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: Hey everyone! Sorry I dropped the ball on this fan-fiction. Hopefully, you're still with me and we can see this thing to conclusion.
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xTie on Wings presents
The Fallen Apple
A Burn Notice Fan-Fiction
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Chapter Nine: Acceptable Losses
Fiona Glenanne knew Michael Westen better than she knew herself and better than he knew himself. Her favorite thing about him though, was the way he slept. When Michael sleeps, he takes over the entire bed, arms and legs stretched out across the entire mattress. It didn't matter how he fell asleep, he always slipped back into this position. She knows he hates heavy blankets, that he finds them suffocating. He prefers only a sheet rarely pulled higher than his waist. She knows that he snores in his sleep when he's exhausted. It's a low snore, more of an occasional snort followed by small bursts of breath. Otherwise he's quiet with the exception of his even, steady breath. And she knows nightmares begin with a whimper or a moan. If he does have a nightmare, he holds her tight against his chest and buries his face in her hair while he shivers and makes soft whining noises. She hated when he had nightmares- not because they disturbed her sleep but because she couldn't do anything about them- but they were to be expected from the lives they led. She loved the way he seemed to surround her when they'd lay together in bed, the way he'd take over all the space but make her part of him instead of pushing her out.
Yes Fiona Glenanne loved the way Michael Westen slept.
But today, she found herself falling even more in love with the way he slept.
Some of the attributes she knew still shone through. The sheet over him was still draped low on his hips, he still lightly snores, and he's still sprawled out… but not in a bed, on the love seat- with his feet hanging off the edge- adjacent to his sleeping son in the living room. Apparently her boys couldn't sleep last night and had wandered into the living room to watch some late night television and dozed off during. Thatcher shared some of his father's sleeping mannerisms. He too seemed to like to sleep cool, the thicker blanket he had started out with kicked down into a crumpled heap at his feet at the edge of the couch.
Her smile grows on her lips, like father like son.
Taking a seat on the edge of the end table between her boys, she took advantage of his sleeping state to study her son. Even with stubble starting to scruff up his features, he looked younger without a constantly furrowed brow and anger mucking up his features. His eyelashes are charcoal and long; they flutter in his sleep and kiss his sun-kissed skin. There's a slight vertical line in his eyebrow where the hair won't grow back because of a scar. It was then that she realized, it wasn't his only scar. Sleeping in a pair of basketball shorts that hang low on his hips and without a t-shirt, she finally saw the extensive damage his training had done to his body. At least a couple dozen scars in various shapes and sizes covered his upper body and the exposed area between the bandaging around his waist his abdomen and the waist of his shorts. Her hand slipped up over her mouth to stifle an angered growl. Thomas Fitzgerald was lucky he was already dead because Fiona wanted desperately to inflict each mark her son had endured onto him before she took his life. Some were older, lightened over time and some were an angry red undoubtedly inflicted mere months before Tommy met his demise.
As Fiona studied her son mentally kicking herself for not being there, Michael watches her. He'd been so angry that she didn't tell him about Thatcher, he failed to realize how mad she was at herself for thinking giving him up was for the best and finding it to be for the worst. Climbing up off the couch, Michael rested his hand on the mother of his child's shoulder not speaking until she looked up to meet his gaze.
"We have to stop thinking about how we failed him and start focusing on all the things we can do to help him, Fi," he whispers, careful not to wake Thatcher.
"We," she asks, realizing that Michael had accepted some of the blame.
Nodding in assurance, Michael declares, "We."
xXx
Strategic fingers placed themselves upon the spiky crown of the ashen game piece, sliding it gently across the checkered board until it collided with a black soldier of the enemy faction. The digits then went on to seize the fallen soldier hoisting it off into oblivion.
"Check."
Michael Westen narrowed his eyes as he processed his son's move, his thoughts churning. The move played back through his mind, exploration of every possible outcome, every strategy running through his mind in the hopes to glean whatever insight to dig himself out of trouble. Sitting in the opposite chair, Thatcher O'Connor was a stoic pillar that surrendered nothing under his father's scrutiny. Thatcher grasped onto the nearby glass of orange juice, downing the citric mouthful to cover the smirk teasing his lips.
"I thought you were supposed to be a master strategist, Westen."
Michael refocused on the board, looking for a solution that fit but a part of his mind refused to cede any more runtime, consumed with a growing concern that had been building since Thatcher admitted he'd been marked for death. Soon all his thoughts wandered from strategy on the chess board to strategy for real battle.
"Speaking of strategy, do you have any allies within Phineas' rankings? Someone that could tell you… well really anything at this point."
Despite what Phineas thought, Thatcher never wanted his kingdom. He turned away anyone that looked to him or pledged their allegiance alienating the possibility of allies and Alanna well, Alanna was a story all her own. Baby blues glazed over as his mind lingered on the feisty brunette, memoires that seemed like someone else's life rushing back.
The beautiful girl who gave him a shoulder to cry on after the fire.
The only free thinker in the Fitzgerald compound.
The thief that stole his heart.
The devilish beauty who was far from innocent but still better than any of them would ever be.
The woman he'd be with right now if fate hadn't intervened...
"Thatcher," Michael questions realizing that his son was no longer staring at him but past him at some distant memory.
"What, um, no," Thatcher responds snapping back to reality. Seeing that his father was going to pry further, Thatcher's eyes shifted around the room for any excuse to escape. Luckily, the faint smell of something on the verge of burning hit his nose and he instantly knew Fiona was on the verge of failing to cook dinner. "I'm going to go see if Fiona needs a hand."
Michael watched his son climb to his feet and fought to stifle the protest on the tip tongue. There was more to the story. Since the boy had come to Miami, he'd been hiding something and he hated not knowing all the pieces in play. But, he was aware that his son's attempt for escape, put him in the same vicinity as his mother and, as much as Michael wanted to know, he wanted Thatcher to spend time with his mother.
So he lets him walk away and decides to press for information another day.
xXx
He lingered in the doorway studying her as she moved about the kitchen, moving this that and the other, stirring things on the stove, and checking things in the oven. She had the moves but he could tell cooking was a skill the brunette only brought out of her arsenal once in a blue moon for special occasions. She was busy roasting vegetables in the oven, some sort of sauce in the skillet atop the stove, bread in the toaster-oven, and something fresh off the grill outside that now lay covered in foil on the counter… an impressive spread by any means, but Thatcher could smell that the bread was passing the point of toasted and she was busy stirring the sauce, also probably on the verge of burning, which meant he actually had to help in the kitchen. Wordlessly he weaved past the brunette and over to the toaster, popping open the drawer and sliding the bread out of toaster-oven and onto the plate.
"Thank you," Fiona says realizing that Thatcher had not only entered the kitchen but had saved the bread from certain peril. Instead of saying 'you're welcome', Thatcher just gives her a nod, turning to take the bread to the kitchen table. Wanting to keep him interacted, Fiona continued, "Sorry, I'm not much of a Julia Child."
Baby blues scanned the woman as she looked over her shoulder to him remembering his late night/early morning conversation with Michael:
"So you and Fiona, I couldn't help but notice there's a little tension there," Thatcher pointed out during a random infomercial trying to shift the focus from himself. "And I'd be pissed if my son I didn't know existed showed up outa nowhere but, as messed up as what she did was, she thought it was the right thing… so uh, you know, stop being a dick, Westen."
A slight chuckle escaped his lips at his son's wrap-up but he was touched by his sons attempt to make sure his parents were on the same page- even if it was an aversion technique. "Okay, but you need to practice what you preach."
Maybe Michael was right. Maybe, Thatcher needed to stop seeing it as her abandoning him, and start seeing it as her protecting him. Maybe… just maybe, he needed to let down his guard and give Fiona a fighting chance.
"If a little browned bread is the worst kitchen disaster you ever have, you're leaps and bounds ahead of ma'," he says taking a seat at the table, a tad nostalgic but lacking the sadness and bitterness that he'd had when previously bringing up Olivia.
The same nostalgia danced in the recesses of Fiona's mind, sending her back in time resurrecting memories she'd thought long forgotten. Liv and Claire were the best of friends. Everything they did was together, one always an extension of the other. A sight grin slipped onto her face as she thought back to a particular time when Olivia attempted to remove the brand of terrible cook and was so sure she actually had. "I remember. The closest she ever came to cooking without incident was cookies but she switched up the sugar and the salt."
The story brought a twinge of laughter to Thatcher's lips but it doesn't get past them because in that moment a realization struck. Fiona spoke of his mother as one would speak about someone they cared very deeply about. He'd been so blinded by the perception that Tommy pounded into his head that he never thought it possible. And even when he had learned she was not the one who killed his family, a part of him blamed her for his pain. But his pain was her pain. His loss hers as well. His teeth racked over his lip as he struggled with the realization, eyes dropping to the dark finished mahogany. So consumed he didn't realize that Fiona had picked up on his distress and had been calling his name, bridging the gap and kneeling beside him with her hand gently grazing his shoulder. Watery baby blues shift over to the brunette, seeing her mouth moving but he's too consumed to process that words are actually being said.
Because for the first time he allows himself to see the similarities between the two of them… both such independent women. So brave. So strong. And she looked at him like his mother did. Despite everything, Fiona looked at him with love and concern… with this unconditional love that only a mother is capable of. And it scares him. It puts the fear of God in the young renegade because he was already irrevocably damaged by the loss of one mother... and before he originally believed that putting them in danger was acceptable because he didn't care. They were acceptable losses.
But now, he knew, there were no acceptable losses in this in this war.
Not if he didn't want to lose himself too…
To Be Continued.
