My first Burn Notice fic! :)
This contains slight spoilers for 5x13 Fail Safe
While The Thunder Rolled
Michael Westen was not one for tears, until now. His charger refused to go any faster, the speedometers needle quivering as it crept farther and farther.
His vision was becoming blurred as traitorous tears broke there barrier and spilled down his fire red cheeks. Knuckles glowing white he tightened his grip on the steering wheel, pressing the gas pedal down even farther.
The station was right ahead, he could see it clearly. Visions of Sam entered his mind, his voice grave and urgent.
"I'm sorry Mike." the handcuffs rattled against the stair case, Sam at the end of them with his body slumped on the floor, blood trickling from a gash on his head.
He didn't even acknowledge the words, he just ran as fast as his legs allowed. He should have felt angry at Sam, letting Fiona get the best of him and allowing her to do what she was doing now.
But all the anger was pointed at her while he tried to convince himself that she was being selfish. Unfortunately the more he thought about it the more he realized it was him who had been selfish all these years. Ignoring the angry voices he raced down the busy streets, honking his horn and screaming at the clump of cars that would form in front of him.
Somewhere between his loft and the crowded intersection had he allowed himself to cry, not even trying to wipe the tears away. Now his car was parked at an unusual angle behind him, door still open while he ran and stood in front of the building. There she was, walking up the steps while her dress flowed freely in the soft Miami breeze.
"Fi!" the sound that came from his mouth could not be him. It sounded to desperate, broken even. Slowly she turned around, eyes solemn an empty. Before he could open his mouth again she was surrounded.
Agents swarmed her and slowly she raised her hands, turning to look at Michael as the cold metal encircled her wrist and she was thrust forward through the door.
"Fi!" shouting was useless now, she was already gone. Stumbling backwards he shoved his car door shut and ran.
Pushing past the crowds he went as far as he could. A sheen of sweat formed on his forehead and his shirt was stuck to his damp skin. Thunder boomed over his head and he momentarily sighed in relief as cold droplets of water fell into him, cooling his skin and washing away the sweat and tears.
Running a hand through his hair he smoothed it out of his face. He should be back at the loft, thinking of some way to get her out, but all he could think about was getting to drunk to care.
Entering a small bar with wooden counters and scantily clad bar maids he threw himself into a stool and groaned as his muscles protested against him.
"What can I get ya?" a man with tattoos decorating his fair skin was standing in front of him, a towel sling over his shoulder.
"Best thing you've got." he said, never taking his eyes off his hands sitting limply in his lap. The bartender came back and slapped a glass on the table.
Michael lifted it to his lips and smelled what he assumed was bourbon. Suspicions confirmed, he let the fiery liquid slide down his throat without so much as a wince. Slamming the glass back down he signaled for another, continuing the pattern until he managed to stumble out of his seat and out into the wet sticky air outside.
He walked to his loft, managing to stay upright the whole time as he navigated the slick sidewalks. Inside he could see the small puddle of Sams blood drying on the floor, the cuffs still linked to the rail.
Michael collapsed onto his bed, pulling a pillow up to his face and breathing in the sweet scent that could only belong to Fiona. Holding it close he tried to fight off the intense wave of nausea that suddenly washed over him.
He leaned over the side of the bed in defeat as the contents of his stomach made themselves visible. Wiping his mouth he layed his head back down and closed his eyes.
Sleep came to claim him, arming him with memories am visions of Fiona. He thrashed under the light blue sheet that was covering his body, a whimper escaping his lips. The thunder had reappeared sometime during the night, sparing him from any other dreams he would have.
Rolling onto his back, Michael looked up at the ceiling, counting in his head the years he had spent trying to regret his relationship with Fi. He gave a dry laugh that soon turned into body wracking sobs. Shaky hands reached up to cover his face as his body shook even harder.
And right there, in the dark of the night while the thunder rolled, Michael Westen learned the meaning of real pain, with a heart that was broken beyond repair.