Disclaimer: I own neither "Burn Notice" nor "Torchwood" … unfortunately.

AN: This story takes place sometime in season 4 for "Burn Notice" and sometime in season 2 for "Torchwood," although there are some references to knowledge we gain in "Children of Earth."

Weevils in Miami

Time Lost

"Well," said Jack, clapping his hands together, heartened by the news that his son would be fine. "I want to hear everything about what happened."

"OK," started Sam, settling himself into the couch, as if for a long story. "Long story short: This guy Randy Cawber hired us when this other guy, Johnnie Ellister, conned him out of boatloads of money. We went to Ellister's place for some recon before setting up our own con, you know, see what kind of operation he's running, and Mikey got attacked by that alien-thing."

After taking a brief moment to absorb the situation, Jack took charge. "I want to check out this guy's operation—like you guys were doing, but we'll be a little more careful.

"Shouldn't we wait for Mikey?" asked Sam.

"No," replied Fiona, shaking her head. "The longer we wait, the more money that bastard Ellister will spend—our client's money. You know what they say: time lost is money lost."

"No," disagreed Jack, "time lost is people lost. The longer we wait, the more people this Ellister guy sics his weevils on."

"Fine," capitulated Sam, not liking the idea of other people being brutalized by those things. "I'll drive us."

"I'm going to stay with my patient," interjected Owen, who was leaning back into the couch with his eyes closed. He was tired. First there had been that incredibly awkward plane conversation with Jack when all he had wanted to do was sleep. He was always curious about Jack's past and always said that he wanted to know more but, now that he did, he was missing being kept in the dark. Then they had landed in New York, but before they could even grab a bite to eat, they had boarded their connecting flight to Miami. He was looking forward to sleeping on that plane but Jack had wanted to talk even more. Owen couldn't help but think that it was some kind of punishment from G-d for being so nosey in the past. Then, before he knew what was happening, they were at Madeleine Weston's charming home. No pleasantries there either—just go save Michael, not that he minded that. He was, after all, a doctor and that was, after all, why he was there. But some rest after all that would have been nice. So he just let himself relax into the couch as he completely tuned out the rest of the conversation, which went like this:

"Well, if the doc's not going, I'll go," said Madeleine.

"What?" Jack, Fiona, and Sam all squawked.

"I'm going," she repeated.

"But Maddie, it'll be dangerous with those … things," placated Sam.

"I don't care. I can be useful."

"Useful how?" asked Fiona, not unkindly.

"I was doing this kind of thing before you were born, honey."

"Exactly," interjected Jack. "'Before she was born.' When's the last time you did something like this?"

"Firing a gun is like riding a bike, Jack."

"Fine," said Jack, recognizing Madeleine's I'm-going-to-do-whatever-the-hell-I-please-whether-it-is-a-good-idea-or-not voice. "But it's your ass on the line. Don't expect us to pull you out of the fire."

"If I remember correctly, Jack, you're the one who needed to get his ass pulled out of the fire," responded Madeleine, causing Jack to blush immensely. Jack was really happy that Owen was ignoring them because he really did not want to have to explain this. He still shuddered remembered the time when an alien had thrown him butt-first into an unlit furnace and he had become stuck. The furnace was on a timer and the entirety of Torchwood had spent time trying to pull his ass out of the soon-to-be fire. Some things were just meant to stay in the past. Jack followed the other three out of the house feeling rebuked and subdued.

Dark. Hot. Thirsty. Hungry. Ow. Sonuva-

These were the first things that crossed Michael's mind when he woke up.

Sitting up slowly, Michael tried to remember where he was and what had happened. Well, he knew where he was just from looking around; even with the minimal light in the room, he recognized his mom's guest bedroom. Now for the "what had happened." All he was getting were flashes: a warehouse—something really ugly—Fiona with bandages—Sam's car—sharp teeth—his mom on the phone.

His mom on the phone. That did the job. Michael remembered everything and he was furious. He could handle aliens and shadowy government agencies. He had seen plenty of weird stuff while on assignment in the Middle East—not alien weird, but weird nonetheless—and the CIA itself was a somewhat shadowy government agency. What Michael could not accept was the revelatory bombshell his mother had dropped on him about his father.

He was angry—not even particularly angry at his mother—jut angry. As he thought more and more about it, he felt his hands clench into fists. Ow. Looking down, he noticed for the first time the IV sticking out of his arm. It was connected to two bags; he assumed that the first was saline but the second was a luminescent green color that really discomfited him. A part of him wanted to rip the IV out, partially because he didn't relish the idea of an unknown substance being pumped into his veins but partially because he was angry and wanted to destroy something. Another part of him, however, knew that after being attacked by that alien, he should not be feeling as good as he was feeling and he instinctively knew that the odd bag of green liquid was responsible for that.

Michael turned sharply to the door as he heard the handle turn. Even that brief, slight movement made him feel dizzy.

A man he had never seen before walked into the room, a grim and weary look on his face. Due to years of CIA life, Michael was able to analyze the man in front of him in a few seconds:

~ In good shape, cautious, could handle himself in a fight

~ Intelligent, an export in a professional field of some kind

~ Carries himself stiffly despite a slouch, paramilitary

~ Face somewhat resembled a monkey, missing link?

"How are you feeling?" asked the man. Ah, a doctor … a British doctor.

"Fine," Michael responded, not really wanting to go into extreme detail with a man he didn't know, even if the man was a doctor. "Who are you?"

"Don't worry; I'm a doctor," said the doctor unhelpfully. "I came with your dad. You-"

"-My dad? He's here? Where?"

"He left a while ago with the others to check out Ellister's operation." Seeing the concerned look on Michael's face, Owen comforted him, "Don't worry. They'll be fine. Jack does this kind of thing all the time. Back to what I was saying though; the bite you got from that weevil became infected but I, the amazing doctor that I am, had the medicine you needed. You'll be fine."

Michael inadvertently rolled his eyes. "And I am still wondering who you are?" prompted Michael, irritated not so much with the doctor as with the situation.

"Your doctor," said Owen, without a glimmer of humor. If his patient was going to be an irritating jerk, he would be one as well.

After rolling his eyes again, Michael just stared at the doctor and the doctor just stared right back. Honestly, they were both just really tired and unfairly taking it out on each other. Finally realizing how childish he was behaving and how misplaced his frustrations were, Michael looked away first, wiping his hand across his face as if he were trying to wipe the aches and weariness away.

Seeing Michael be the bigger man, Owen sighed and felt somewhat bad for sinking to his patient's level. If only he hadn't been so damned tired. Owen stepped forward, offered Michael his hand, and said, "Dr. Owen Harper, Torchwood."

Taking his hand, Michael responded, "Michael Weston, but I guess you already knew that, seeing as how you're in my mother's house taking care of me. … And you apparently work with my fa- … the captain."

"Yeah," said Owen, nodding his head, his hands in his jean pockets, becoming the stereotypical image of an uncomfortable man. Although he pretended not to care for other people's emotions, he did understand them and he understood how emotional the next few days were going to be. Honestly, he felt bad for the man lying on the bed in front of him and could relate to him. As if finding out about aliens weren't traumatic enough, Owen had lost his fiancée the same day. Here Michael was, having just discovered aliens and, in a sense, having lost his father and his identity.

Picking up on Owen's discomfort, Michael joked, "I thought doctors were supposed to be the comfortable ones around sick people?"

"Yeah," said Owen, without missing a beat, "but I prefer it when my patients are unconscious … or dead."

"Dead?" asked Michael, quirking his eyebrow and suddenly finding this man companionable. Michael knew he was sick because had he been at his full health, he would not have been so wishy-washy with his emotions. "You can't be a very good doctor then if a lot of your patients are dead."

Owen shot him a withering glance but then snorted in laughter, enjoying the repartee. "Yeah, most of my work for Torchwood these days is as a medical examiner. I don't make the people dead, they're brought to me that way."

But my … the captain brought you along anyway?"

"Yeah, he thought I could be useful. And, oh look, I was," he said, gesturing to Michael and his IV. "There's some water on your bedside table, I suggest you drink it. I'd give you something else but I'm not really the domestic type and Jack left the Tea-Boy in Wales."

"What?" asked Michael, wondering if that would have made sense to him had he not been slightly delirious.

"Nothing," mumbled Owen, preparing to leave the room again and let his patient rest.

"Wait," exclaimed Michael, causing Owen, who was halfway through the door, to twist around and look at him. "Can you at least give me something to do? I'm bored."

"I know just the thing," said Owen with a grin.

This was why, when Jack, Madeleine, Sam, and Fiona returned a half hour later, they found Michael and Owen sitting on the bed playing Go Fish!

TBC

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