respond?
No one has invented words for a moment like this. Not one sound that can articulate her affection. Excruciating pain. Not one movement that can act out her yearning. Years of longing to see his face. Not one sentiment that can express her regret. Infinite remorse. There's a coldness, a cruelty to his stance. Like he snuck into the lair of his enemy fully loaded to battle his nemesis. But, when have they become adversaries? She wants to take him into her arms and tell him they are on the same side. They are family. But she finds herself frozen by the iciness of his stare.
They stand in a standoff weary of each other until he shifts back against the wall; the action is designed to look disrespectful, but it is more out of unbearable pain and his inability to stand upright. Then, immediately any form of fear and hesitancy is over-ridden by a maternal instinct. She's by his side before he can slip to the floor guiding him down.
"Let me go," he roars, the Jack Daniels on his breath fueling his anger. "You did it once. Shouldn't be hard to do again."
"You couldn't be more wrong."
It just comes out. Fiona doesn't even have to think about it. Natural. Automatic. The only meaningful reaction is the admission that she misses him. That she'd missed him all these years. It's the first words she'd said and they tear at him capturing his heart in an icy vice but it isn't just the words wearing away at him. His wound has started bleeding again and the few spots he'd started stitching have come undone. Darkness pulls at the edges of his consciousness and he slips under its hold before either knows what hit him.
"Thatcher?" she questions checking his pulse. At its weakness, she frowns and desperation takes hold. "Stay with me."
She's not demanding but begging. Begging for him to survive; she has just found him and won't lose him now. It becomes a mantra as she pleads with him, letting the tears that burned brightly in her eyes the entire time slip down her cheeks. She takes the needle and string from his closed hand knowing that he can't afford to lose any more blood.
She has to be strong, composed.
No amount of tears are going to stop the bleeding.
The string, the flimsy piece of string whose importance has become unequivocal, slides through the needle and Fiona gets to work. The hard part is done and now she is robotic in her movements. Pinch, insert needle, pull. Stay with me. She watches her hands, no longer shaking, work thoroughly and efficiently to close the wound and when the final stitch is in, she gently traipse her fingers across her handiwork. The last time she held him in her arms, he was a perfectly healthy tiny cherub with ten fingers and ten toes and the adoptive parents whose care she left him in swore he'd always stay that way. But something stopped them from keeping their promise and as a result she'd failed in the one task every mother has. Protect their child.
"I'm sorry," she whispers closing her eyes as the tears flowed freely. "God, I'm so sorry."
[xXx]
Jessie maneuvers through the doorway with the boy strewn across his arms cradled to his chest, trying his best not to jar him. Given his hard muscled form and long legs though, it proves to be difficult. How he's gotten tied up in this mess, he isn't entirely sure but he'd do anything for the people he's come to call his family, including moving the prodigal son from the hard surface of the bathroom floor to the comforts of the plush couch in the solarium.
He's managed to clear the door and got up to the couch without a hitch, but as he tries to put him down, he inadvertently puts too much pressure on the stitches gaining a reaction from Thatcher. Glazed blue eyes stare at him in a harsh squint reminding him of Michael when he was assessing a situation. In a rough voice thick with sleep, Thatcher slurs, "…Hurts."
Despite the roughness of a rasp, the way Thatcher looks at Jesse- like a little child looks to their parents to make a boo-boo or illness all better- causes a pang in Jesse's heart. "I know kid," he sooths in his best soft parental voice kneeling down beside him. "but it'll be okay. You just got to hold tight."
The soft, soothing tone lulls the boy, a small nod of agreement flashes before heavy lids close again. Deep chocolate eyes flash up to Fiona, as he climbs to his feet. She stares at Thatcher like he'll disappear the moment she looks away. He always knew something didn't add up with the firecracker of a woman. Why was it every time the mission involved a kid, she'd become so passionate? What was that something tragic just beneath her skin that only slipped out when she thought nobody was looking?
The pieces of the mystery that is Fiona Glenanne finally fit together.
He is just about to approach her when he hears the front door burst open, Michael instantaneously scanning the room for threats. His hand was on the gun in his waistband, not entirely sure what his mother's S.O.S. pertains to. Sam stands behind him, already aware of the situation because Madeline sent him to the airport to pick up Michael. He doesn't see Fiona tucked up against the wall right away which gives her a moment to study him.
His arms are more muscular than she remembers; rough hands and a weathered face declaring the last mission had put him through the ringer. The sleek manor that was Michael Westen was replaced by ruggedness, sharpness to his manner that was very unlike him. He is unkempt. Uneven. Harsh. When he finally notices she's there, she sees that even her favorite blue eyes look at her differently. Yes, she expected the lines; aging does that to us all. But it's more than that. There used to be days she thought she could stare into his eyes forever, imagining herself swimming in the cool blue waters of a lake. Now, it seems his inner uproar has frozen that lake. And, passion relinquished its throne to exhaustion.
Maybe change doesn't always mean growth, forward movement. No, this isn't her Michael. Not the image she has retained of him anyway. But, for one split second he grins and her Michael flashes before her eyes. And she can't help but smile at the unchanged memory of him. It doesn't last very long. Reality always kicks in.
"Fi," he says a bit breathlessly before gaining his composure. "What're you doing here?"
A part of her wants to turn back the clock. Reach out and hug him. Pretend the last four years never happened and they were hopelessly in love but she knows better. She knows he chose the C.I.A. over her for the last time and that's something they both have to live with. They just stand there staring at one another like they're the only people in the room… he's still shocked by her presence and she's trying to find the right words for what comes next because the road ahead will be winding and rougher if they can't find a way to move down it together.
It is then that he notices the blood stains on her hands dancing up her arms in a splattering effect. There's also a few smears on her designer tee, causing him to ask, "what..? Whose blood is that?"
Deciding to bite the bullet, she answers, "Our sons."
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