BN Oneshot: Of Home Across the Dark
Title: Of Home Across the Dark
by Jesterlady
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Michael/Fiona
Summary: It was too easy to pretend in the dark, and by pretend he meant, really be himself and think that his actions were okay and would garner no consequences.
Set pre-canon during the Ireland days.
Disclaimer: Title by Ann Voskamp. I don't own Burn Notice.
Of Home Across the Dark
Later, he blamed it on the dark. The dark with its alluring mysteries and slippery slopes of confidences whispered between bodies tangled and flesh warmed. It was too easy to pretend in the dark, and by pretend he meant, really be himself and think that his actions were okay and would garner no consequences. He meant that carefully crafted cover IDs were nothing and the heavy burden of running toward endless secrets could be set down. The coming of the dawn required him to pick it back up, but lying at night, in the arms of fire and rebellion that encompass Fiona, made it seem so much more realistic that the night would endure. He could endure. They would endure. And he could rest. Finally and forever.
At first the nights brought even more caution from him. After all, he’d had it drilled into his very soul that he could never relax, never let go, never stop, even for a second, or all might be lost. Every second on a mission counted and someone was always watching. So the night meant more concentration and more work and more delving into the lilting voice and roguish ways of Michael McBride-the shade he wore night and day.
And the nights were meant to be spent planning and remain safe, but no plan had ever encountered Fiona and survived intact. Her very essence was designed to disrupt and cause chaos-a beautiful cacophony of heat, noise, lipstick, and standards that daily mocked him with their clarity and light. She was a necessity for the mission, which was the party line, official and worn out on his lips. He didn’t believe it anymore, but he had to keep saying it or crack in twain, and then who would he be?
He’d struggled to maintain professionalism, which meant a cold distance and firm grip on eventual departure. But, gradually, the nights slipped into a sanctuary of passion and peace-the constant contradiction of tired bodies and satiated souls. It was a feeling he’d never encountered on any other mission, using any other cover, with any other mark. And he didn’t understand it, which meant it was frightening and dangerous, so he ignored it as much as possible. Yet, ignoring her was completely impossible. Her flashing eyes and tiny fists were a cord around his soul, helplessly pulling him into her orbit-an orbit that aligned with his mission so he allowed it, but an orbit that trapped him in the dark.
It was his favorite part of the day. No matter the events-a raid or a night out at the pub or a raucous family dinner or a secret meeting, he ended the day the same way: with a little, warm body tucked into his side, a fight over the covers, and hot lips seeking and finding. She was absolutely his in the darkness and that meant he was hers-no matter how much he tried to hold back. More and more, he gave each night. More and more of his identity melded the real and the pretend. Soon, even he couldn’t distinguish where Michael Westen ended and where Michael McBride began. It was a dangerous reality for a spy.
But it was effortless, with her and in the dark. A comforting silence blanketed them, hinting at secrets to be shared and contemplation to be had. He could think clearly then and communicate feelings that normally overwhelmed him. And in the light of day, those secrets were gone and not forgotten, washed clean of regret and held by safe, violent hands. She was his confessional and compelled the truth.
Oh, he kept his main secret. He held on to his loyalties to the agency. But, somehow, those were the less important secrets. They were vital and would surely let loose a volcano of anger should they be revealed, but they weren’t the essence of him. She had the essence and that was enough, he thought. It had to be. It was everything and she should know that. She had to know that. Didn’t it pour out of him like a waterfall? Wasn’t it obvious to the world? Their bed was stained through with his secrets, his soul, his past, and his feelings. In the morning, he could still see his words coating her.
This night was no different, her hands in lazy circles on his chest, legs hooked together, his fingers carding her hair, and sweet smells in the sheets. Their raid had been successful for all he had been so concerned about her. His plan had worked perfectly and the body armor had turned out to be an unnecessary precaution. He wouldn’t change a thing though, especially not her own secrets shared and stories given through simple trust and child memories.
Her words had delved deep into his old phantoms and carved out questions he didn’t know how to answer. The twin violences of their pasts swirled and danced along his neural pathways, but they never fully connected and it was probably obvious why. It still took him the entire night to think it through, to find a clear enough medium of information to deliver a response.
It was not just their fathers that were different; it was their whole worlds. Topsy-turvy, opposite, and mirroring. Her family was her safe place, an oasis in the desert of violence. Her land was steeped in corruption brewed outside, but inside the walls radiated love and safety and protection. Her parents were a haven, the refuge all parents should be. Sorrow, loss, and deep anger dwelt in Fiona, but it was given life by external sources and she had no personal betrayals to resent, except her own senseless guilt.
Not so he. For his escape meant being out of the home. It meant being away from his family. It meant trust was rare and faith non-existent. Refuges were places you created yourself and no one could really be depended on. He was in charge because everyone else had failed. His family had failed.
His dad was a living nightmare, uncertainty and rage directing every action. There was never kindness or protection in the storm of fresh bruises and blood-stained clothes, so much worse than the hurricanes that battered outside. There was nothing good in the tears and pain and emptiness in his soul. Helplessness was not a feeling he could endure. Anger was far better, toward the tormentor and the one who did nothing to stop it and lived in her own world of cigarette smoke and denial. Perhaps she was even the worst parent, the prolonger of the abuse and the enabler of dysfunction.
Yes, those were the differences between him and Fiona.
These weren’t things he spoke of willingly. To those who knew, he refused to absolve the sins of the past, bitterness pouring forth in sarcastic one-liners. But for everyone else, he was a fortress of nothing, a blank and locked slate, ready for the mission and nothing more.
But her presence was now as familiar as breathing and her own vulnerability a bridge between their wounded souls. And so the words, low and halting, stumbled forth into the void of night, void no longer for she was there.
And he told the true stories, the real events, and the only things he altered were the facts that would mar his cover.
And he was exposed and open, stripped in the dark. He waited, silence stretching and magnifying the curious relief and dread. And she pressed into him and she covered his emptiness with her words.
“I see you.”
He didn’t understand what she meant. Yes, the words made sense, despite the canopy of darkness covering them, but could he trust she really saw him? Who he was and the essence of his being? Even he didn’t know that and she was missing vital pieces of information, things she would undoubtedly be furious to know. Yet something in him still felt warmed by the possibility even as panic swelled his throat.
“And who am I?”
“Who you were and who you are is not that different,” she said after the silence had waxed long enough for discomfort. “We are all formed, for better or worse. And while I’d like to tear your father’s tongue out and make him eat it, you are still you and I will always be grateful for that.”
He huffed a laugh at her direct route to bloodshed, but her words shamed the part of him that kept secrets.
“I-I’m not an easy person to really know,” he said, rather pathetically in his opinion.
“Oh, I’m aware,” she said dryly. “But I like a challenge.”
“And if you can’t ever get in?” he ventured the question, not sure what answer he was looking for.
“Then that would be your loss,” she replied, glibly tracing a finger down his sternum. “But I’ve still got some tricks up my sleeve.”
“I’ll bet you do,” he said, a chuckle filling the air from deep in his chest. “You’ve surprised me from day one.”
“It’s all part of my charm,” she replied, her fingers running lower and lower.
He would have taken the out, he would have flipped them over and captured her body with his, letting the intimacies of the night transform to a carnal form. But there was something about the secrets he’d shared that he felt required their full attention. He licked his lips, wondering how to communicate that. Before he could assemble anything resembling sense, she somehow knew, and she said things for him, in the way only she could.
She grabbed his chin and a fierce tone entered her voice.
“If I ever meet your father, we’ll have words,” she promised.
“I’ll look forward to it,” he said, a crack widening in his façade so wide he knew it could never be fixed. “Thank you for listening. It’s not often I can talk like this. So you’d better enjoy it while it lasts. I’ve never told anyone this before.”
“I believe you,” she said softly and resumed her stroking of his chest. “You keep your hurt locked in secrets. Me, I like to scream it to the world.” He snorted. “But just for you, I will take this hurt and hold it safe since I’m the only one.”
“The only one,” he reiterated and part of him wondered exactly which way he meant the words.
She was the only one of so many things, more each hour. And whenever he looked to the future, it meant pain because she wouldn’t be in it. So he had to enjoy this present, had to grasp it tightly with all he had.
“I see you,” she said again, raising her head so her lips mostly grazed his.
Her aim landed halfway on his cheek. He allowed the distraction this time, welcomed it even, because being seen felt too exposed and too much like change and permanence all at once. He couldn’t be her forever, so he had to be her now. He could do that, be a secret version of himself under the cover of night, letting her sink beneath his skin in pleasure, a trove of violence and wonder.
The sheets shifted on her hips and her lips finally found their way. He was alive in the dark-a midnight lover-and that was all the excuse he needed to give in to what could never be in the light of day.
by Jesterlady
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Michael/Fiona
Summary: It was too easy to pretend in the dark, and by pretend he meant, really be himself and think that his actions were okay and would garner no consequences.
Set pre-canon during the Ireland days.
Disclaimer: Title by Ann Voskamp. I don't own Burn Notice.
Of Home Across the Dark
Later, he blamed it on the dark. The dark with its alluring mysteries and slippery slopes of confidences whispered between bodies tangled and flesh warmed. It was too easy to pretend in the dark, and by pretend he meant, really be himself and think that his actions were okay and would garner no consequences. He meant that carefully crafted cover IDs were nothing and the heavy burden of running toward endless secrets could be set down. The coming of the dawn required him to pick it back up, but lying at night, in the arms of fire and rebellion that encompass Fiona, made it seem so much more realistic that the night would endure. He could endure. They would endure. And he could rest. Finally and forever.
At first the nights brought even more caution from him. After all, he’d had it drilled into his very soul that he could never relax, never let go, never stop, even for a second, or all might be lost. Every second on a mission counted and someone was always watching. So the night meant more concentration and more work and more delving into the lilting voice and roguish ways of Michael McBride-the shade he wore night and day.
And the nights were meant to be spent planning and remain safe, but no plan had ever encountered Fiona and survived intact. Her very essence was designed to disrupt and cause chaos-a beautiful cacophony of heat, noise, lipstick, and standards that daily mocked him with their clarity and light. She was a necessity for the mission, which was the party line, official and worn out on his lips. He didn’t believe it anymore, but he had to keep saying it or crack in twain, and then who would he be?
He’d struggled to maintain professionalism, which meant a cold distance and firm grip on eventual departure. But, gradually, the nights slipped into a sanctuary of passion and peace-the constant contradiction of tired bodies and satiated souls. It was a feeling he’d never encountered on any other mission, using any other cover, with any other mark. And he didn’t understand it, which meant it was frightening and dangerous, so he ignored it as much as possible. Yet, ignoring her was completely impossible. Her flashing eyes and tiny fists were a cord around his soul, helplessly pulling him into her orbit-an orbit that aligned with his mission so he allowed it, but an orbit that trapped him in the dark.
It was his favorite part of the day. No matter the events-a raid or a night out at the pub or a raucous family dinner or a secret meeting, he ended the day the same way: with a little, warm body tucked into his side, a fight over the covers, and hot lips seeking and finding. She was absolutely his in the darkness and that meant he was hers-no matter how much he tried to hold back. More and more, he gave each night. More and more of his identity melded the real and the pretend. Soon, even he couldn’t distinguish where Michael Westen ended and where Michael McBride began. It was a dangerous reality for a spy.
But it was effortless, with her and in the dark. A comforting silence blanketed them, hinting at secrets to be shared and contemplation to be had. He could think clearly then and communicate feelings that normally overwhelmed him. And in the light of day, those secrets were gone and not forgotten, washed clean of regret and held by safe, violent hands. She was his confessional and compelled the truth.
Oh, he kept his main secret. He held on to his loyalties to the agency. But, somehow, those were the less important secrets. They were vital and would surely let loose a volcano of anger should they be revealed, but they weren’t the essence of him. She had the essence and that was enough, he thought. It had to be. It was everything and she should know that. She had to know that. Didn’t it pour out of him like a waterfall? Wasn’t it obvious to the world? Their bed was stained through with his secrets, his soul, his past, and his feelings. In the morning, he could still see his words coating her.
This night was no different, her hands in lazy circles on his chest, legs hooked together, his fingers carding her hair, and sweet smells in the sheets. Their raid had been successful for all he had been so concerned about her. His plan had worked perfectly and the body armor had turned out to be an unnecessary precaution. He wouldn’t change a thing though, especially not her own secrets shared and stories given through simple trust and child memories.
Her words had delved deep into his old phantoms and carved out questions he didn’t know how to answer. The twin violences of their pasts swirled and danced along his neural pathways, but they never fully connected and it was probably obvious why. It still took him the entire night to think it through, to find a clear enough medium of information to deliver a response.
It was not just their fathers that were different; it was their whole worlds. Topsy-turvy, opposite, and mirroring. Her family was her safe place, an oasis in the desert of violence. Her land was steeped in corruption brewed outside, but inside the walls radiated love and safety and protection. Her parents were a haven, the refuge all parents should be. Sorrow, loss, and deep anger dwelt in Fiona, but it was given life by external sources and she had no personal betrayals to resent, except her own senseless guilt.
Not so he. For his escape meant being out of the home. It meant being away from his family. It meant trust was rare and faith non-existent. Refuges were places you created yourself and no one could really be depended on. He was in charge because everyone else had failed. His family had failed.
His dad was a living nightmare, uncertainty and rage directing every action. There was never kindness or protection in the storm of fresh bruises and blood-stained clothes, so much worse than the hurricanes that battered outside. There was nothing good in the tears and pain and emptiness in his soul. Helplessness was not a feeling he could endure. Anger was far better, toward the tormentor and the one who did nothing to stop it and lived in her own world of cigarette smoke and denial. Perhaps she was even the worst parent, the prolonger of the abuse and the enabler of dysfunction.
Yes, those were the differences between him and Fiona.
These weren’t things he spoke of willingly. To those who knew, he refused to absolve the sins of the past, bitterness pouring forth in sarcastic one-liners. But for everyone else, he was a fortress of nothing, a blank and locked slate, ready for the mission and nothing more.
But her presence was now as familiar as breathing and her own vulnerability a bridge between their wounded souls. And so the words, low and halting, stumbled forth into the void of night, void no longer for she was there.
And he told the true stories, the real events, and the only things he altered were the facts that would mar his cover.
And he was exposed and open, stripped in the dark. He waited, silence stretching and magnifying the curious relief and dread. And she pressed into him and she covered his emptiness with her words.
“I see you.”
He didn’t understand what she meant. Yes, the words made sense, despite the canopy of darkness covering them, but could he trust she really saw him? Who he was and the essence of his being? Even he didn’t know that and she was missing vital pieces of information, things she would undoubtedly be furious to know. Yet something in him still felt warmed by the possibility even as panic swelled his throat.
“And who am I?”
“Who you were and who you are is not that different,” she said after the silence had waxed long enough for discomfort. “We are all formed, for better or worse. And while I’d like to tear your father’s tongue out and make him eat it, you are still you and I will always be grateful for that.”
He huffed a laugh at her direct route to bloodshed, but her words shamed the part of him that kept secrets.
“I-I’m not an easy person to really know,” he said, rather pathetically in his opinion.
“Oh, I’m aware,” she said dryly. “But I like a challenge.”
“And if you can’t ever get in?” he ventured the question, not sure what answer he was looking for.
“Then that would be your loss,” she replied, glibly tracing a finger down his sternum. “But I’ve still got some tricks up my sleeve.”
“I’ll bet you do,” he said, a chuckle filling the air from deep in his chest. “You’ve surprised me from day one.”
“It’s all part of my charm,” she replied, her fingers running lower and lower.
He would have taken the out, he would have flipped them over and captured her body with his, letting the intimacies of the night transform to a carnal form. But there was something about the secrets he’d shared that he felt required their full attention. He licked his lips, wondering how to communicate that. Before he could assemble anything resembling sense, she somehow knew, and she said things for him, in the way only she could.
She grabbed his chin and a fierce tone entered her voice.
“If I ever meet your father, we’ll have words,” she promised.
“I’ll look forward to it,” he said, a crack widening in his façade so wide he knew it could never be fixed. “Thank you for listening. It’s not often I can talk like this. So you’d better enjoy it while it lasts. I’ve never told anyone this before.”
“I believe you,” she said softly and resumed her stroking of his chest. “You keep your hurt locked in secrets. Me, I like to scream it to the world.” He snorted. “But just for you, I will take this hurt and hold it safe since I’m the only one.”
“The only one,” he reiterated and part of him wondered exactly which way he meant the words.
She was the only one of so many things, more each hour. And whenever he looked to the future, it meant pain because she wouldn’t be in it. So he had to enjoy this present, had to grasp it tightly with all he had.
“I see you,” she said again, raising her head so her lips mostly grazed his.
Her aim landed halfway on his cheek. He allowed the distraction this time, welcomed it even, because being seen felt too exposed and too much like change and permanence all at once. He couldn’t be her forever, so he had to be her now. He could do that, be a secret version of himself under the cover of night, letting her sink beneath his skin in pleasure, a trove of violence and wonder.
The sheets shifted on her hips and her lips finally found their way. He was alive in the dark-a midnight lover-and that was all the excuse he needed to give in to what could never be in the light of day.