Disclaimer: I don't own Burn Notice or any of its characters or actors.
A/N: This is my very very first fanfic! Hope you like it! It is set sometime during Michael and Fiona's time in Ireland, before she knows he's American.
Michael sighed. He had been trying to convince Fiona to not take a job involving a couple of shady Germans, but she was ignoring him as usual.
"Michael, I haven't the faintest idea as to why you are so concerned about this job. I have done business with these men before, and while they are rather uncouth, they don't have enough sense to fill a thimble," Fiona said with an air of finality. She stood up and said, "If those dunderheads could pull somethin' over on me, then I'd deserve whatever I got."
"Fi…," Michael began, but she was already walking away from the little table they had been sharing just outside a small pub. He followed her, flipping up his coat collar against the nagging rain that rarely stopped. Fiona was already sitting in the driver's seat by the time he got into the slowly warming car. She pulled away from the curb and sped down a narrow road towards a group of abandoned warehouses on the outskirts of Dublin. Michael and Fiona sat in the stony silence that almost always followed one of their fights.
As she was pulling into a deserted parking lot behind one of the deserted warehouses, Michael got the distinct impression that something wasn't entirely right. He knew that Fiona usually arrived last to any of her meetings in order to size up her clients, but the parking lot was empty. He glanced at Fiona, who was staring out of the front windshield, looking around for her customers.
Unwilling to show concern and prove to Michael that she actually was worried about this deal, Fiona made to get out of the car. Out of nowhere, however, Michael grabbed her arm and pointed wordlessly into the shadows cast by the building. There were two prone figures lying there, unmoving.
"Are they your Germans?" Michael asked bluntly. Fiona nodded wordlessly, turning the ignition and peeling away from the parking quickly. Something was clearly very wrong, and she did not intend to wait around and see what it was.
CRASH! Glass showered down on Fiona as something went flying through the driver's side window and began emitting a gas. Coughing and choking, Michael and Fiona slumped down in their seats and slipped into unconsciousness.
Michael awoke tied to a chair, with his hands bound and a splitting headache. Blinking, he glanced blearily around the room. It was about fifteen feet by twenty feet with no furniture. The walls were metal and covered in what looked like years worth filth. A lone light bulb hovered above the middle of the room, barely casting enough light to see that Fiona was sitting across the room from him, also tied and gagged. Her head was slumped on her chest and she wasn't moving.
She's okay, Michael told himself as worry wrenched through his gut. She's just smaller than you; it takes longer for the drugs to wear off.
As he thought this, he heard the unmistakable sound of a door opening and he figured that there must be a door in the corner of the room behind him on his left side. The sound of footsteps entered the dank room, and a tall brown-haired man wearing nondescript clothing walked into Michael's line of sight. Michael guessed that the man was a war veteran, judging from the various scars on his face and arms and the slight limp with which he walked. He looked to be about Sam's age (an old Navy SEAL friend of Michael's) and tough as nails. The man said nothing, just looked down at Michael. Slowly, the man reached out and turned Michael's face to get a better look at it. Then, nodding slightly to himself, the man turned on his heel and left the room, slamming the door behind him. Michael closed his eyes against the harsh sound of the metal door shutting, wincing. His head was killing him and he had an awful taste in his mouth. He knew it was just a side effect of whatever the gas was that he had inhaled, but he felt he would kill for a glass of water.
In an effort to distract himself from his discomfort, and to ease his worry, he looked Fiona over for injuries. Other than a few slight scratches on her arms and face, she seemed to be fine. Watching her, he couldn't believe that a month ago she had almost blown him up at their first meeting. It seemed as though he had known her for years, not weeks, and he had learned more about her in that short time than he had learned about Samantha the entire time he has known her. He couldn't tell when he had stopped thinking about Sam and when his thoughts became occupied with Fiona, but it had happened. The fiery Irish woman had gone from being his asset in the IRA to being something more than that, something that Michael couldn't put a name on while he was still with Samantha.
Michael sighed, unhappy with the direction his thoughts had taken. He knew that he would have to make a decision sooner or later, and when he did he would have to fully explain himself to both of the formidable women. He shook his head to rid himself of those thoughts, and then groaned as his head gave an extra painful throb.
Fiona stirred. Picked her head up and gazed around her in daze. She took in her surrounds and then gazed at Michael, anger in her eyes. She squirmed, testing the strength of her bonds. Michael rolled his eyes at her, trying to communicate that is was useless. Whoever had taken them had gone too much trouble to risk having them escape due to insufficient fetters. Fiona stopped moving and closed her eyes. Apparently her head was hurting, too. When she opened her eyes, she looked over him, seemingly checking him for wounds. He tried to smile at her around his gag to show that he was fine, but she just raised an eyebrow at him. Then she gave him a look that clearly said "What I wouldn't give to have some C-4 right now." Michael shook his head silently to indicate that it wouldn't make any difference – either way they didn't have enough information to take action. Fiona shrugged her shoulders at him, evidently not caring whether or not they blew up the wrong person.
They were so engaged in their silent communication that they didn't realize someone was outside the door until it opened. Fiona's eyes shot to the door and immediately furious recognition was all over her face. She jerked at her bonds again, trying to get to the man. Michael was surprised that the man didn't back away from her – if Fiona Glenanne had looked at him with that much hatred, he would've fled the country as quickly as humanly possible. The brown-haired man, however, smiled a thin lipped smile at the incensed woman and stepped directly in front of her, blocking her from Michael's gaze.
"Well, well, Fiona Glenanne," the man said softly. His voice was cold, emotionless. It was the voice of a man who would not think twice about killing a nun in a church on a Sunday. His voice sent shivers down Michael's spine.
Fiona tried to say something, but the gag made it impossible to understand. The man, with frightening gentleness, untied her gag and dropped it to the floor. Fiona just looked at him with pure abhorrence.
"Now, then, Fiona," said the man. "What was it you wanted to say?"
"You dirty, loathsome, self-righteous bastard. How dare you attack two IRA officials?!" Fiona shouted at him. "I will personally have your head for this one, Sloane!"
The man drew back his hand and slapped Fiona across the face. Michael yelled at him through his gag and tugged against his restraints. Sloane turned slowly towards him, smiling slightly.
"Well, Miss Fiona, it appears your gentleman friend doesn't like me touchin' you," Sloane said coldly. "I am afraid that he won't like what is comin' up over the next few hours, then." And with that the terrifying man swept out of the room, his gray eyes like cold steal.
Michael looked at Fiona, his eyes burning with curiosity. Fiona was still glaring at the door with barely suppressed rage. Michael coughed pointedly, and she shifted her gaze to him. He had never seen her so livid, but he thought could detect another emotion lurking under the anger. He raised his eyebrows at her, questioning.
"Madoc Sloane," she said venomously, "is a former IRA operative. He used to be very high up when I first joined the cause. He was an interrogation specialist, which in those days meant he knew exactly how to torture someone until they broke and told him whatever it was he wanted to know." Michael felt a cold lump fall into his stomach as Sloane's parting words took on a new meaning. "Anyway, a few years back he was placed in charge of an operation to locate and dispose of spies within the agency. At first it seemed like he was genuinely doin' his job, right up until he brought two of the leading members of the IRA in for questioning. Sloane disappeared and the two officials' bodies were found in an abandoned cottage, tortured to death. One of them was my father." She swallowed hard and looked directly at Michael with deep sadness in her eyes. Fiona took a deep breath before continuing. "My uncles and brothers went after Sloane and found him hidin' somewhere around Armagh. They learned that he had been a part of a movement in Northern Ireland to infiltrate the IRA and kill as many of the leaders as possible. Sloane and his friends found out that there were men in town to kill him, and they jumped the gun. They found my family and killed two more of my uncles and injured three of my brothers. After that, they went underground. We hunted him for a long time, but every time we got close, he would slip through the cracks." She fell silent, looking away.
Michael sat, stunned by the violence that seemed to surround Fiona's past. He could feel the waves of pain rolling off of her, as well as how much she desired revenge. He was suddenly seized by a desire to make that man pay for what he did to the Glenanne Clan. As though she felt him come to this conclusion, Fiona looked up at him with fire in her stormy blue eyes.
"I don't care what he does to me, but I swear that I am goin' to kill him."
