Burn Notice fic: A Man Walks Into A Bar (pg-13)
Title: A Man Walks Into a Bar
Author: sabaceanbabe
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1,221
Characters/Pairings: Michael/Fiona (pre-series)
Spoilers: not really
Summary: Fiona and Michael meet for the very first time.
Author’s note: This is for the supreme enabler, jebbypal, in honor of her birthday, which was last month. Better late than never. Thank you, wizefics, for the beta.
--------------------------------
The way a man walks, the clothes that he wears, the simple fact of him meeting your eyes rather than allowing his glance to slide away, can tell you a lot about who he is and where he’s from. If he’s not afraid to look you in the eye or give you a friendly smile, then he probably didn’t grow up under some military dictatorship or have the bones in his face broken for looking at someone bigger and stronger the wrong way.
Then again, he might just be a covert operative.
In other words, he might be a spy…
***
The man, his silhouette tall and narrow, stood in the doorway of the pub, backlit by weak and watery sunlight. Droplets of water still dripped from the doorway, although the rain had stopped. He stepped boldly over the threshold into the dark common room with confidence, removing sunglasses that surely hadn’t been necessary with the recent rain. It was that confidence that first drew her eye; the man himself was what held it. The suit he wore, an unusual sight in a Belfast pub, didn’t hurt, given how well he wore it.
Fiona leaned back against the bar, her elbows resting on wood worn so old and smooth by countless other elbows, that she was sure it must have felt the touch of Henry McCracken himself, back in the day. She watched the be-suited man as he surveyed the dimly lit room. His gaze passed over her, serious and searching, before coming to rest for a brief moment on a lone man at a table meant for four, his nose stuffed into a newspaper. Apparently not finding what or who he was looking for, the newcomer stepped further into the pub, this time fixing his sight on a well-dressed couple whose hair and clothes and even the plate of bar food before them fair screamed out tourist. He found them lacking as well and Fiona smiled, beginning to come to certain conclusions about this handsome man who moved like a hunter.
He stepped up to the bar, two stools over from where she sat, his position facing the mirror behind the bar. From his vantage, he had a clear reflection of the door as he continued to search faces within that reflection. Maggie, the pub’s owner and oftentimes its only bartender, stepped up to him, drawing most of his attention away from the crowd, but not all.
“What can I get for you, sirrah?” she asked, swiping at the bar in front of him with a damp towel, and he smiled, broadly and full of white, white teeth. Fiona took a pull from her bottle of beer and glanced past Eddie Cromartie with his mechanic’s hands, broken-nailed and dark with grease, who sat between her and the newcomer, holding onto a pint like it was the last one he’d ever have. Her smile broadened as she thought about what Eugenia might have to say to him if she saw him here.
The newcomer studied the bottles behind the bar, his sunny smile fading just a bit as he concentrated on the labels. ‘He’s got to be American,’ Fi thought, ‘and one with some kind of agenda, at that.’ Nodding toward a bottle of Jameson, he said, “I’ll have a whiskey on the rocks.” He turned slightly, facing Eddie and, by extension, Fiona. “And could I have a glass of ice water, too, please?” Maggie nodded and reached under the bar for two glasses.
***
There isn’t a more common sight than a man drinking whiskey in a pub, regardless of whether that pub is in Ireland or England or Hong Kong. Combine that glass of whiskey with a glass of water and ice and only someone looking for it would notice if, more often than not, the water was sipped rather than the whiskey.
***
Fi nodded in approval at his choice. She smiled around the mouth of her beer bottle as she drained it and got up from her seat, setting it definitively on the bar. Neil had banished her from the planning session for being too divisive, right after he’d informed them all that he was meeting some spook at the Green Man later that evening. Her brother hadn’t said that the spook was American, but Fi had a feeling that this was the man, and she was intrigued. Just the thing to alleviate her boredom.
She stretched, raising her arms above her head, and pulled her hair off her neck, then allowed it to fall over her shoulders again. Huddled in on himself over his pint, Eddie ignored her; as well he should after the public tongue lashing his wife had given him for his wandering eye. The American, though, directed his full attention on Fi as she stepped around Eddie and sauntered over to take up the empty seat to his other side.
She looked up at him and crossed her legs, her silky skirt sliding smoothly over calf and ankle, exposing just the right amount of skin. “Buy me a drink?” She raised a brow at the American in challenge and playfully drew a bit of soft hair across her smiling lips.
He turned back to the bar. “I’m sorry. I’m not in the market.” His eyes narrowed as a man and woman walked into the pub, clearly reflected in the mirror.
Fiona threw her head back and laughed, drawing the attention of everyone in the pub, with the exception of Eddie, who merely hunched down even further in an attempt to avoid notice. Maggie set the American’s drinks on the bar in front of him and looked a question at Fi. “You think I’m a…?” Fiona laughed again, gratified to see a bit of red creep up the man’s neck and jaw line. “Jaysus, man, no. I’m just bored.”
He glanced up at the mirror again, tapped his fingers against the glass of water and then looked over at Fi. The flush that had begun to color his skin had already faded. Then he looked over at Maggie, who had taken a couple of steps back from the pair of them and was headed toward the backroom. “Give the bored lady whatever she’d like. It’s on me.” Fiona was sure that he didn’t miss it when Maggie rolled her eyes as she changed her course to take Fiona’s order.
“What’ll y’have, Fi?” She slung the damp cloth over her shoulder.
“A glass of that fine Jameson, please.” Fi crossed her ankles demurely and turned partway toward her new American friend. She was certain, when he took a sip of water instead of the Jameson, that he was Neil’s spook. Not CIA, or anything like that, but something. “I’m Fiona.” She held out her right hand as Maggie slid a glass of whiskey her way and walked off to take care of the couple who had come in a moment before.
The man’s hand was warm, his grip firm. “I’m Michael.” He started to pull his hand free, glancing up at the mirror again, but Fi wouldn’t let go.
He looked back down at her and she cocked her head to one side. “I’m pleased to meet you, Michael.” She heard the pub door open again, but this time, Michael’s eyes didn’t stray from hers.
Author: sabaceanbabe
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1,221
Characters/Pairings: Michael/Fiona (pre-series)
Spoilers: not really
Summary: Fiona and Michael meet for the very first time.
Author’s note: This is for the supreme enabler, jebbypal, in honor of her birthday, which was last month. Better late than never. Thank you, wizefics, for the beta.
--------------------------------
The way a man walks, the clothes that he wears, the simple fact of him meeting your eyes rather than allowing his glance to slide away, can tell you a lot about who he is and where he’s from. If he’s not afraid to look you in the eye or give you a friendly smile, then he probably didn’t grow up under some military dictatorship or have the bones in his face broken for looking at someone bigger and stronger the wrong way.
Then again, he might just be a covert operative.
In other words, he might be a spy…
***
The man, his silhouette tall and narrow, stood in the doorway of the pub, backlit by weak and watery sunlight. Droplets of water still dripped from the doorway, although the rain had stopped. He stepped boldly over the threshold into the dark common room with confidence, removing sunglasses that surely hadn’t been necessary with the recent rain. It was that confidence that first drew her eye; the man himself was what held it. The suit he wore, an unusual sight in a Belfast pub, didn’t hurt, given how well he wore it.
Fiona leaned back against the bar, her elbows resting on wood worn so old and smooth by countless other elbows, that she was sure it must have felt the touch of Henry McCracken himself, back in the day. She watched the be-suited man as he surveyed the dimly lit room. His gaze passed over her, serious and searching, before coming to rest for a brief moment on a lone man at a table meant for four, his nose stuffed into a newspaper. Apparently not finding what or who he was looking for, the newcomer stepped further into the pub, this time fixing his sight on a well-dressed couple whose hair and clothes and even the plate of bar food before them fair screamed out tourist. He found them lacking as well and Fiona smiled, beginning to come to certain conclusions about this handsome man who moved like a hunter.
He stepped up to the bar, two stools over from where she sat, his position facing the mirror behind the bar. From his vantage, he had a clear reflection of the door as he continued to search faces within that reflection. Maggie, the pub’s owner and oftentimes its only bartender, stepped up to him, drawing most of his attention away from the crowd, but not all.
“What can I get for you, sirrah?” she asked, swiping at the bar in front of him with a damp towel, and he smiled, broadly and full of white, white teeth. Fiona took a pull from her bottle of beer and glanced past Eddie Cromartie with his mechanic’s hands, broken-nailed and dark with grease, who sat between her and the newcomer, holding onto a pint like it was the last one he’d ever have. Her smile broadened as she thought about what Eugenia might have to say to him if she saw him here.
The newcomer studied the bottles behind the bar, his sunny smile fading just a bit as he concentrated on the labels. ‘He’s got to be American,’ Fi thought, ‘and one with some kind of agenda, at that.’ Nodding toward a bottle of Jameson, he said, “I’ll have a whiskey on the rocks.” He turned slightly, facing Eddie and, by extension, Fiona. “And could I have a glass of ice water, too, please?” Maggie nodded and reached under the bar for two glasses.
***
There isn’t a more common sight than a man drinking whiskey in a pub, regardless of whether that pub is in Ireland or England or Hong Kong. Combine that glass of whiskey with a glass of water and ice and only someone looking for it would notice if, more often than not, the water was sipped rather than the whiskey.
***
Fi nodded in approval at his choice. She smiled around the mouth of her beer bottle as she drained it and got up from her seat, setting it definitively on the bar. Neil had banished her from the planning session for being too divisive, right after he’d informed them all that he was meeting some spook at the Green Man later that evening. Her brother hadn’t said that the spook was American, but Fi had a feeling that this was the man, and she was intrigued. Just the thing to alleviate her boredom.
She stretched, raising her arms above her head, and pulled her hair off her neck, then allowed it to fall over her shoulders again. Huddled in on himself over his pint, Eddie ignored her; as well he should after the public tongue lashing his wife had given him for his wandering eye. The American, though, directed his full attention on Fi as she stepped around Eddie and sauntered over to take up the empty seat to his other side.
She looked up at him and crossed her legs, her silky skirt sliding smoothly over calf and ankle, exposing just the right amount of skin. “Buy me a drink?” She raised a brow at the American in challenge and playfully drew a bit of soft hair across her smiling lips.
He turned back to the bar. “I’m sorry. I’m not in the market.” His eyes narrowed as a man and woman walked into the pub, clearly reflected in the mirror.
Fiona threw her head back and laughed, drawing the attention of everyone in the pub, with the exception of Eddie, who merely hunched down even further in an attempt to avoid notice. Maggie set the American’s drinks on the bar in front of him and looked a question at Fi. “You think I’m a…?” Fiona laughed again, gratified to see a bit of red creep up the man’s neck and jaw line. “Jaysus, man, no. I’m just bored.”
He glanced up at the mirror again, tapped his fingers against the glass of water and then looked over at Fi. The flush that had begun to color his skin had already faded. Then he looked over at Maggie, who had taken a couple of steps back from the pair of them and was headed toward the backroom. “Give the bored lady whatever she’d like. It’s on me.” Fiona was sure that he didn’t miss it when Maggie rolled her eyes as she changed her course to take Fiona’s order.
“What’ll y’have, Fi?” She slung the damp cloth over her shoulder.
“A glass of that fine Jameson, please.” Fi crossed her ankles demurely and turned partway toward her new American friend. She was certain, when he took a sip of water instead of the Jameson, that he was Neil’s spook. Not CIA, or anything like that, but something. “I’m Fiona.” She held out her right hand as Maggie slid a glass of whiskey her way and walked off to take care of the couple who had come in a moment before.
The man’s hand was warm, his grip firm. “I’m Michael.” He started to pull his hand free, glancing up at the mirror again, but Fi wouldn’t let go.
He looked back down at her and she cocked her head to one side. “I’m pleased to meet you, Michael.” She heard the pub door open again, but this time, Michael’s eyes didn’t stray from hers.