A/N – This little M-rated missing moment starts at the end of 3.01 Family and Friends after Michael sees his old buddy Harlan off on his trip to Venezuela and before they all meet up at Madeline's to discuss what happened over a beer. Another chapter based on 3.07 Shot in the Dark from Fiona's POV and a new Three Sides to Every Story based on Long Way Back and A Dark Road should be on the boards soon.

Next Thursday, 06/12/14, should have been Season 8 (*ugly crying ensures*). But since we haven't gotten any love from Matt Nix or our Sam and Jesse spinoff, Jedi's Pal will be presenting Life with Larry every Thursday at the conclusion of #burnnoticeclub, the untold tales of our fav undead spy (well most of us anyway… apologizes to Phillie are in order for the subject matter). Much love and many thanks to all the #Burners out there on Faceback, Twitter and Fan Fiction for keeping Burn Notice alive and rocking it!

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Fiona had been waiting for him when he'd returned to the loft early that morning. She'd been digging in the ancient refrigerator for a little yogurt for breakfast when he'd pushed the heavy metal door open. With an irritated huff which had been meant to cover her concern, she'd thanked him that she and Sam hadn't had to be out ALL night looking for him. He'd already called the pair to let them know he was alive after Harlan had taken his little boat ride. As to the matter of how 'well' he was, that had been up for debate. He hadn't said anything other than he would catch up with them later at his mother's house.

There had been an unspoken plea to keep Madeline at bay in his conversation with Sam, who'd acknowledged it discreetly at the end. Michael had been fairly certain that he'd find Fiona at the loft when he got there, so he hadn't been surprised when he'd spotted her car parked next to the stairs.

The redhead let out a gasp when she'd gotten a good look at what the proverbial cat had drug in. Michael's wound had decorated the make shift bandage on his wrist in plenty of disturbingly red hues.

"Michael, what happened?"

She wasted no time digging out the first aid kit out from under the work bench after she'd rushed to his side. A beat later, Fiona was wrinkling her nose at the rank smell of diesel and dirty water permeating his hair and clothing as he slowly unwound the ruined cloth covering the cuts on his wrist.

"Did you go swimming in a sewer again?"

"More like that canal in Amsterdam," the ex-spy sighed, memories of the job they'd worked together in the Dutch capital and how it had ended skirting around the edges of his awareness.

"Where's Harlan?"

His look must have said it all, because she dropped the questioning immediately and had instead concentrated on the examining the series of shallow cuts with a practiced eye.

"It shouldn't need stitches, but you need to get it disinfected and dressed up as soon as possible."

He let her take him by the hand and lead him to the tiny bathroom at the back of the loft. The Irishwoman pressed him down onto to the toilet seat to remove his slick shoes and smelly socks. Screwing up her face with a look of mild revulsion, Fiona then rinsed her hands off under the taps, adjusting them until she coaxed some really hot water out of the aging plumbing system.

Mr. Westen hadn't expressed his surprise at her filling the tub. Instead, the vision of another bath from a bygone era had been dancing in his head. At least she hadn't made him disrobe in the street this time.

"You better hurry. You know it won't last,"the tiny former terrorist advised, gathering up the rest of his ruined clothes and impatiently waiting for him to doff his boxers. "I'm gonna bag this mess up."

"Don't throw away—"

But only the wind had remained when he'd gone to plead for mercy for his favorite pair of dress shoes.

Michael gingerly stepped into the steaming water, closing his eyes and sinking into the tub of hot liquid, letting the warmth permeate his abraded joints and muscles while holding his injured arm out of the heated fluid. Mr. Westen dipped his head back and saturated his dark hair when the petite woman padded silently back into the miniscule restroom carrying the medical kit. As he reached for the shampoo, she snatched it out of his good hand and knelt down beside the old porcelain bath.

"Let me help you with that," Ms. Glenanne requested, pouring some of the bottle's contents on him.

"Guess I should be grateful you're just washing my hair and not cutting it this time."

He gave her a weary smile and then closed his eyes, giving into her ministrations, concentrating on the feeling of her nails gliding over his scalp as she worked the lather through his hair removing the sludge and the chemicals, and refusing to think about what he'd been forced to do to Harlan to save himself.

"Yer lucky thot wrist dinnae need stitchin' or you'd be payin' fer thot remark, Michael Westen."

A gentle touch encircled his wrist and held his left arm straight up and then a surprisingly strong shove pushed his whole head under the water. Michael surfaced, sputtering and shaking out his mop as well as splashing his caregiver cum tormentor in the process.

I really should have seen that one coming, the former covert operative thought wryly.

"Ack, ya wet me shirt," the redhead grumbled without any real venom in her tone.

"Well, you started this," he quite reasonably pointed out, another tired grin forming on his lips.

"Be still, ya great crybaby," she countered, reaching for the wash cloth and the soap.

"I can manage this, really," Michael announced and then took the cleaning implements back.

The ex-spy thought for a fleeting second about commenting on her uncharacteristic empathy before deciding that he hadn't heart or the stomach for verbal sparring with her at that particular moment.

"Have it your way." Fiona got to her feet with a shrug. "I'll get you some clean clothes while I'mchanging mine. You're damn lucky I have a few spare outfits stashed about or you'd be in real trouble."

The ex-spy let out a long, deep exhalation of breath when the door had closed behind her and he began the task of cleaning up one handed. Even with scorching remembrances of what had followed during his only night using the massive en suite of Liam Glenanne's home back in Belfast obviously dancing in both their heads, Michael wasn't prepared to go where it had been heading. But Fiona's often atypical understanding nature had held out. When he entered the main room, the auburn haired temptress had changed into a white sundress and laid out his green polo and jeans. She bandaged his wrist and helped him dress without any further hints of their fiery past relationship returning to the forefront aside from a quick buss to the cheek. They managed to get to his mom's within a couple of hours of his arrival.

There was a part of him of that had wanted to put off telling his best buddy what had happened. It wouldn't be pleasant explaining that their former friend had become a killer for hire. Although he and Harlan hadn't been that close, Van Holt had been the other man besides Sam who had rescued him from that pit up in the Caucus Mountains, though they hadn't known each other at that time. Still, they had worked together, spy and SEAL, him the smart one and Harlan the 'pretty one' as the man had said.

"Just like old times, right Mike?"

"Yeah, JUST like old times."

Sometimes he had wondered how Harlan had made it onto the Teams at all. The man was all brawn and no brain… well, to be fair, Harlan had a brain, he just didn't seem to use it often as compared to his muscles. On the other hand, the former SEAL had managed to deceive him. He'd known something was up when the old buddy he'd worked various extractions with for almost a year, had shown up to bail him out of jail instead of going to Sam directly with his little problem. He just hadn't known what was up.

The conversation gathered around the dining room table at his mother's house, relating what the other former SEAL had done and what had become of Harlan Van Holt, had been so uncomfortable that he'd had his own aberrant moment. His favorite ex-SEAL was usually the only one to be beer swilling before lunch and yet when Madeline had called out for the drink orders, both he and Fiona had joined Mr. Axe.

"Mike, this is not good. You've been swimming away from bad guys alittle too often these days."

"I know."

Sometimes Sam had a real gift for stating the painfully obvious….

"Look, I'm not saying you're not popular, but you're a guy who's had, uh, a lot of disagreements over the years. I mean, if you can't even trust your buddies…"

His new reality… in a nutshell… and it scared the hell outta him to let that thought penetrate.

"It's nothing we can't handle."

Former covert operative wasn't been sure whether to grin or cringe at Fiona's declaration of protection and loyalty, blithely ignoring the realities of his situation that he knew to be true better than anyone.

"Michael, you really need stitches."

Somehow he managed to keep himself from groaning out loud as his mother plopped more medical supplies down on the surface in front of him. That was when he noticed the crimson tinge spreading upon the white material wrapped around his left wrist.

"I'm fine. The cuts are shallow. I know. I made them."

"Fine… You know, I never liked that Harlan. Do you remember, Michael? I told you—

"You told me I was going to get him killed."

Why was it that his mother always insisted on trying to make him accountable for the irresponsible people around him? Even the ones she'd only met days before? Was 'brother's keeper' plastered on his forehead? His train wreck of a brother was one thing, but someone with Special Forces training? Then he remembered just how draining her selective memory and revisionist views of the past could be.

"No, I—you know, you misunderstood. That's not what I meant. It doesn't matter! The point is..." And Madeline waved her cigarette in a circle at them, perhaps to reinforce the bond by means of nicotine laden smoke? "You three… need to stick together."

Sound advice, except merely the three of them sticking together was not going to solve his problem.

In the end, however, Michael mercifully had been able to leave Sam to manage his mom and depart with Fiona. He was always grateful whenever the older man could run interference for him with Mama Westen. The former Ranger ranked saving his sanity while exiled in Miami well above all the times Commander Axe had actually saved his ass during operations on battlefields around the world.

"We're not going back to the loft, are we?" he observed as she pointed the Saab in the completely opposite direction of the living space above the nightclub that he called home.

"Nope," the redhead agreed. "So many people just always dropping your place unannounced and you haven't seen my new place yet." She stole a glance at him over the top of her sunglasses. "I thought now would be a good time for a tour. It'll be the perfect place for you to get some rest."

Michael wisely chose not to comment on who number one on the list of making themselves at home in his place was. Instead he concentrated on watching the route and memorizing it while Ms. Glenanne had put the little black sports car through its paces and put them at her new abode in record time.

He knew she had moved from her rental on the Intracoastal sometime during their abortive attempt to lead separate lives and him getting out from under the people who had burned him, but not where.

"Nice security," he commented as they passed through the outer gate and into the garden area at the front of the condominium. "I'm sure the home owners' association wouldn't approve if they knew."

Fiona chuckled lightly, apparently enjoying the compliment and his company. "You should see what's buried in with the hibiscus."

As he stared around the space, the contrast with his own living quarters with stark… or rather his living quarters were stark by comparison. If one thing could be said for the Irishwoman, she knew how to make herself at home… whether it was a rundown flat in Dublin or a well-appointed condo in upscale Miami.

He followed her into the kitchen, observing the dark wood and glass décor, all sharp angles and gleaming surfaces, guessing where all the guns were hidden and which decorative items contained the prepared blocks of C-4. The Irishwoman sat two containers of Brenner's along with two spoons on the table adjacent to the breakfast bar. He gave her a drowsy smile at the choice of food and flavors.

"I prefer to steal yours, of course," she remarked with a slight grin of her own. "But it's easier to have some of me own on hand rather than raid your fridge in the middle of the night if I get a craving after midnight. I wouldnae want ya ta try ta shoot me by mistake."

"Didn't you tell me once that if I shot you it wouldn't be by mistake?"

"Well, sometimes things change, I guess," Fiona replied. She ate a few more bites and then looked deeply into his eyes, her blue green ones an odd mixture of emotions that needed a response from him.

But then Michael let out a huge yawn he hadn't anticipated. Stomach full now and danger passed at the moment, he had burned through the adrenaline and the lack of sleep the past 30 hours or so took over.

"Come on, let me show you the bedroom. I think you need a nap."

She leaned over to pick up the trash and silverware off the table and was moving to give him a peck on the cheek from her expression. The ex-spy read her intentions and turned his face, meeting her lips with his, placing a gentle hand to the back of her head, drawing her fully into the kiss as he stood up.

Fiona wrapped her limbs around his waist and he laid his injured arm loosely across her back. Several moments of soft kissing gave way to the parting of teeth as their tongues came together in a familiar ritual of touch and taste. He kept his hand in her hair, threading his fingers through the silken auburn tresses and massaging her neck and shoulder as they broke apart.

"Thank you, Fi… for everything," the dark haired man whispered, his face so close to hers he could smell the scent of blueberries on her breath as well as the taste of on his tongue.

"As I said, it's always a treat to save you, Michael," she repeated part of their earlier conversation. "Though it'd be a wee bit easier to do if—"

He stolen her words away with another kiss and then the enormous yawn which had escaped that time had only been partially exaggerated. The petite woman led him out the kitchen and into her boudoir.

As she had been enumerating the features, benefits and origins of various items in and around the room, Michael had slipped off his flip flops and straight headed for the rectangular white object with the metal headboard at the center and pulled the white gauzy curtains out of his way and tried to lie down. He almost made it down onto the bed before she snatched the continental quilt out from under him.

"One does not sit on the duvet! It's Hungarian goose down!" she admonished as if it should have been obvious. But he didn't remarked on all the times he'd found her sitting on the comforter on his bed as he laid himself down still dressed on the ridiculous comfy mattress that had cost a small fortune.

She pulled a light sheet over his prone form and leaned over, reaching out to touch either his cheek of his shoulder, it didn't mattered which. Michael took her hand into his, squeezing her fingers lightly and pleading with his beat blue eyes. So, Fiona slipped under the covers in her clothes too, laying down next to him, side by side, his hand now in hers, just as they had that night she'd come over at 3 AM, watching over him quoting Proverbs 27:17 to Lesher. But in true he had been talking to her the whole time.

And then he'd lain there, trying not to think, trying not to dream, waiting for the mind numbing exhaustion to claim him while he had tried focus on nothing but the warmth and the weight of her pressed against him, trying without success to shut out the feelings that threatened to overcome him.

Falling from the helicopter, that never ending moment between the solidity of metal under his feet and the oh-so-familiar whirr of the metallic blades that kept the craft aloft and hitting the water, the yielding and yet unyielding surface of the water, the pain he knew would hit when he broke the surface of the ocean with his body, that was nowhere near as frightening as this. He had jumped out of helicopters into unforgiving places, over grown dense jungles, scorched deserts, jagged mountain sides, and he had free fallen into deep water before. The Rangers had trained him and his three years of service to his country had equipped him for what was admittedly a bit more than he had done recently. But he had been prepared for the feelings that come with jumping from out of a secure vehicle into the open air.

There is a moment, that moment they tell you about in training, but it never matches the reality of when you actually hit the water and you're not sure which way is up. Letting that panic take over is a good way to make sure you drown. Forcing yourself to take the time to reorient underwater is a challenge. But like most challenges in life, fighting that panic is a necessary part of surviving and succeeding.

Kind of disturbing too was thinking about all the things which were potentially between him and the shoreline so far off in the distance that could hurt him, maim him or just eat him for lunch. The swim had been beyond grueling and that had been scary too. He had been utterly exhausted and had ingested more sea water than would probably be considered healthy when he'd washed up on the beach, involuntarily body surfing onto the sand as part of the last portion of that five mile workout.

Going down on his knees in the middle of street, the rallied troops of Miami Metro Dade law enforcement pointing weapons of various calibers at him, forcing himself to be perfectly still and not to react, to let himself be captured while hoping that no one had gotten an itchy trigger finger from too much sugar and caffeine at the donut shop that morning had been a challenge, but not unmanageable.

Throwing himself through the window into the canal below, bursting into the open air with thousands of tiny and not so tiny shards of glass flying everywhere around him had been worrisome, hoping that he had gotten the angle right and there was filthy oily muddy canal water waiting for his limbs to plunge into instead of an unforgiving dock. The things that you wish for sometimes in this business…. The brackish liquid containing God only knows what else burned all the little and not so little cuts all over.

And as he had sat there in the pre-dawn dark in the window he'd crashed through earlier, holding the blood stained cotton torn from the hem of his dress shirt tightly around his wrist, waiting for the Venezuelans to arrive and collect the corpse of Rufino Cortez and a mercenary who would have betrayed a friend for blood money, that man's words' had come back to haunt him in that moment.

Now you're just a burned spy tossed out into the cold, huh? Might as well tattoo a bull's eye on your forehead.

Everything that he had gone through since he'd pulled the trigger, since he'd looked into Victor's bright desperate eyes, begging for release until they were dead eyes before he'd closed them, it had settled in the center of his chest and squeezed his heart tight until he wasn't sure he could draw another breath.

When you find yourself out in the cold, all you can do is put your head down and try to survive.

The room was dark now, but the disorientation of the change of light and the unfamiliarity of his surroundings had nothing to do with the tremors running through his body. Shaking his head, trying to clear the haze of interrupted sleep from his muddled mind, he reached his good hand out and encountered nothing but empty space and cold sheets where he had expected to find Fiona Glenanne.

"Fi?" he called out. "Fiona?"

Before he could do more than raise himself up on his elbow, wincing as he was forcibly reminded of what had happened to his wrist, the woman in question threw open the adjacent bathroom door and temporarily blinded Mr. Westen with the light emanating from behind the lithe figure in the entryway.

The towel wound around her hair and the robe encasing her petite form answered the question of where she had been since he'd obviously fallen into an uneasy sleep. The mattress dipped as the redhead perched on the edge and blocked the illumination, shading his troubled face.

"I didn't mean to—"

Whatever she had intended to say was lost as the ex-spy sat up and pulled her damp form into a tight embrace, kissing her with equal parts passion and desperation. Her hands traveled along his arms and then his taut back, attempting to massage away the tension. He slowly relaxed into his lover as the kiss broke and was renewed again, deepening this time as she opened her mouth to him on a sigh.

Michael reached up, tugging on the terry cloth that hid her hair until the Irishwoman tossed her head to the side, causing the dripping auburn tresses to tumble free and the damp article to hit the carpet with a muffled thud. He released his hold on her shoulders and threaded his fingers through the wet tangles, holding in her place as his lips left hers and traveled to across her flushed cheek and down her neck, nipping and sucking at the sweet spot where her neck and shoulder met.

"Miiiccchhaelllll…." His name became several syllables long as one hand remained firmly in possession of the right side of her throat while the injured one slipped between them and pulled loose the tie that had been holding the short dressing gown closed while his tongue and teeth continued to caress from her ears to collarbone. As the silk parted, his fingers ghosted over her exposed skin, sending shivers through out her body, especially when those strong digits curved around the swell of her breast and his thumb stroked over the center of pliant flesh. Fiona let out a throaty moan as his touch grew more insistent.

The tape on his wrist felt strange across her rib cage as his calloused palm continued to move from one small perfect mound to the other. Then both his hands moved to cradle her jawline as his face rose from her clavicle until he was staring directly into her eyes, bright with a mixture of lust and adoration.

"I need you, Fi," Michel declared, his large paws sliding down her shoulders and then her arms, taking the garment with them, discarding it behind her on the mattress. He scooted over on the double bed, making room for her to lie on her back, his grip on her biceps pulling on Fiona, encouraging that action.

When the redhead was laid out naked before him, a symphony in soft skin and supple limbs shivering in anticipation, he turned on his side next to her still fully clothed, preparing to play along each sensitive spot that he knew oh so well. Like the first night he had made love to her in that ruined and abandoned farmhouse on the road to Derry which had been her childhood home, Michael fully intended to give every part of her the worship it was due. The light from the bathroom was more direct than the light from that ancient stone fireplace of that winter's night long ago, but it still made shadows upon her.

As his hands glided over her frame, leaving goose bumps in their wake, the Irishwoman took hold of his polo shirt, preparing to rend it open. He grasped her wrists and stopped her with a slight shake of his head. Ms. Glenanne stared back, a question furrowing her brow, and he smiled broadly in response.

He loved the feel of her body against his own, no barriers between them, heated flesh upon heated flesh; but sometimes for no reason he could adequately explain to himself the contrast in their relative states of undress was a huge turn on and this was one of those times.

So, his hands and tongue, fingers and lips and sometimes teeth too moved over the woman he cherished, her moans and gasps spurring him on, her own hands carding through his hair, scratching over his scalp and tugging on his garments until finally, his uninjured arm draped across her stomach as his fingers wove their magic between her splayed legs, his teeth and tongue moving from one heaving breast to the other until she was gasping his name again and bucking upwards from the overload.

He covered her with his body then, his hard erection pressing into her stomach and straining against the denim that held it in place. Fiona could stand it no more. She pulled the green apparel out of her way and over his head, scratching his sides with her nails as it was removed from her sight and flung away.

Her questing nimble fingers soon had the hard metal button removed from its place and his manhood freed from his fly. Using her hands and then her feet, the jeans and boxers were pushed down and away until there was nothing between them, nothing stopping him from sliding into the one place he wanted to be more than anything. Michael let slip a guttural groan as she sheathed him fully in her warm moist center. His lover wrapped her lower limbs over his, rubbing her in-steps along the backs of his taut thighs before hooking her heels behind his buttocks and letting him know without a word what was required and the dark haired man happily complied.

He was moving, long, deep satisfying strokes that brought them closer to heaven with each movement. Their eyes locked and she ran her tongue over her lips before parting, her breath now coming in short pants. Michael couldn't resist and he stole the sound as she moaned into his mouth, kissing her hard.

Fiona was trembling as her second orgasm took her over. She threw her head back against the pillows, her jaw going slack. Watching her lost in a sea of bliss had him driving harder, faster until the white out of pleasure he was seeking exploded and sang across every nerve ending in his own quaking frame.

Michael almost collapsed on top of her, their sweat slicked skin still sliding together as he held some of his weight back on his elbows and slowly stilled his movements. His head was spinning from the ecstasy, the exertion and the early blood loss. The sound of their mutual heavy breathing was the only noise in that quiet place of peace they had carved out for themselves. Lying entangled still on the soft mattress, they kissed softly… once… twice… thrice… before Michael withdrew and rolled on his back, taking her with him, tucking the Irishwoman into his side. Contentment conspired with exhaustion and he slept.

When he awoke the next morning to her soft breath whispering across his chest under a thick white quilt in cooled air, he thought for the merest of moments that he was back in their little Irish apartment. Michael turned his head to press a light kiss to her forehead, knowing better than to startle her awake.

But the bed was too comfortable, the duvet too well made and the cell phone trilling on the night stand was the ring tone that signaled Sam Axe wanted a word with him. As much as he might want to spend the day in bed with the woman in his arms, that part of their lives was over and a new reality had come.

As a spy working for a government, you're protected. You may work solo, but you have agreements with other spy agencies. Even when you're surrounded by your enemies, that protects you. When your entire career consists of making enemies, there's no greater danger than being totally cut off alone.

He wasn't totally alone in the literal sense. The warmth that surrounded him and the voice on the phone proved that. But he was exposed. The protection of the people he had served and those who burned him had been lifted and there was nothing Michael Westen hated more than being vulnerable.

"Hey, Mikey, sorry if I woke you up." Sam's laughter was nervous. "Just thought I'd swing by the loft and pick you up in a couple of hours, you know? Go do this thing with Marta in case you needed back-up?"

"Sure, Sam, see you later." Michael put the cell back down and kissed the end of her upturned nose.

"I guess this means no breakfast in bed…" He gave an apologetic smile for the pout forming on her lips. "Do me a favor, Michael? I'm glad you're still alive. So could you try a little harder to keep it that way?"

"I promise to do my best, Fi," he agreed, kissing her forehead and squeezing her tight for a moment.

Because, at the end of the day when you're a burnt spy out in the cold, that's all you really can do.