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 this CHAPTER
-I tried really hard to hold true to the characters so I hope I don't disappoint.
-My knowledge about guns is limited.
-I know before I said that Thatcher had blonde hair but in order to be able to do a tumbler option for everyone I changed his hair color to brown.
-This chapter isn't very long but is very emotionally draining lol
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{ _"...=-... } {.. .-=..."_}
xTie on Wings
presents
The Fallen Apple
A Burn Notice Fan-Fiction
{_.."… … … … … … …""(_}
Chapter Two: Connections
"We cannot live only for ourselves. A thousand fibers connect us with our fellow men; and among those fibers, as sympathetic threads, our actions run as causes, and they come back to us as effects." -Herman Melville
There was a time when the group gathered beneath the roof of the Westen home was a perfect example of this truth. Families, friends, lovers… a thousand fibers connecting them with each other. Before he was burned, Michael Westen saw the significance of connections but never really made any connections without wondering how it'd benefit him and his career; after he'd gone into his latest deep cover mission four years ago, he left WE for ME and reverted to his old ways. He had to pretend solitude suited him but he'd be lying if he said he didn't crave the elusive shift from separation back to oneness which is why standing in this room- with everyone acting as a unit and nobody shocked about the revelation he has a son- Michael felt like more of a lone wolf than ever before.
"Our son's," he repeats still trying to digest the news but the shock only growing upon seeing the boy on the couch. "A teenager?"
Yet another curveball was hurled at Michael and he couldn't help but let denial take hold for a moment. Maybe he'd drank more years away undercover than he thought. It was all a blur anyways. Maybe he was dreaming..? He's had crazier dreams. Yes! That's it. He's on the plane sleeping away his flight. Any ridiculous alternative his mind could conjure, he wanted desperately to believe because the truth… The truth made everything between them feel like a lie.
But he couldn't argue against the broad European forehead, masculine jaw line, angular features, and perfect cheekbones that screamed Westen. The tight, curt smile that usually was followed up by asking someone for a side-conversation in order to keep a united façade infront of a client laced his lips and he states in a tone any onlooker would have mistaken for asking, "Fiona, could I talk to you in the garage?"
But Fiona knew it wasn't a question.
xXx
While Fiona heads to face off with Michael in the garage, Thatcher faces off with a nightmare of his own and this particular nightmare was the worst kind. The kind of nightmare that's stemmed off a memory- the day he became an orphan.
Rugged motorcycle boots pounded the darkened soil covered with wilted leaves, broken branches, and aging roots holding statuesque trunks to the ground. Muscular arms guarded his face against fir-needle branches and other leaves that felt like sandpaper and razors, nipping at his flesh as he moved faster and deeper into the forest; his sights set on a blazing inferno in the distance acting as his North Star. Desperation pounded within as he moved, a little voice inside his head cursing him for not being fast enough.
Before he knows it he's caught up with his North Star and immediately his senses get bombarded: eyes taking in the white-washed building engulfed in a sea of orange-gold flames, the scent of smoke and burning flesh so strong he could taste it, the heat of the flames causing his flesh to tingle, sounds of a dozen people crying for help trapped inside… the closer sounds of a small boy crying.
A kid crying…
Blue eyes flickered down to the small boy sitting on the ground with his knees pulled up to his chest crying hysterically for his mother. His mother. Now Thatcher's eyes move back to the house where he saw her banging on the windows crying for help. It's a call to arms and he wants so badly to run in there and pull her and anyone else he could out of that hell. But suddenly he stood flash-frozen as the past unspooled and ensnared his feet stopping him from playing white knight.
Just as frozen he'd been when he was that kid sitting on the cold hard ground all those years ago.
Suddenly an anger pounded in his gut as he let out a roar of monstrous magnitude, "No! God damn it!" Suddenly Thatcher looked down to the younger version of himself. A self-loathing hatred shook through the air as he took out everything he'd held within on himself. "What're you doing? Get up, stop crying, and do something! Anything! Jesus Christ, that's your family in there!"
But neither moved just watched as his connections went up in flames.
xXx
Tension so thick that not even the strongest of knives could cut it soaked the garage as Fiona Glenanne closed the side-door to the garage, keeping both hands on the door and kept her back to Michael as emotions swirled within forming a torrent of terror; the wrath of a mother bear when her cubs been harmed, pain and heartache of the bitter history that led to this moment… the haunting memories, sadness that it took tragedy to reunite them all. There was a reason she never looked back, a reason she kept running and changing… All of it came down to one thing.
Survival.
Because it was like treading water, and the moment she stops, she'll surely drown. But suddenly there's a lighthouse in the distance beckoning to her and all she has to do is rise to the occasion, overcome a few waves and make it to shore. So she turns to Michael knowing that she'll have to face the history she's been running from.
He fires the moment he sees the whites of her eyes, the usually composed Michael Westen's voice getting louder and louder as he speaks, "So funny story, I've been telling people I don't have a son for the past seventeen years and, it turns out, I have. I mean, seventeen years! You've been lying to me for seventeen, God damn years!"
"I wasn't lying to you, Michael," she rationalizes, eyes darting down as she remembers a similar conversation happening between them about a certain ex-fiancé of his. "I just didn't tell you."
"I deserved to know, Fiona," he growls trying his best to hang onto some semblance of composure and failing miserably.
Fiona. The full use of her first name caught her attention but she was too hung up on his claim. He deserved to know. And what did she deserve? Did she deserve to have him leave in the dead of night? Did she deserve him choosing his job over her again and again. No. Neither deserved the hand they'd been dealt but she knew why she'd given him up… why she never told Michael about Thatcher. Because the only person that deserved anything was him.
"All I cared about was what he deserved! He deserved a chance. Two parents to protect him, to care for him, to love him. Two people who would make him the center of their lives."
"We could've been those two people," he shouts, something she'd of mistaken as tears- if it were anyone else- burning in his eyes.
"Look at us, Michael! I'm a gun running ex-IRA member, your and on again off again spy, and a good day for us is one where we're not getting shot at! Thatcher would've been hurt or worse."
"Look at your hands, Fi," he rebuts. "He's hurt now!"
Haunted hazel flickered down to the crimson stains. Her son's blood literally on her hands and sending her mind down an obvious trail… is this my fault? She'd handpicked the couple Thatcher went to, thought she'd made all the right moves in all the right places, but what if she'd missed something. What if the connections she made for him, connected to the large gashes in his side?
No.
She couldn't let herself think like that. In fact, she couldn't let herself go down the trails of what ifs with Michael anymore. What ifs? The answers weren't definite and infinite different scenarios could be pondered on but they never changed a thing. They wouldn't give them the time they couldn't get back. They didn't change past decisions. All they did was cause pain. So she returned to the present.
"We're getting nowhere like this, Michael," she stated in probably the calmest tone that'd been used since they entered the garage. "What matters is he's here. Now. So you can sit here pissed off at me drowning in the past or we could go back into the house and take care of our son."
xXx
Brilliant blue snaps open from behind heavy lids as he jerks into the upright position, heart slamming against his chest and tears burning beneath the blue, the realness of his past sinking in his stomach like a rusty nail. The blanket that covered his over-heated skin was laced with sweat as he eased himself back down onto the couch. It took a moment for his mind to break free from the past and get a foothold in the present but when it did, he couldn't tell which timeframe was a worse hell.
"You okay, kid?" Sam asked being the one on watch because Madeline was taking a phone call from Charlie who'd been away at summer camp.
It took a minute for him to reply but eventually the words slipped from his lips on labored breath, "Yeah. I'm alright Nurse Axe but, would you mind fluffing my pillow for me?"
A small chuckle slipped from Sam's lips as he realized the boy definitely had his father's wit, "Yeah sure thing buddy."
Climbing out of the chair at the boy's bedside, Sam took the pillow into his hands. As he fluffed the pillow, Thatcher sat up with his hand subconsciously running over his chest, feeling the bandages wrapped around him beneath his t-shirt. After letting out a slow breath, Thatcher commented "Ya' seem like a pretty good guy, Sam."
"Thanks, kid. You don't seem so bad yourself."
There's a momentary pause as Sam leaned forward to return the newly fluffed pillow to its place on the couch but before he could shift back upright, he hears the undeniable click of his Beretta 92FS as the hammers being cocked back. "Well then, you might want to learn to read people a bit better."
xXx
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WOW! I'm absolutely amazed/humbled by how many of you took the time to review! Thank you so so much. As an aspiring writer, I really appreciate how well my created character has been received so far. All your words of encouragement really propel me forward with my stories, so please keep them coming. In order to keep everyone involved, I'm proposing a question:
Would you rather have shorter updates faster like chapter two, or longer ones you have to wait a bit longer for?
