Burn Notice fic: The Silver Lining (PG)
Title: The Silver Lining
Fandom: Burn Notice
Pairing: vaguely Michael/Fi
Rating: PG
Spoilers: None
Word count: 1098
Summary: When you're a spy, nightmares are a hazard of the job.
Author's notes: Short, slightly introspective, nothing terribly angsty. I've been struck by the bug to write Burn Notice fic now that the season has started, and I'm happy to go with that!
When you're a spy, nightmares are a hazard of the job. At some point in your career, you will do or see things that will haunt you. Maybe it's the face of the first man you killed, or the eyes of the children whose mother you took from them, or the bodies of the victims of a man you've been sent to do business with. You don't dwell on them at the time, but they stay in your subconscious. If you don't wake up sweating and sick from a nightmare now and again, you're either not doing your job, or there's a word that defines you better than "spy" -- sociopath.
In this business, one of the benefits of not having close family and friends is that you have fewer nightmares than you otherwise might. If, say, you have a mother and a brother back in the states, you'll still have dreams about them being kidnapped, but when you wake up, you're able to remember that they've never even been to Afghanistan. It helps, too, that you haven't seen them in over a decade. You're not likely to have too many nightmares about someone being in danger when you don't think about them more than once every month or two.
Say, though, that you're a spy who's been burned. You're dumped, not just back in the states, but in the very city where you grew up. You see your mother and brother regularly, almost daily. Also in the picture are a good friend and a woman you... used to be involved with. All of that, plus the fact that the danger level you live with hasn't really decreased, mean that your peace of mind is pretty much shot.
I'm not saying I have nightmares every night, or that I'm about to go crawling to a shrink to talk about it. I'm just saying that I've noticed a slight uptick in the number of bad dreams I do have. And that they usually involve the people close to me, rather than strangers.
I didn't really give it a lot of thought until Fiona commented on it. Actually, what she was commenting on was my reaction to them. I'd called her up that morning and suggested we meet for breakfast. She didn't question it on the phone, but she gave me odd looks while we were eating. Finally she leaned back in her chair and said, "What's going on?"
I honestly didn't know what she meant. "Nothing."
My surprised look must not have given her anything, because she frowned and sat forward. "No new job, no lead on the burn notice, no... problem with your mother? Nate?"
I thought about it for a moment and shook my head. "No."
"Then why are we here?"
That seemed obvious to me. "We're eating breakfast."
"Together."
I still was not getting it. "Yes?"
She sighed heavily. "Michael," she started with the air of someone about to explain the obvious, "you called me. You never just call me up and suggest breakfast for no reason. When you and I have breakfast together, it's because I called you, not the other way around. Either that, or you have some particular thing you need from me. It's a fact I've long since come to accept. So. Why are we here?"
I looked at her. I looked at her long enough that she started to squirm. "Michael --" she sighed, and I knew she was going to go the relationship route. I didn't want or need to go there. So I cut her off. With the truth, so help me, because any lie I could come up would have been transparent and the conversation would have just gotten dragged out. So...
"I had a dream last night," I told her. "Where you were caught in an explosion. Of your own making, I might add."
"A fairly likely end for me," she acknowledged, frowning slightly. I nodded noncommittally and her frown deepened. "It bothered you." Her voice was softer.
I shrugged uncomfortably, looking off towards the street. "It was a little... unsettling."
"And breakfast?"
Shrugging again, I glanced back at her. Quietly, I admitted, "I wanted to see you."
Her delight was girlish. "You wanted to make sure I was still in one piece? Michael, that's sweet." She beamed at me.
It's amazing how often conversations with Fi make me wish for an explosion. Or at least the waiter with the check. "Sweet," I repeated, nodding agreeably. "That's me."
"You are. Sometimes." She paused. Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Actually, your mother mentioned that you'd been sweet lately, too. Stopping by some mornings for no apparent reason, even asking about Nate. Not often, she said, but once in a while. Have you been having dreams about them getting blown up, too?"
Blown up, kidnapped, etc. "I don't really want to talk about it, Fi."
She nodded thoughtfully. "I know when we were together -- both times -- you would sometimes wake up rather... perturbed. I usually distracted you from it, as I recall."
Oh yes, she had.
"Are you having nightmares often, now?" She was actually concerned.
I shook my head quickly. "Not often. Once in a while." I shrugged again. "It comes with the job, Fi. It's nothing to worry about."
"Well." She paused a moment, thoughtful. "In that case, I can't say it's a bad thing. I mean, I'm sure the nightmares aren't pleasant, but if they get you to reach out and connect with friends and family?" She pinned me with a look. "That's a good thing, Michael. For everyone involved." While I digested that, she set aside her napkin and stood. "If you'll excuse me, I have an appointment." She came around the table, one hand brushing my shoulder. She smiled down at me. "Thank you for breakfast."
"Fi --"
"I don't plan on getting myself blown up, Michael."
I briefly considered pretending I hadn't been thinking any such thing. Deciding it was useless to try, I gave her a look. "Be careful."
She bent and kissed my cheek. "You are sweet," she murmured.
I'm not sure sweet is something that's good for a spy's reputation. On the other hand, people were saying a lot worse things about me than that, so maybe sweet wasn't such a bad thing. In that spirit, I paid the check and headed to my mom's house. Call it a karma-building exercise. Besides, maybe if I visit her more often, she won't kill me the next time armed federal agents destroy her living room. I live in hope.
Fandom: Burn Notice
Pairing: vaguely Michael/Fi
Rating: PG
Spoilers: None
Word count: 1098
Summary: When you're a spy, nightmares are a hazard of the job.
Author's notes: Short, slightly introspective, nothing terribly angsty. I've been struck by the bug to write Burn Notice fic now that the season has started, and I'm happy to go with that!
When you're a spy, nightmares are a hazard of the job. At some point in your career, you will do or see things that will haunt you. Maybe it's the face of the first man you killed, or the eyes of the children whose mother you took from them, or the bodies of the victims of a man you've been sent to do business with. You don't dwell on them at the time, but they stay in your subconscious. If you don't wake up sweating and sick from a nightmare now and again, you're either not doing your job, or there's a word that defines you better than "spy" -- sociopath.
In this business, one of the benefits of not having close family and friends is that you have fewer nightmares than you otherwise might. If, say, you have a mother and a brother back in the states, you'll still have dreams about them being kidnapped, but when you wake up, you're able to remember that they've never even been to Afghanistan. It helps, too, that you haven't seen them in over a decade. You're not likely to have too many nightmares about someone being in danger when you don't think about them more than once every month or two.
Say, though, that you're a spy who's been burned. You're dumped, not just back in the states, but in the very city where you grew up. You see your mother and brother regularly, almost daily. Also in the picture are a good friend and a woman you... used to be involved with. All of that, plus the fact that the danger level you live with hasn't really decreased, mean that your peace of mind is pretty much shot.
I'm not saying I have nightmares every night, or that I'm about to go crawling to a shrink to talk about it. I'm just saying that I've noticed a slight uptick in the number of bad dreams I do have. And that they usually involve the people close to me, rather than strangers.
I didn't really give it a lot of thought until Fiona commented on it. Actually, what she was commenting on was my reaction to them. I'd called her up that morning and suggested we meet for breakfast. She didn't question it on the phone, but she gave me odd looks while we were eating. Finally she leaned back in her chair and said, "What's going on?"
I honestly didn't know what she meant. "Nothing."
My surprised look must not have given her anything, because she frowned and sat forward. "No new job, no lead on the burn notice, no... problem with your mother? Nate?"
I thought about it for a moment and shook my head. "No."
"Then why are we here?"
That seemed obvious to me. "We're eating breakfast."
"Together."
I still was not getting it. "Yes?"
She sighed heavily. "Michael," she started with the air of someone about to explain the obvious, "you called me. You never just call me up and suggest breakfast for no reason. When you and I have breakfast together, it's because I called you, not the other way around. Either that, or you have some particular thing you need from me. It's a fact I've long since come to accept. So. Why are we here?"
I looked at her. I looked at her long enough that she started to squirm. "Michael --" she sighed, and I knew she was going to go the relationship route. I didn't want or need to go there. So I cut her off. With the truth, so help me, because any lie I could come up would have been transparent and the conversation would have just gotten dragged out. So...
"I had a dream last night," I told her. "Where you were caught in an explosion. Of your own making, I might add."
"A fairly likely end for me," she acknowledged, frowning slightly. I nodded noncommittally and her frown deepened. "It bothered you." Her voice was softer.
I shrugged uncomfortably, looking off towards the street. "It was a little... unsettling."
"And breakfast?"
Shrugging again, I glanced back at her. Quietly, I admitted, "I wanted to see you."
Her delight was girlish. "You wanted to make sure I was still in one piece? Michael, that's sweet." She beamed at me.
It's amazing how often conversations with Fi make me wish for an explosion. Or at least the waiter with the check. "Sweet," I repeated, nodding agreeably. "That's me."
"You are. Sometimes." She paused. Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Actually, your mother mentioned that you'd been sweet lately, too. Stopping by some mornings for no apparent reason, even asking about Nate. Not often, she said, but once in a while. Have you been having dreams about them getting blown up, too?"
Blown up, kidnapped, etc. "I don't really want to talk about it, Fi."
She nodded thoughtfully. "I know when we were together -- both times -- you would sometimes wake up rather... perturbed. I usually distracted you from it, as I recall."
Oh yes, she had.
"Are you having nightmares often, now?" She was actually concerned.
I shook my head quickly. "Not often. Once in a while." I shrugged again. "It comes with the job, Fi. It's nothing to worry about."
"Well." She paused a moment, thoughtful. "In that case, I can't say it's a bad thing. I mean, I'm sure the nightmares aren't pleasant, but if they get you to reach out and connect with friends and family?" She pinned me with a look. "That's a good thing, Michael. For everyone involved." While I digested that, she set aside her napkin and stood. "If you'll excuse me, I have an appointment." She came around the table, one hand brushing my shoulder. She smiled down at me. "Thank you for breakfast."
"Fi --"
"I don't plan on getting myself blown up, Michael."
I briefly considered pretending I hadn't been thinking any such thing. Deciding it was useless to try, I gave her a look. "Be careful."
She bent and kissed my cheek. "You are sweet," she murmured.
I'm not sure sweet is something that's good for a spy's reputation. On the other hand, people were saying a lot worse things about me than that, so maybe sweet wasn't such a bad thing. In that spirit, I paid the check and headed to my mom's house. Call it a karma-building exercise. Besides, maybe if I visit her more often, she won't kill me the next time armed federal agents destroy her living room. I live in hope.