#Sam Axe x Michael Westen

[i-used-to-be-a-spy]

Matt Nix the writer wrote a scene where Michael and Sam kissed just for fun?!!! Guys he's ONE OF US

[forcebookish]

We should go.

[imalifegen89]

To Fix What's Broken One Last Time

A Burn Notice Season 7 Rewrite

Playlist for the fic (The one I used for vibes...)

[burnnoticegifs]

Burn Notice re-watch | 3x04 | Fearless Leader

[polyamships]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Burn Notice Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Sam Axe/Fiona Glenanne/Michael Westen, Sam Axe/Michael Westen, Fiona Glenanne/Michael Westen, Sam Axe/Fiona Glenanne Characters: Sam Axe, Fiona Glenanne, Michael Westen Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Friends to Lovers, Polyamory, Polyfidelity, Humor, Canon-Typical Violence, Banter Summary:

Fiona Glenanne is quite familiar with Michael Westen's nonsense by now. And she always knows when he's hiding something from her.

(A remix of bewize's "Triangulation" from FIona's point of view with a bit of continuation thrown in).

[generalkenobi22]

Fic: as iron sharpens iron - Chapter 2 (Burn Notice) - 9k+ words

SUMMARY: Somewhere along the way, at one point or another, Madeline tells them, “You need to stick together.”

And that, more or less, is what they do.

Nearly a year and a half later, here’s chapter two! I’m blaming a lethal combination of a global pandemic and grad school.

Here’s Part One. Also: both chapters can be found on AO3.

——————

He knows it's coming. Has known since the very beginning.

(You left, Michael. You had a choice to make, and you made it.)

He knows all the reasons they can't be together—has them memorized, front and back, reverse alphabetical order, ascending and descending order of importance. Hell, he could even recite them in English, Russian, and Farsi if asked. He used to mentally run them on a loop all the time, but that's—it's not enough anymore. Because the truth of the matter is that he has wavered on the subject with an alarming amount of frequency over the last year with her here in Miami, further demonstrating—in his mind—that his judgment has become too clouded to be objective anymore.

(I'll always care about you, Michael. I'll still help you with your thing, and you'll still help me with mine, but we can't be together.)

It doesn't change the fact that, no matter how prepared he is, no matter how many times he's been briefed on all the terrible consequences they could incur as a direct result of their...liaison, it's difficult to hear her say it out loud.

It doesn't truly become painful until the sound of her words echoes off the empty walls of the loft, and without so much as a glance back, she walks out the door.

—

"Fi, what do you think of these?"

She turns and takes in the floral print blouse and matching hoop earrings (with little, plastic flamingoes on them) Madeline is holding up. They're hideous.

"They're, uh—" She goes back to scanning the department store for visible security threats. There's a particularly suspicious character seated over by the food court in the adjoining mall. "—they're really something."

She tracks the food court guy until a woman and small child approach him, and the three head off toward the New York & Company at the south end of the mall. Satisfied, she glances back, then does a double-take at the deeply unamused look on Madeline's face.

"What?"

"Fiona," she says dryly, stashing the blouse and earrings onto the circular rack beside them, "I'm not an idiot. I know you're only here because Michael asked you to babysit me."

Fi looks down at her nails and swallows. "Well, I think his exact phrasing was 'protect her'..."

"You say 'tomato,' I say 'condescending eldest son.'"

Fi peruses through the clearance rack, nose wrinkling at all the tacky prints. "Michael's helping Sam protect a client—some ex-convict turned dedicated family man—from some bad men in Little Havana. He just—" She shrugs. "—wanted to keep you safe. He cares about you."

Madeline snorts at that. "Yeah? Well, he's got a funny way of showing it."

Fi somehow manages to keep her thoughts on that particular subject to herself. She comes across the tackiest shirt of all. "What about this one?"

It's a t-shirt with Hot Mama emblazoned across the front. Even by both of their style standards, it's awful.

Madeline doesn't even bat an eye. "Only," she says, pulling a shirt of her own off the rack, "if you agree to get this one."

More subtle, but no less awful, hers reads Trouble. They exchange matching grins as they swap shirts.

"You know, Fiona, honey," Madeline begins uncertainly, avoiding Fi's gaze as she holds up her shirt to make sure it's the right size, "Michael's been mum about this whole break up, but I'm sure it...well, I'm sure it hasn't been easy—"

"We were never together," she automatically corrects, ignoring the way her heart twists painfully at the denial.

Madeline's expression turns suspicious, but she keeps her opinions to herself. "Of course. I just mean, if you can't come to poker games, or come visit as frequently because seeing him is too difficult, I...I understand."

It's such a thoughtful sentiment, and one that fills her with an alarming amount of anguish, that Fi feels the need to correct her immediately. Just the idea that Madeline thinks she doesn't want to be her friend anymore because of her son's emotional incompetence is...is...

"Absolutely not." Her voice squeaks out an octave or two higher than normal, but she plays it off like she doesn't even notice. "That's a preposterous idea, Madeline, and I'll hear none of it. Now, go try that on."

The small smile that Madeline flashes her on the way to the changing room is both grateful and doting in equal measure.

—

Even in Afghanistan, the early morning brings some kind of reprieve from the heat, but Miami is its own kind of animal. Sure, it's marginally less humid, but as Michael's sneakers pound against the dirt running trail and his lungs (heavy and unmistakably saturated with the moisture in the air) swell in his chest, he forgets what an absolute hell hole this place is—an insult, probably, to Hell since it can't possibly be this humid there.

(Home sweet home.)

"Mikey—h-hold up!"

Sam's voice barely registers with him as he presses forward, ignoring each coinciding jolt that shoots up his legs and makes his teeth rattle. He deliberately tunes out the internal voice that reminds him thirteen miles was a hell of a lot easier back in his Army Ranger days, at the age of 23, than it is at the age of 41. Still...Langley never had this view—sun cresting over the ocean, streaks of muted pink and orange stretched across the early morning sky.

(Langley also didn't have frozen bank accounts and deleted job histories, that same internal voice reminds him, which...fair).

They bypass a park bench, which Michael figures is as good a spot as any to take a break, just as he gets a side cramp. Apparently, his own body has a truly wicked sense of humor. He presses his palm to just below his rib cage as he watches Sam collapse onto the other end of the bench, legs sprawled.

"Aw, c'mon, Sam," Michael says to him in between labored breaths. He attempts a smile but winces when he gets another sticker. "Don't tell me you've gone soft in retirement. I thought SEALs were supposed to have better stamina than this."

Sam's own breathing is erratic as his chest rises and falls unevenly. He wipes an arm across his forehead. "Uh, for the record: If we were in water right now, we wouldn't even be having this conversation."

"Why?" Michael looks up from the ground, hands planted on his knees. "Because you would have drowned?"

Sam's responding look says everything a rude, single-fingered gesture could. "Oh-ho! That's real funny, Mike." He lets his head rest on the back of the bench a moment, eyes jammed shut, trying to regain a steady pace of breathing again. "I'll let it slide, though, 'cause I know you're all messed up about this break up with Fiona—"

"We were never together."

"That's just the denial, brother. Veronica says it's the second stage of the grieving process, and—"

Michael lets his head fall, chin to chest, and holds out his hand. "If I buy breakfast, can we please drop this?"

Sam takes his proffered hand and uses the leverage to spring from the bench. "Throw in lunch, and I'll forget I ever met the broad."

Despite himself, Michael grins at that. When they finally make it back to the Charger—drenched and completely exhausted—Sam beats his personal best time by about a second and a half, which he claims—in addition to both meals—is worth at least two drinks of his choosing.

"It's certainly worth at least a drink and a half," Michael ultimately decides, and Sam's responding laughter is contagious.

—

The instructor is too...peppy for this early in the day. At least, that's what Maddie thinks.

All she says, however, cigarette hanging limply from the corner of her mouth is: "I hate her."

Sam rolls his eyes, careful not to lose his grip on the pool noodle she's balancing on as she does half-assed flutter kicks. The other ladies in the aquaerobics class keep covertly (and some not so covertly) shooting them dirty looks. He manages to keep them at bay with a few disarming smiles. Apparently, Sammy's still got charm to spare.

Of course, it probably helps that he's easily the youngest one in attendance, but when your best buddy asks you to keep an eye on his Ma, what can you do?

All he says to her, however, is, "Now, now, Maddie. My shrink from back in the service would say you're projecting."

"Projecting?"

"Mm-hmm. It means you're not really mad at the instructor, you're just upset because—"

"I know what it means, Sam. I'm not an idiot."

"—Fiona and Mike broke up."

"Fiona said they were never together."

Sam snorts. "Yeah, Mike said the same thing."

"Oh, please," she spits out with enough force that her cigarette drops from her mouth into the pool. "They were 'never together' in the same way you date 'age-appropriate women'."

"Hey, now," he bristles, sounding almost hurt.

Maddie doesn't apologize, but her tone doesn't carry the same kind of bite when she adds: "I suppose that's why Michael put you in charge of surveillance this morning? So the two of them don't have to spend more time together?"

He relinquishes the pool noodle to her when the instructor holds her own noodle above her head. Maddie mirrors the movement. "Or, maybe I just like scoping out all the eligible broads in Miami-Dade County who are raking in those sweet social security checks."

She barks a singular, "Ha!" over her shoulders, which of course earns them a few more disgusted looks.

Up front, the instructor begins doing some kind of modified jumping jacks. Her teeth gleam as she smiles widely and says, "Okay, ladies! Let's move with porpoise and try to have some dol-fun with this one!"

The two of them exchange looks. "I hate her," Sam finally decides, frowning.

Maddie turns back around, a self-satisfied smirk on her face. "Now who's projecting?"

—

She could flag down someone at the Cuban café down the block, but—ugh, no. Horrible idea. Untrained civilians would be more trouble than help. The cops? Not unless she wants Michael and Sam to get pinched—and as tempting as the latter may be...There!

Fi makes a hasty approach to the EMT station just down the block. This was supposed to be a two-man job (of which she had no part, thank-you-very-much) until her pedicure was interrupted by a call from Michael, who practically begged her for reinforcements. So even before her gels have a chance to set, she finds herself in Hialeah trying to find a suitable enough commotion to allow Michael and Sam the chance to escape from...well, whatever it is they've got themselves involved with.

He owes me big time, she thinks sourly before hiking her dress up just the tiniest bit and fanning air into her eyes to make them water before she makes her entrance.

"E-Excuse me? Somebody! Can-Can anybody help me?" she cries, really turning up the dramatics—truly, if anyone should be teaching an acting master class, it should be her.

There are a couple of ambulances and a group of EMTs playing cards. Or, at least they were playing cards before they all turn to look at the hysterical woman standing in their station.

One of the men—a genuine look of sincerity and concern on his face—approaches her. "What seems to be the trouble, ma'am?"

"It's my father," she tells him, voice cracking. "He's feeble, and—and the dementia? It's only getting worse. He was supposed to meet me at the jai alai court on seventh, but he never showed." She brings her hand to her mouth as if suddenly overcome with emotion rather than trying not to break at the thought of Sam being described this way. "I think—I think it might be gang-related?!"

The man places a comforting hand on her shoulder, which normally would be a bit forward, but Fi's having trouble getting upset over the whole ordeal—especially when that hand belongs to someone with such a cute face.

A very cute face.

"Don't worry, ma'am," he reassures her earnestly—it's only further endearing, "we'll send someone out to make sure he returns home safely."

He gestures behind him to two of the men playing cards, who immediately stand to attention. With his back turned, Fi quickly shoots out a text to let Michael know the cavalry's on its way. The sound of the ambulance's siren as it turns out of the garage startles her, and just as she slips her mobile back in her hip bag, the man redirects his attention back to her.

"Oh, thank you!" she gushes, making a show of dabbing at her eyes. "Thank you, Mr....?"

"Uh, Campbell. Just—Campbell."

"Thank you, Campbell. I'm—" She hesitates, only slightly, with every intention of offering up a fake name (Millicent, maybe?). But it's like she said: he's very cute. "—I'm Fiona."

Eventually, he asks for her number, blushing and backtracking at her raised eyebrows as he explains they want to make sure they have a point of contact in case Bryce and Jeff (the two guys in the ambulance) find her father.

They never do, obviously. But Fi does receive a text from an unknown number later that night inviting her to stop by the garage any time tomorrow.

...for an update on her father, of course.

(He doesn't actually ask her out until the following week, and by that point, she updates the contact listing in her phone from Cute EMT to Just Campbell).

—

Their question doesn't make sense. Especially because they're at Carlito's, and their brunch order hasn't even arrived yet.

"I like Campbell," Michael says, his smile not really all there. "He's...great."

Sam and Barry exchange glances, as if they somehow know something he doesn't. Michael hates it. He flags down the waitress for another mimosa—maybe two?

The whole thing's an ambush, all things considered.

—

"You said what?" Fi practically shrieks.

A few women on the yoga mats in front of them turn around to glare at the interruption. She offers up a hasty apology.

Sam, who is finally dressed appropriately in a baggy t-shirt and athletic shorts, looks duly chastised. Whether from her outburst or the fact that he can't seem to maintain his balance for boat pose, she's uncertain. "I told her that I've traveled all over the world, seen a lot of women, and that..." He hesitates when he catches her glaring. "...that she's one in a million?"

Fi lets out an exasperated yelp. "How did you possibly make it through SEAL training when you are clearly suffering from such advanced levels of brain damage?" she hisses, careful to keep her volume in check.

Sam falls back against his yoga mat gracelessly as they mimic the instructor's transition into corpse pose. "Hey!"

An older woman on the other side of Sam looks at him, disappointed. "Veronica has every right to be upset," she says. "You tell her she's something special and then can't even honor her with a response when she proposes?"

Sam tries to catch his breath, arms splayed at his side. He glares at her. "Uh, no offense, but you're not exactly a relationship expert here. You've only been with Anthony, what? Two weeks?"

"No, Donna's right," Fi assures him, closing her eyes to hopefully re-establish some form of equilibrium.

Another girl, Natalie—with bangs and a University of Miami t-shirt—chimes in from behind them. "Sam, my guy. It's completely understandable that you would have some reservations, or whatever, given everything that went down with Amanda. But you can't just, like, project all of your emotional baggage onto Veronica. It's not fair to her."

Sam looks between the three of them as they transition into bound angle pose. His hips creak painfully in the process. "Okay, let's assume that some—"

"—all—" Fi corrects.

"—Fine, let's assume all of that is true. What do you guys think I should do?"

"Have you called her since?" Donna wants to know.

Sam looks uncomfortable—and not just because his body hasn't moved like this since before the Soviet Union dissolved. "Well, no, not exactly, but—"

"Sam!"

This time, Fi doesn't bother watching her volume. She stands abruptly, slinging her yoga mat over her shoulder, and grabs Sam by his ear. His protests combined with her antics are enough to disturb the whole class. The instructor scowls at them both.

"Don't worry, we're leaving," she calls out, dragging a sniveling Sam behind her. He barely protests when she informs him they're driving over to Veronica's, so he can explain to her in person why he's an emotionally stunted idiot man child (her words).

—

"Now, you can hit me all you want," Sam growls at him, breathing wild and uneven, "but I'm gonna stand here 'til you get your head back in the game."

All Michael can see is red (although, some of that may be courtesy of Sam, who apparently still packs a hell of a right hook) as his options for saving the sick boy, Jack, vanish right in front of him. To him, it's just tactical reevaluation: Rachel is no longer an option, so the next logical step is Carla, who has the cash they need. But to Sam, it's apparently a breach of conscience.

It's been so long since Michael took his conscience into consideration—seared and mangled beyond repair, as it is. But Sam, apparently, views it not only as something worth saving but as something capable of being saved.

So he retreats, equal parts livid and grateful toward the guy blocking his front door.

A good friend supports you, both tactically and personally, he thinks, but an even better friend knows when to draw the line.

—

"You're lucky I like you so much," Fi says through a barely concealed yawn as they walk into Milam's. "Otherwise, you would never find me up this early on a Sunday."

Campbell smiles and pulls her into his side. "Good thing I'm so convincing then."

She has every intention of keeping up her pouting act and drawing the whole thing out a little while longer, but when she looks up at him and sees how...happy he looks, she finds it difficult to stay annoyed at him. Especially because she finally has the chance to wear the romper she snagged from the outlet mall two weeks ago for a fraction of its original cost.

(Michael would have complained about heading out to Dolphin Mall on a weekend, but Campbell was more than game. He even offered to drive—)

She cuts off that thought and instead focuses on how warm his fingers feel through the thin material of her romper. "And charming," she adds without really meaning to, but as soon as she sees his smile widen, she's glad she does. "However, I believe there were promises made regarding a homemade breakfast of some kind?"

She wiggles out of his grasp to pull a hastily made grocery list out of her pocket (half-off and pockets? Be still, her heart!). She hesitates a moment when she sees two of the cashiers looking intently in their direction (it's always the same girls who stare at her every time she's in here). They go back to busying themselves with the registers as soon as they see her looking their way.

"An egg white omelet with spinach?" Campbell suggests, then after a moment of doubt, he adds, "Right?"

It's adorable—as is everything he does. She nods in reassurance, and his shoulders sink in relief.

"Now," she says, redirecting the conversation to the task at hand, "produce is on the other side of the store, but the eggs are lumped in with poultry here, so if we hit up this side first, then make a straight shot through to—"

Campbell releases her and instead clasps one of her hands in his. "We have nowhere else to be today. Why don't we go up and down the aisles and pick up anything else we might need?"

She hesitates. Tactically, his plan is an absolute disaster—why would you divert from the objective for non-essential food items? But, a small voice reminds her, not everyone is as tactically minded as him.

Campbell frowns as her smile presumably falters, but she shakes her head like an Etch-A-Sketch and hooks her arm in his. She makes a big show of sighing and rolling her eyes as she relents. "Fine, but you owe me a yogurt now."

He plants a kiss on her head. "Blueberry, right?"

She spends the rest of the day pointedly ignoring the voice that won't stop reminding her he's not Michael.

—

Crouched behind their registers, Olivia turns to Maricruz. "Oh, my God—that's the supermodel wife slash girlfriend!"

"The one with the yogurt guy?"

She nods. "Yeah, but that's definitely not him."

Covertly, the two peer over their registers to get a better look. Not long after, Supermodel Wife Slash Girlfriend looks in their direction, and they quickly disappear again.

"Uh, excuse me, but who the heck is generically handsome white dude?" Maricruz demands, sounding almost offended.

Olivia's shoulders sink. "Do you think she's cheating on him? Poor yogurt guy."

"I mean, it could be her brother?"

"Yeah, right. He had his arm wrapped around her waist. That's, like, Boyfriend 101."

Maricruz puts her foot down. Metaphorically. "No. No way. I—"

"Excuse me." An elderly woman peers over Maricruz's conveyor belt, her mouth pressed into a hard line. "Could I please get some assistance?"

The two girls pop up from their crouched positions and brush themselves off. Maricruz offers the woman a conciliatory smile. "So sorry, ma'am. I'm happy to help you out."

After Maricruz rings up her order—a tube of Sensodyne and a bag of Werther's Originals—the elderly woman walks off in a huff. They both wave after her, wide smiles plastered on with professional ease, until Maricruz turns back to Olivia.

"No, look. I have a cousin who runs a kind of sketch auto body shop in Little Haiti, and he says yogurt guy was in just last week buying a new windshield, and supermodel wife slash girlfriend was with him."

Olivia looks somewhat impressed. "You looped your cousin into this?"

"...Yes. I'm not proud of it," Maricruz laments. "According to Diego, yogurt guy is in there a lot, always showing up with his car busted up. One time, Diego swears he saw bullet holes on the side, hand to God."

Olivia takes this in with some difficulty. "But he...he owns so many polo shirts! I just—what does that guy do?"

Maricruz crosses her fingers, nodding in Supermodel Wife Slash Girlfriend's direction. "Hopefully, not her. My money is still on super hot sister."

—

"Now, did Shawn deliver, or did he deliver?"

Michael turns just in time to see the giddy smile stretch across Sam's face as he makes his return to their seats, his arms delicately balancing chili cheese fries and plastic cups of beer. Before Sam can reclaim his seat between them, Fi makes a grab for the fries, while Michael takes one of the proffered beers. When Sam settles in, he tries to snag one of Fi's fries, but she slaps his hand away.

"Fifty-yard line, third row back," Michael recalls, unable to help the grin from spreading on his own face. "I've gotta admit—these seats are real nice, Sam."

Of the three of them, he's the only one in an orange polo shirt. The other two are decked out, head to toe, in Dolphins' colors—including jerseys (Sam, of course, in an old Marino one) and in Fi's case, an orange bandana. She even has eye black under each eye.

"Nice?" Sam demands with a hearty laugh. "Mikey, these seats are more than nice. They're phenomenal. I can practically see the whites of Ricky Williams' eyes!"

Fi sighs dramatically. "Get back to me when we're talking about real football," she says, popping a fry into her mouth.

"Real football?" Sam gestures toward the whole field. "This is as real and American as apple pie, lady."

She rolls her eyes. "Michael, can you please inform Sam that I am not an American?"

"Mikey, can you please inform Fiona that I didn't serve in the Navy for over a decade to listen to the good name of American football be besmirched?"

"Kids, kids," Michael says dryly. "Let's try not to kill each other before half time even begins."

Arms crossed, Sam and Fi glare at each other. "Fine," they spit out simultaneously.

Michael smiles from behind his sunglasses as an announcement filters in through the speaker system that they're clearing the field to honor a group of local World War II veterans. Sam springs up from his chair just as a steady stream of other people migrate toward the restrooms and concession stands.

"Those beers shot right through me," he informs them just as Fi makes a point of dramatically shuddering. "I'm gonna try to beat the lines."

As soon as he leaves, Michael is acutely aware that he and Fi are alone together for the first time since...well, a while. Without Sam as a buffer between them, she seems much closer than before. Which is...inconvenient because she said they can't be together, and she's still—well, the whole thing is still—a lot.

And...maybe she called Campbell before the start of the game, and Michael realized he hadn't been able to make her smile or laugh like that in a long time.

"I never got a chance to thank you, Michael."

He looks up at the sound of Fi's voice, but when he turns to her, she has her feet propped up on the seat below her, gaze straight ahead. He copies her stance, settles into the cheap plastic seat. "Thank me for what?"

"For taking this job and putting Felix away for good. He was a monster. Corey and Tanya deserved more than living their lives in constant fear."

Michael has a brief flash to his father, but he reflexively pushes that back. Instead, he watches as a group of elderly veterans make their way onto the field. "Well, you said you felt strongly about it."

"I did," she says, then quickly corrects, "I do. Tanya is just a kid, and when I—"

Abruptly, she cuts herself off, and it takes everything in him to keep his gaze straightforward. Fi could never stomach his pity, and he has a feeling now would be no different. There's something there, but he won't press her. Instead, he tries a different tactic. "You did good work, Fi. They were lucky to have someone who lets her emotions run the show on their side."

He feels eyes on him, and instinctually, when he turns to look at her, she's looking right back, an appreciative smile on her face. He looks away just as she makes the decision to climb over and into the seat next to him. She plucks a fry from Sam's abandoned pile and settles in before saying, "Sam will simply lose it when I tell him I submitted his name as one of these elderly veterans."

It's enough for both of them to share matching grins and clink plastic cups as the concept of colleagues who are just friends seems more attenable.

(In the spirit of colleagues who are just friends, he may need to tell Sam to stop calling Campbell "Soup" behind his back.)

—

Even from his spot behind the police line, Michael can feel the stifling heat blazing from the explosion site. He's not actually breathing in any of the smoke or the smell of charred plastic, but he may as well be, the way his chest constricts, the way bile comes up and burns his throat on its way back down.

He spends the next few hours scouring what seems like every freeway, every back road, and every alley that make up Miami-Dade County looking for her. He mentally compiles every safehouse, every evacuation measure, every weapons stockpile she has littered throughout the city. All the while he tries calling her ("This is Fi. Leave a message.") again ("This is Fi. Leave a message.") and again ("This is Fi. Leave a message.") and again ("This is Fi. Leave a message."). It's only when the rain turns into a torrential downpour, reducing his visibility to practically nonexistent, that he's forced to make the retreat back to the loft. The click that accompanies the closed door carries with it a finality that Michael refuses to—can't—accept.

But then her voice somehow filtrates through his waning adrenaline and utter exhaustion ("You have got to get a landline in here."), and suddenly, he can't focus on anything other than remembering how to breathe.

There's no Campbell, there's no job, there's no sleazy, retired ex-SEAL making not-so-subtle comments, or a well-meaning-but-intrusive mother demanding to know how he ever let a girl like her go—

There's just them.

And suddenly his chest constricts, and he's drowning for another reason entirely when she sinks into his embrace—warm, and solid, and alive.

—

Sam keeps asking, keeps pressing, keeps...being Sam about the whole thing, but she is quite adamant on the subject.

She doesn't want to talk about it.

"Are you sure?" he tries again, breathing heavy. They're outside the loft, where the Charger usually is, sparring (Michael's off with—other Sam). She can't recall who had the idea first, but she's dismayed it took this long to figure out that hitting Sam is...well, it's phenomenally cathartic.

"Because it seems like—" He ducks, narrowly avoiding being kicked in the head. When he comes back up again, he fixes her with an indignant glare. "—it kind of seems like you might wanna talk about it."

"There's nothin' to talk about." Fi's next punch lands squarely on the beat-up couch cushion he's using as a strike shield. If her native accent slips through the haze of her own outrage, then so be it.

"Nothing at all?" This time her foot connects with the cushion, but he holds his ground. For an octogenarian (she assumes, anyway), he's still surprisingly spry. "You're telling me," he continues, as she blocks his counter, "that you have absolutely nothing to say about the fact that Mike—our Mike—was once engaged?"

Fi lets out an enraged shriek before she lands a roundhouse kick that makes Sam lose his footing and stagger backward. While he recovers, Fi paces—hands on her hips, breathing erratic, head and chest pounding in tandem.

"Of course, I do!" she cries, coming to an abrupt halt. "Do you know what he said to me? What he told me that first night we were in Miami?" When Sam shakes his head, she tells him: "He said—" She swallows past the lump in her throat with some difficulty. "—He said I was the 'closest he ever got.' And then this—this Sam woman just shows up, out of the blue, and she's just like him—"

Sam stands fully and looks at her with not quite empathy—he's not nearly evolved enough to pull that one off if she's being honest (and she almost always is)—but with pity. It's positively grotesque.

"Fi..." he trails off, his expression totally lost.

She can't tell if it's said out of genuine concern, or out of embarrassment by her outrageous emotional display, and he's just too much of a gentleman to address it forthright—but either way, she decides, she has spent far too much time wallowing to be of much use to anyone. (The fact that she just compared Sam to a gentleman is merely further evidence of her fraught emotional state, as far as she's concerned).

"Sam, I'm fine." She wipes her hair out of her eyes and brings her fists back up to fighting stance. "Like I said," she reminds him, "I don't want to talk about it."

Sam takes a moment to determine if she really is fine, but she doesn't budge. Satisfied, he clears his throat and holds the couch cushion back up. "Fine by me, sister. But this time," he advises her with an annoyingly smug smirk, "try leaning your whole body into it. Your last kick was pretty weak."

Later, after Fi leaves and Sam drives over to the clinic in Coconut Grove to tell his medical buddy about the whole ordeal, Sam's buddy takes one look at his x-rays and tells him he has three cracked ribs.

—

I left her because you don't marry someone when you love somebody else.

Madeline can't see Fiona's expression from her place in Michael's bed (pretending to be asleep limits her line of sight), but she can't help the small smile that blooms on her own face at her son's admission.

She hasn't known Fi long, but she has come to think of her as...family. Like the daughter she never had (the one she miscarried all those years ago). Sometimes she thinks about it—about what would happen if her fool son would start prioritizing the people he cared about over his job and what that would look like. How he would finally decide whether Fiona was officially his girlfriend or not, and how she would finally have the big family get-togethers during the holidays with all of them (her sons, and Fiona and Sam) like she always wanted, and maybe—eventually, somewhere down the line—how she might even get grandchildren out of the deal. She snuggles down into Michael's god-awful mattress, hopeful.

Her son certainly picked the right girl, but so help her, if he thinks Fiona—coming from an Irish Catholic family like that—would ever be caught dead proposing instead of him, then he clearly inherited all of his common sense from Frank, who was—at his best—a complete idiot.

[holylulusworld]

Burn Notice (5) - Back or gone

Title: Burn Notice (5) - Back or gone

Summary: You finally settled for a life without the man you once loved. You made the plan without a certain man.

Pairing: Nick Fowler x fem!Reader (former CIA!Agent)

Characters: Sam Axe, Jesse Porter, Fiona Glenanne, Michael Westen, Mason Brown, unnamed agents

Warnings: angst, language, toxic relationship, mentions of cheating, angry reader, betrayal, violence, characters death (multiple)

A/N: Inspired by the TV series “Burn Notice” with Jeffrey Donovan as Michael Westen.

A/N2: For everyone not knowing the show burn notice, Chuck Finley is one of Sam Axe’s aliases. Fiona, Jesse and Michael Westen are characters from the show too.

Burn Notice masterlist

<< Part 4

Divider by @firefly-graphics

“I want it all back. My job. My money. My life. If you give me that, I’ll give you something better than a scapegoat. We can keep Y/N out of this. I got what you always wanted,” you flatten against a tree to listen to Nick talk to someone over the phone. “The plan went well, Mace.”

Your stomach tightens and you clutch one hand over your mouth to not choke out a sob. Here you were, believing Nick is hiding something from you to protect you, not to rat you out.

When you first met Nick appeared to be one of the most caring men you ever met. He was a talented agent and a charming friend to you. Things turned from soft and innocent to hot and heated as you started a secret relationship.

However, he showed his true self when he fucked the recruit, Mason Brown. Or how she likes to call herself. Mace the ace.

“We don’t need to blame her for being the mole. We can use him now,” Nick continues. “I know she called someone for help. You can bet your life on it whom she called, Mace.”

You hold your breath and try to focus on the conversation, not your aching heart. Nick wanted to blame you. He destroyed your life and everything you built over the last years to get his fucking job back.

“Mace, this is not negotiable. I want my job back. No retiring for Nick Fowler. Tell them I had to go undercover to reveal the traitor. Just make it happen,” he gives Mace your coordinates and yells into the phone as you silently listen. “I got to go back. I don’t want Y/N to get suspicious. She’s out for a while but her mind and instinct are still sharp.”

It takes anything in you to not attack Nick right here and now. You can’t reveal yourself or get caught. He just ratted you, and your friends out.

If you want to save them and yourself, you need to outsmart your former lover.

While Nick barks into his phone, you sneak back toward the cabin, thinking of a plan to trick both, Nick, and Mace you must come up with a hell of a plan, or you are all done for…

“Odd,” Sam frowns as he reads your latest message. “We agreed on radio silence and now Y/N is sending me a message. FUCK!”

“What the fuck!” Jesse exclaims loudly as Sam hits the brakes with full force. They are not an hour away from your position and now, Sam kills the engine. “What is it, old man? Do you need to pee again?”

“We’ve got no time to waste Sam,” Michael turns his attention toward the phone in Sam’s hands. “Y/N needs our help. If we are right, Fowler is a dangerous man ready to sacrifice her to get his life back.”

“Sound familiar to me,” the only woman in the car smirks at Michael. “What?” She coos as Michael frowns at her words. “You would’ve burned the world to get rid of that burn notice in the beginning.”

“I wouldn’t have sacrificed my friends for it.”

“Can you all just shut up?” Sam grumbles. “Y/N just sent me a smoke signal. She wants us to abort the mission and hide. It’s a trap, Michael.”

“What did she write?” snatching the phone out of Sam’s hands Fiona furrows her brows. “Can you bring me a pizza with pineapple? Followed by an exclamation mark, an e, and an a? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Pineapple means to abort the mission,” Sam explains. “She hates pineapple on a pizza. The exclamation mark means drop everything and run. The dot at the end followed by an e looks like a typo, but it means whoever is with her, is a danger to us and her. And finally, the ‘a means it’s a trap.”

“I don’t give a shit if it’s a trap. We can’t leave Y/N on her own. If anyone wants out, this is your last chance,” Michael looks around the car, nodding as everyone stays in the car. “Well, then. We will attack according to plan.”

“Babe, the car is well-hidden. Y/N?” Nick calls for you. He panics as you are nowhere to be found in the cabin. “Fuck, did she run?” Walking back out of the cabin Nick looks around the area. “Babe?”

He follows your footsteps down a path leading away from the cabin and toward a small lake. “Y/N?”

“I’m here,” you emerge from the water to wave at Nick. He doesn’t need to know that you jumped into the lake with your clothes on to hide that you were spying on him. “I wanted to cool off. Do you want to join me?”

Nick glances at the clothes you dropped on the ground. You grabbed pants and a shirt to pretend you stripped your clothes off before jumping into the lake.

“Nah, it’s a little cold, babe. How about you come out and we go back to the cabin?”

“Just a little longer, baby,” bile rises in your throat as you force a sweet smile on your lips. “How about you make us some tea and I swim a little longer? I’ll be right back, Nick.”

“Don’t take too long, babe,” he flashes you a smile before he turns around to make his way back toward the cabin. Nick releases a shuddery breath as you didn’t run. You only wanted to go for a swim.

“I won’t, you cold-hearted bastard,” your features harden, and you ball your hands into fists. “How can the man I fell in love with turn into a heartless monster.” You dive back down to wash away the tears running down your cheeks.

When you emerge from the water you are back to your new self. The one giving a shit on Nick Fowler and your past. You are the woman you became after he broke your heart.

Watching the path for a moment you take deep breaths before you slowly get out of the water to strip your wet clothes off and hide them behind a bush. You put the dry clothes you brought with you on and hide your knife in your boot and the gun in the waistband of your jeans.

“Let’s play a new game, Nick Fowler,” you grit your teeth. “It’s called Y/N gets her revenge and kicks your ass. Killing Mace will be a bonus…”

Whatever you felt for Nick is long gone when you step back inside the cabin. You are ready to kill your former lover and his partners in crime if you must. He won’t get away with ruining your life. Not again.

“I’m back,” you make Nick flinch. He hides something behind his back, and you know it must be the burner phone you placed on the coffee table for him to find. “Did you brew some tea?”

“Shit, I forgot about the tea, babe,” he flashes you another faked smile, hoping you didn’t realize he checked on your phone. “The friend you called, will he come here?”

“Chuck will be here in three days,” Nick frowns as you do not mention the name he wanted to hear. “He’s the only one I could call. Chuck is an old friend of mine. He doesn’t know anything about my time at the CIA, though. Let’s keep it that way.”

“Chuck?”

“Charles Finley,” you smirk as Nick combs through his brain to find out if he heard the name before. “He prefers Chuck.”

“Do you think it’s smart to involve a civilian?”

“Chuck is capable of handling a tough situation. Believe me,” watching Nick clench his jaw you hold back a chuckle. “Nick, we can’t risk involving anyone related to the CIA. It’s too dangerous. You just got a burn notice. Anyone working for our former employer could rat us out.”

“If you say so,” Nick huffs, frustration plastered all over his face. “I’ll make us some tea. We should sit and wait then…”

“One team,” Sam informs Michael, Jess, and Fiona. Fiona presses one hand to her earpiece, frowning as she can barely hear Sam. “Mason Brown is the leader. I see five more. Be careful. There could be more.”

“Acknowledged,” Michael replies. “Fie, Jesse, to the left. Sam, you will be our eyes. I’ll be the only one going down to the cabin. If this goes sideways, I want you to get Y/N out there.”

“Mike, that’s the worst plan we ever had,” Sam complains.

“Sam, can you repeat that? I didn’t get that,” huffing Fiona flattens behind a tree as Jesse points toward Michael who makes his way toward the cabin. “Michael, wait for us.”

“Fiona, can you shut up for a moment? Mike wants you to provide backup. Let me just keep an eye on the bad guys,” while Fiona gives Sam the finger, the man himself tries to keep track of the enemies. “Two to your left, Fiona. Jesse, three more to your right. We will keep it low for now.”

“I’m on it,” Jesse looks at Fiona. “Fiona, how about we prepare something nice for them? Any ideas?”

“I didn’t bring a bag full of goodies for no reason…”

“Tea?” Nick gives you a lopsided grin as you glance out of the window. “Or do you want a drink? Maybe some whiskey or vodka? I found the good stuff in the kitchen. Hidden behind the sink.”

“Can I ask you a question?” he steps closer to you to run his fingers over your neck up to your chin.

“Of course, babe,” you wonder how he can look at you the way he does and feel nothing. Nick is a damn good pretender, maybe the best you ever met. “Do you want to have a drink now?”

“Did you plan on sacrificing me from the beginning or after Mace burned my house down,” he swallows thickly as you press your gun to his crotch. He pales as you unlock the gun and do not even bat an eyelash. “Spill it, Nick.”

“In the beginning, I needed a place to hide,” Nick splutters as you press the gun harder into his crotch. “I got a call from Mace on your landline. She wanted to meet up with me. Mace said I can have my job and life back if I…”

“Give her someone better? Like me?”

“Yeah,” he licks his lips. “I would’ve never hurt you. You must believe me, Y/N.”

“You only wanted me to end up in a cell somewhere in the middle of nowhere,” you sarcastically say. “Tell me, how far would you go to get your job back.”

“I already went too far…”

“Did you burn my house down? Huh? Did you kill my fucking cat?” he drops his gaze and nods. “Wow, you’re a heartless bastard who is willing to betray anyone in order to serve your own self-interest. I can’t believe I ever loved you.”

“Just give me him, Y/N. Mace only wants to bring your friend down,” Nick tries to convince you to save your life and sacrifice your friend.

“Chuck doesn’t have anything to do with the CIA,” you keep a straight face, not giving away that you know exactly what Nick wants from you.

“You know I’m not talking about Chuck Finley,” he tries to cup your face but the gun pressed to his cock changes his mind. Nick drops his hands to his sides, sighing as you get handcuffs out of your pocket with your free hand.

“Put the handcuffs around your right hand and restrain yourself to the bedpost.”

“You can’t be serious, Y/N.”

“Your choice. Handcuffs or a bullet to your brain right now,” you coldly reply. “Chose wisely, Nick. I’m not going to shelter your life. Not after what you did to me this time.”

“Fine, the handcuffs then,” he takes the handcuffs out of your hands and walks toward the bed. “I would’ve never let her hurt you.”

“Sure.”

“It’s the truth, baby,” Nick restraints his right wrist to the bedpost, keeping an eye on you as you walk toward the bed. “Please let’s just get out of here. We can still…”

He doesn’t expect you to backhand him with the gun. “That’s all you will get from me, Nick,” he huffs while blood runs down his cheek. “One more word and I’ll cut your tongue out. Move on the bed, left hand where I can see it.”

“What’s your plan,” he asks as you get another pair of handcuffs out of your bag. “Uh-did you plan on doing naughty things with me?” He smirks as you restrain his left hand to the bedpost. “We still can go for a ride.”

“In your dreams…”

“I can see one of our targets,” Mace informs her team. “Y/N Y/L/N is outside of the cabin. Be careful. We need Nick Fowler alive. He’s our undercover agent. Keep an eye out for our main target.”

You feel Mace’s presence behind you before you hear her unlock her gun. “I thought it would be harder to get you,” she huffs as you don’t even turn around. “The infamous Y/N, star of Nick’s wet dreams and the name he screamed when he came inside of me.”

“Hello Mace,” you look into the distance, smiling to yourself as she tells her team to fall behind. She underestimates you, just like most of the people you worked with. “What took you so long? Did Nick take his sweet time to tell you where to find me?”

“Is he still alive?” she asks, voice laced with concern. You almost believe Mace likes your former lover as she steps closer to you. “Or did you kill him?”

“Not yet,” you ignore Mace presses her gun into your back. “What now? Do you want to kill me or hand me over to your bosses?”

“I can’t let you live,” she replies, without any emotion. “We will tell a nice story about you going rampart with your friend. I had to put you down while Nick took care of our main target.”

“So, this is it? You will shoot me in the back? What a brave woman you became Mason Brown. How will you explain that you shot me in the back? This is not what I call self-defense.”

“Turn around,” Mace pokes your back with her gun. “One false step and you will suffer more than needed. I’ll make it quick if you tell me where he is.”

You slowly turn around and take three steps to the left. “Ready if you are,” you look her straight in the eyes as she aims her gun toward your forehead. “I would rethink your plan. You can still drop the gun, Mace. Nick dragged you into his shit, just like me.”

“I tricked him to get him to go to you. You’re just collateral damage,” smirking darkly Mace looks you up and down. “I never understood what Nick saw in you. But you are useful after all. Now, tell me where Michael Westen is, and we can make this quick.”

“Right behind you, sweet cheeks,” you smirk.

“Fine. I’ll find him without your help.”

“Oh, you want to kill me?” you chuckle darkly. “Did you ever hear of the spot where the brain stem meets the spine.” You point at your forehead. “I don’t think you will be able to pull the trigger.”

“Do you think I’m stupid or weak? Well, you are terribly wrong,” Mace wants to pull the trigger; wants to end your life but just like you said, she’s not able to do so. She drops dead to the ground, blood seeping out of the bullet hole in her forehead.

“Good job, Sam. Thank you for having my back.”

“Good thing I hid that nice earpiece for you, darling,” Sam chuckles. “Let’s take care of the rest now…”

“Y/N,” Michael hurriedly makes his way toward you to drag you behind the cabin. All hell breaks lose after the team heard the gunshot. “Sam, can you see them?”

“I’m on it,” Fiona coos. “Just a min-“ an explosion makes you shriek as your ears ring and Michael presses you into the wall to shield you with his body. “Three down, two left.”

“Gotcha,” you can hear Jesse and Sam yell orders at each other while Michael refuses to let go of you. “Another one down.”

“One left,” panting heavily Fiona calls for backup. “He’s running toward your position Sam. Watch out.”

“Not on my watch,” Sam fires his last bullet, hitting the last man standing right in the chest. “Shit, I only slowed him down.”

“I got him,” Jesse runs toward Sam’s position, gun aim to bring the last enemy down. “End of story for you.”

“I told you to stay away,” you take deep breaths as Michael walks next to you into the cabin. “Why did you come?”

“You saved me more than once,” he casually says, not wanting to admit he was worried about you. “I owe you more than my life.”

“What will we do with him now?” you look at Nick restrained to your bedpost, one of your panties stuffed into his mouth. “He knows you are back. We can’t let him go.”

“He still got this burn notice, doesn’t he?” Michael cocks his head to look Nick up and down. “How about we make a call?”

“I don’t know,” you look at the gun in your hand. “What if he…”

“Y/N,” Michael takes you to the side. “I know you hate that man, and that he ruined your life for a second time. But believe me, you don’t want to kill him.”

You look Michael straight in the eyes and search his face as he tries to convince you to come with him and leave Nick behind. “Let’s make that call then…”

Four hours later you are on your way toward an unknown future while Nick sits in the back of a car, handcuffed, and left behind by the only person who could’ve saved him.

He smirks darkly as the agents keep on asking questions he won’t answer. He squeezes the paperclip he’s hiding in the palm of his hand, waiting for his chance.

“You will tell us all, Fowler. Every single sin you committed,” one of the agents turns around to look at Nick in the back of the SUV. “And we start with the disappearance of former CIA agent Y/L/N and the death of Mason Brown and the tag team.”

“One way,” Nick starts to sing as the agent frowns deeply. “or another,” his features darken before he kicks the first agent in the face. The car starts to skid when Nick uses the momentum to open the handcuffs.

“What are you doing?” Nick is fast to get his hands on the last agent in the car. “Nooo!“

One way, or another, I'm gonna find ya

I'm gonna get ya, get ya, get ya, get ya

One way, or another, I'm gonna win ya

I'm gonna get ya, get ya, get ya, get ya...

- The End? -

Tags in reblog.

[i-used-to-be-a-spy]

If they didn't want us to ship them then why did they write Sam taking Michael's food and Michael giving Sam his food like that's a common couples thing

Michael shoving his plate closer to Sam to signal his permission for Sam to finish his leftovers 🥺

[forcebookish]

I'm just saying, you may not be the expert on this whole boy-girl thing.

Burn Notice: The Fall of Sam Axe (2011)

[burnnoticegifs]

Burn Notice re-watch | 3x05 | Signals and Codes

[polyamships]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Burn Notice Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Sam Axe/Fiona Glenanne/Michael Westen Summary:

An undercover job doesn't quite go as planned.

[spiffysixxsense]

20 questions tag

Tagged by: @x-i-a-t Name: Gina Nickname: I don't really have one. Ariel has called me a mermaid or a fairy 😂 Zodiac Sign: Taurus Height: 5'7" Sexual Orientation: Hetero Ethnicity: Caucasian Fave Fruit: Strawberries Fave Season: Autumn Fave Book Series: I don't really have one, so I'll tell you what I'm reading now - Indefensible by Lee Goodman Fave Flower: Lilles Fave Scent: really anything floral from bath and body works, Honeysuckle comes to mind Fave Color: dark blue green/dark teal type of color Coffee, Tea, or Cocoa: Tea Average Sleep Time: 4-5 hours Cat or dog person: Catsss🐱🐱 Fave Fictional Characters: Aaron Hotchner, Spencer Reid, Derek Morgan, JJ, Penelope Garcia, & David Rossi from Criminal Minds (yes that's most of the team, whatever) John Reese & Harold Finch from Person of Interest Michael Westen, Fiona Glenanne and Sam Axe from Burn Notice Number Of Blankets You Sleep In: 3 Dream Trip: I am quite the home body, but Italy does sound cool. France or Germany too. Blog Created: October 2015 (maybe?) Number Of Followers: 298 If you get this maybe tag 20 followers Your choice: @reddragon8000 I don't have anyone else to tag. 😂😂

[generalkenobi22]

Fic: as iron sharpens iron (Burn Notice) - 4K words & counting

SUMMARY: Somewhere along the way, at one point or another, Madeline tells them, “The three of you need to stick together.”

And that, more or less, is what they do.

So I know Burn Notice Week isn’t for a few weeks, but my work schedule is insane, and while I had a rare day off and moment to post, I seized it. More chapters will follow (one for each season) eventually. But for now, please enjoy the first part of as iron sharpens iron.

Can also be found on AO3.

————————————

Though one may be overpowered, Two can easily defend themselves. A cord of three strands is not quickly broken.

—Ecclesiastes 4:12, NIV

—————————————

Somewhere along the way, at one point or another, Madeline tells them, "The three of you need to stick together."

And that, more or less, is what they do.

—

Even before he opens his eyes, Michael just...knows he's in Miami. Besides the humidity (he can feel the sweat pooling at his lower back) and the brilliant sunlight pouring through...wherever it's pouring in from (caves set high in the mountains of Afghanistan don't usually get a lot of natural light), he can hear the faint trace of calypso music coming in from outside.

So he doesn't actually need Fi to kick him with what feels like an especially sharp boot, but she takes it upon herself to do so anyway. Not that he knows it's her immediately. No, that little realization doesn't occur until after he momentarily blacks out from the pain (she was always a great markswoman, so it only makes sense that her foot connects directly to every single one of his cracked ribs) and before his head promptly begins pounding.

When he does finally see her (and hear her—he'd recognize that Irish brogue anywhere), it's...a lot. Especially since he halfway thought he would never see her again. Besides cosmetics (her hair's lighter, no bangs—she's tanner, too), she looks the same as she did the last time they were...together. And now she's here, in the flesh, complaining that he still has her listed as his emergency contact (he knew there was something else he needed to submit to H.R. when he last updated his W-4). It's equal parts comforting and completely unnerving.

There are countless questions running through his mind as he struggles to sit upright (who burned him, how can he contact his handler, is Fi still mad that he left, etc.?), but at least one of them is answered when Fi cheerfully admits that she contacted his mother.

Welcome to Miami.

—

Soon after, she ditches the accent. Buys a whole new wardrobe.

From a tactical standpoint, it makes sense—using camouflage to blend into your surroundings makes you a harder target to spot.

From a personal standpoint, it's still—well, she's—the whole thing is...it's a lot.

—

Sam Axe is what would happen if Magnum, P.I. ever did a reunion special where Magnum—a few decades older and well into retirement—started mooching off every widow and bored housewife in Oahu. And yet, unlike Magnum, with Sam it's a whole lot less grating and more...well, endearing.

With the exception of Fi (though even that might be stretching it at this point), he no longer has a secure network of people he trusts. Most of them, he assumes, went up in smoke alongside his job and identity the moment his burn notice was issued. That said, it's nice to see the familiar face of an old friend in the midst of it all.

Even if that friend sticks him with the bar tab when all he ordered was water.

—

It's practically an ambush, all things considered.

When Sam mentions his money laundering contact, Barry, and follows it up with, "We have to bring you up to speed, brother," Michael assumes he means an in-person introduction.

And it is, for all intents and purposes, an in-person introduction when Michael meets up with the two at Carlito's the next day...

But mostly, it's an ambush.

"So you're tellin' me Mike was absent for the whole dot-com boom?" Barry asks, as if Michael isn't sitting right there next to him. He's staring at Michael like he's the most fascinating installation at the Peréz Art Museum.

Sam, on the other hand, keeps looking at him with an almost insulting amount of pity. "'fraid so," he admits miserably, draining the last of his mojito. "Although he wasn't really absent, per se, just swamped with the whole covert black ops—"

"Sam," Michael cuts in, smile strained. "How about we avoid divulging classified intel to the stranger with the movie villain goatee I just met?" He looks Barry over once and holds up his hands placatingly. "No—well, some offense."

Barry frowns. "Some taken."

"Listen, Mikey, Barry's practically family," Sam says as he signals for the waitress to bring him a refill.

"Well," Barry clarifies, "estranged at best."

"Sure, fine." Sam redirects his attention back to Michael. "The point is: now that you're back in Miami, you have to be able to talk about non-job related topics. And that's pretty tough when you're not up to date on the last decade of popular culture."

Michael shifts uncomfortably. "I'm cultured," he insists, looking between both Sam and Barry. "For instance, the 2000 election? Here in Florida, there were hanging chads and—" Off their pained expressions, he switches tactics, having to dig deeper. "What about...?" He brightens. "J-Lo! She's still considered popular, right?"

Sam chuckles. "Not for the same reason you're thinking, Mike."

The waitress comes by with their drinks. Sam thanks her—his concluding wink almost subtle—but Barry looks like he might be sick.

"So, like...no American Idol?" he wants to know, his tone taking on an edge of urgency. "No Brangelina?" Michael shakes his head, wondering idly if Barry has started speaking Spanish somehow. "What about the Hilton twins? Or, even, Tom Cruise?"

"Wait, yes! He's the, uh, Top Gun guy."

"He was the Top Gun guy," Sam corrects. "Now he's just crazy."

Barry scrubs a hand over his face before downing his cocktail in one go. "I don't know, Sam. This is a much bigger job than you let on. I mean, I'm gonna have to clear my appointments for the day," he points out wearily, "and then I'm gonna have to deal with pissed off clients—wealthy and powerful pissed off clients."

Sam brushes him off. "Barry, this is for a worthy cause." He gestures over to Michael. "I mean, look at him!"

"I'm sitting right here," Michael reminds them through gritted teeth.

Ignoring him, Barry sighs and pulls his Blackberry out. Within seconds, he's shot out a half dozen texts containing haphazard apologies for the cancellations. "Fine," he relents. "Let's start with the basics."

"And make sure we touch on the 'Phins," Sam insists. "The last player Mike could name was Marino, and he hasn't been with the team since he retired in '99. It's embarrassing."

Michael emits a strangled sound of protest before he lets his head drop to the table with a soft, defeated thud.

—

No one is more surprised than Fi when Madeline, of all people, calls to invite her to play poker with her and some of the ladies from the neighborhood only a few short weeks after she makes the move to Miami permanent. With the exception of her sister, Claire, Fi has never really had many female friends. Not for lack of interest or trying, certainly, but the job does tend to have a frustratingly imbalanced male-to-female ratio.

So, obviously, she says yes. After all, it's not as though she could possibly decline. Not when Madeline had ended their phone call with an incredibly touching: "Fiona, honey, you're welcome over any time." And especially not when she can provide such crucial insight into Michael's early years.

In preparation, she finds the least threatening sundress she owns (A-line skirt, a floral pattern of goldenrods and peonies), and brings along a variety of snacks (surely these types of get-togethers operate like more civilized, less mind-numbingly boring stakeouts?).

When she arrives, Madeline greets her warmly with a hug (a bit of a surprise considering they've only ever spoken on the phone and haven't actually met in person before), places her snacks on the counter, and introduces her to the rest of the group. It's...nice. They're a friendly bunch: adorable retirees with a penchant for gossip and neighborhood intel that would put any spy to shame. A couple hours later, though, when she's down by nearly two hundred dollars, she has the sneaking suspicion it all may be a ruse designed to lull her into a false sense of security.

Oh, they are very good.

"So, Fiona," Evelyn asks her. She raises and throws a couple chips onto the growing pile at the center of the table. "How do you know Madeline's son?"

Fi takes in Evelyn's shockingly bright orange dye job as she thinks about how best to answer that question. Ex-girlfriend? Colleagues? Both invite their own share of difficult and obtrusive questions. She could go with "wife" (Michael would positively burst, she's sure of it), but Madeline would see right through that.

"He's my boyfriend." It's not...not true.

"How wonderful!" Madeline's other friend, Phyllis, exclaims. She has been knocking back Corona Extras like she hasn't had a spot to drink in months. "How long have the two of you been together?"

In addition to Madeline's affinity for nicotine, Evelyn seems to share her love of taking all of Fi's money. Fi folds and tosses her cards on the table.

"Oh!" she says suddenly playing at bashful and giggling. "It's—well, it's still kind of new—" Again, not...not true. "—but it feels like we've known each other forever."

She almost feels guilty at the way Madeline's face lights up, how her smile warms at her little fib. But she barely has time to dwell on it before the front door opens. When she turns around, she's met with the sight of Michael—in tan chinos and a light blue oxford—slack-jawed and cradling a casserole dish. She playfully waggles her fingers at him.

"Ma," he says carefully, only glancing at her briefly, his smile too forced to be genuine. "I thought you, me, and Fi were having dinner tonight. You said seven, right?"

Madeline brightens as she directs him and the casserole to the kitchen. "We are. Me and the girls are just finishing up." To the rest of the group, she says, "Ladies, this is my son, Michael!"

"Hey...Hi." He waves at them all awkwardly before taking the empty seat across from Fi, next to Evelyn. She shouldn't laugh, truly, but his discomfort in the face of the group's sudden enthusiasm over his distinctly male presence is palpable. She tries to hide her amusement by draining the contents of her beer bottle, but judging by the way Michael's brow darkens and his mouth practically thins into nonexistence, she is nowhere near successful.

Madeline is the last one to fold before Evelyn takes the pot. As she rakes in her winnings, Phyllis leans over toward Fi and makes it a point to say not at all quietly, "He's very handsome."

This time when she looks at Michael, unable to hide her amused grin, he smiles at Phyllis appreciatively before fixing Fi with a look of quiet desperation.

"Oh, he is!" She sighs dreamily and winks at him, relishing his discomfort only a little. He frowns back. "I'm the luckiest girl in all Miami."

—

It starts out innocently enough. Fi merely offers Sam a simple suggestion for how to properly apologize to Veronica—that unfortunate woman—yet somehow that evolves into him wanting to talk about all his "lady problems" with her.

(Seriously, that poor woman! She must be positively unwell. Perhaps she's deaf or blind? Best case scenario: she's deaf and blind, and this relationship is simply court-ordered community service outreach to the elderly.)

At first, Fi relished the thought that he picked her over Michael (who has all the emotional sensitivity of an unstable IED) to confide his most vulnerable secrets to, but it soon becomes too much. Phone calls, text messages, then phone calls and text messages. Eventually, she has to draw a line, demonstrate at least a little pride.

Plus, she's still pissed about the whole "him-costing-her-a-lot-of-money-because-he-interfered-with-her-legitimate-business-deal-with-the-Libyan-arms-dealer" thing, y'know? No one has ever accused her of letting go of a grudge too soon.

"I don't know what to tell you, Sam." She sighs dramatically as if talking to him is positively exhausting (which, it is) before she slams the trunk of her car closed, yoga mat in hand.

He blocks her path forward before she even has a chance to turn around. "Fi, you don't understand," he says desperately, and a small (fine, large) part of her finds a simple delight in his suffering. "This could be it for Veronica and me. She still hasn't forgiven me for the last job we pulled, and I—"

"Sam." Even saying his name is taking a lot of self-control at the moment. She manages to slip past him and dart across the street. To his credit, he keeps up and corners her in front of the studio. "I'm just too busy right now, and I'm going to be late." She holds up her mat pointedly and pushes past him to the front door. "So unless you want to join my Bikram yoga class, I—"

"Fine."

The little bell at the top of the door rings a second time as he follows her inside. As he not-at-all-subtly rakes his gaze over a couple of women in yoga pants on their way out, she gapes at him.

"What?" He shrugs when he catches her staring. "I told you: this is serious."

So that's how she finds herself some fifteen minutes later watching Sam—drenched through his linen slacks and hideous Hawaiian print shirt—struggling with downward facing dog on the mat right next to hers.

"Geez, Fi," he huffs, his gold chain now dangling over his chin, "you do this for fun?"

She watches as beads of sweat roll down his bright red face in rapid succession. It takes everything in her to keep a straight face.

"Why do you even pay for this?" he continues as if interrupting her meditation isn't enough. "If I wanted to exert myself in this much humidity, I'd ask my old CO to ship me back out to Kuwait, or hell, I could just as easily go outside.

It takes an immense amount of concentration for her to regain her balance (physically and spiritually) and counteract the irritation she's feeling, but she finally asks, short of snapping, "Wasn't there some...Veronica issue you wanted to discuss?"

"Fi," he says, breath haggard, "she's pissed about the car again."

She blinks as a bead of sweat hits her eye. "Well, of course she's pissed about the car." A little quieter, she hisses, "You practically blew it up!"

"I—" The instructor tells the class to transition to triangle pose just as the ventilation system switches back on, pumping more hot air into the confined space. Sam has to account for the increased sound, and the fact that her back is now to him when he clarifies, "That was for the job, and you know it, sister! It was either that, or a Czech assassin would have made mincemeat outta you, me, and Mikey."

She twists, fingers stretched out toward the ceiling. "Well, it's not about any of that for Veronica, Sam. It's...it's more like if you can't cherish her car, how could you possibly cherish her?" she explains as if it's the most obvious thing in the world (which, it is).

Sam's quiet for a moment—the instructor has them shift into chair pose—before he glances over at her. He swipes his soaked through hair out of his face. "Cherish, huh?"

She turns to him and nods, somewhat impressed that he has both made it this far in life being dense and that he hasn't passed out quite yet.

—

"So, neither of you will help me with this?"

Sam and Fi exchange a lazy glance before looking back at Michael from behind their respective sunglasses. Fi sighs dramatically. "It's not that we won't help, Michael. It's more like we..." She looks over at Sam for back up. "I want to say...can't?"

Sam laces his fingers behind his head and shrugs. "Sure, 'can't' works."

Michael throws both of them an unimpressed (and admittedly, envious) look from over his shoulder as he pauses his work on the Charger's carburetor. They're both set up in slightly rusted out poolside chairs with their feet soaking in a plastic kiddie pool that doesn't look a day younger than the early '70s. Probably some artifact from when he and Nate were younger.

He sets his 3/8" combo wrench on top of the engine. "Right, and you both can't," he probes, now leaning against the Charger, facing his two friends, as he gestures for them to continue, "because...?"

"What do you want from us, Michael?" Fi demands listlessly. He watches as she slides her bikini strap (she and Sam are both wearing bathing suits) off her right shoulder, so she can evenly apply more sunscreen. He swallows, possibly lingering longer than necessary (she's...well, it's...still a lot) before redirecting his attention anywhere else.

"Yeah," Sam agrees, snagging the tube of sunscreen out of Fi's hands, despite her protests. "You're the one that called for a debrief on the hottest day of the whole damn calendar year."

Michael pointedly ignores the rivulets of sweat soaking into his beater and, worse, the waistband of his jeans. "It's not the hottest—"

Sam cuts him off. "Historically high temperatures, Mike. I overheard your mom talking about it."

"Overheard me talking about what?"

Michael looks up, while Sam and Fi turn—almost in unison—as Madeline exits through the back door, a tray of iced tea in her hands. When neither Sam nor Fi rushes to help her (at least they're consistent, Michael thinks to himself bitterly), he walks over and helps her place the glasses on the small fold out table set up between the other two.

"Thanks, Maddie." Sam noticeably has no issue exerting himself to pick up his drink. Before he can take a single sip, however, Madeline snatches it out of his hands and replaces it with a beer. It may just be the widest Michael has ever seen Sam smile. "We were just saying how insanely hot it is today—"

"—and how only a certified sociopath would expect his dearest and most loyal friends to perform manual labor in this kind of weather," Fi finishes for him. She flashes a seemingly innocent smile at Michael from over the rim of her own glass. He responds in kind with something between a frown and a grimace.

Meanwhile, Madeline takes in his disheveled appearance. "And what happened to you?" she demands, handing him the iced tea that had previously been Sam's. He takes it, grateful. "You're soaked!"

"Yeah, I know, Ma," he says calmly, trying to restrain himself. "I've been out here fixing the Charger, but it would go a lot faster if I had some help..."

She follows his accusatory gaze back to Sam and Fiona and gasps. "Well, don't look at them, Michael!" she blanches as if he were asking them to help him bury a body, which...would not be an unreasonable scenario in his line of work. "It's hot outside!"

Michael stares up at the sky as if willing God to grant him the patience he is so quickly losing.

—

Virgil and...his mom.

—

Virgil and...his mother.

—

His own mom and...Virgil.

—

He's gonna kill him.

—

...Right after he drains a quart of bleach.

—

"He's here."

Maricruz doesn't bother looking up from her register. Their manager gave them a strict deadline for completing their cash counts today. "Who's here?

"The guy I was telling you about, the one who's in here all the time?"

Suddenly, Maricruz remembers. "Oh, yeah! The dude with all the yogurt, right?"

Her co-worker, Olivia, nods, cracking her gum in the process. "He only ever buys weird stuff, like screws and duct tape, never food—well, except for the yogurt. And, occasionally, beer." She pauses, then: "I think he might be a serial killer."

Maricruz finally looks up and watches as the man examines a box of 45-watt lightbulbs. She frowns, then turns to Olivia. "This guy?" she wants to know. "The one who dresses like some rich kid's hot, investment banker dad, who sometimes attends a lot of backyard barbecues?”

"Yes."

They pause in their conversation as Olivia rings up an elderly woman purchasing a bag of spinach and last week's People magazine. She waves goodbye to her and then once she leaves through the store's front doors, she zeroes in on her friend. "Hold up—are you saying hot people can't be serial killers?"

Maricruz rolls her eyes. "No. Duh, of course not. We both watched the same Ted Bundy documentary.

"True. Wait...are we saying Ted Bundy was hot?"

"I am not having this conversation with you."

Maricruz rings up her own customer (single mom with two toddlers, tons of sugary cereals) before looking back at Olivia. "There's no way this guy's a killer. Didn't you say he sometimes shows up with his supermodel wife?"

"Well, yeah," Olivia admits, "but, hello, ever heard of Scott and Laci Peterson?" She blows a bubble with her gum than pops it with an audible crack. "Also, for the record, I've never actually seen hot-might-be-a-serial-killer dude with a ring, so I think the supermodel's just his girlfriend.

Maricruz watches him grab a different pack of lightbulbs off the top shelf for an elderly woman behind him and sighs wistfully. "It totally figures he has a girlfriend." She stares a little longer. "I mean, serial killer or not, look at his arms."

Suddenly, Olivia clears her throat super loudly, snapping her out of her reverie. "Oh, my God, Maricruz, shutupshutup. He's coming to my lane!"

She looks over, and sure enough, the guy walks over to Olivia's lane and empties the contents of his basket onto the belt: a pack of lightbulbs, zip ties, rope, and two packs of blueberry yogurt. Olivia shoots Maricruz a look over his shoulder that seems to say, See? I told you so!

"Hi," he says with a bright, exaggerated smile, oblivious to their non-verbal conversation. It takes a moment for Olivia to recover while he digs in his pocket for his wallet and to respond back like a normal, human person.

"Welcome to Milam's Market," she says, totally using her Customer Service Voice as she rings up his items. "Did you find everything you need today?"

"Hmm?" He looks up from his phone, and the frown he was momentarily wearing transforms easily back to the smile from earlier. He snaps the phone shut and looks back up at her, somewhat sheepish. "Oh, uh, yeah. Even got a great deal on yogurt, so..."

Olivia gives him his total, and before he grabs his bags, he thanks both of them and tells them to have a great day.

As they watch him leave, Maricruz turns to Olivia. "Are we sure the supermodel is his girlfriend and not just his, like, insanely hot sister?" she asks desperately as she cranes her head to follow his exit beyond the store's double sliding doors.

Olivia nods sadly. "Yeah."

—

She tells him it's not good enough, but he doesn't know what else to say. He's never been good at this. He even has the scars from Dublin and Germany to prove it.

He feels slightly self-conscious, standing there shirtless, reminding her that they were profoundly unhappy together, nearly a decade ago. Ten years is a long time, and he's not exactly getting any younger—neither is his physique, frankly. He hasn't let himself go, by any means, but there's definitely a softness to his lower stomach that wasn't there the last time they were, uh...they last time they were...together. Fi doesn't mention it, or even really seem to mind much, however, when her foot connects with it just a few moments later.

He knows he's in trouble when his first punch accidentally lands, and she looks up at him afterward with that familiar fire in her eyes, the one that's equal parts terrifying and enticing.

He knows he's a goner when that same peculiar mix sends a jolt way down past his (grudgingly soft) gut while she deftly traces her lips along the lines of his palm.

And he definitely knows he's in way over his head when she lets him pin her to the mattress—when their eyes lock, and he anchors her face in his hand, while her hips cant slightly to meet his own. Admittedly, his self-control grounds to dust long before then, but it's only when his lips capture hers that he finally does the one thing he has wanted to do since the CIA dumped him in that trashy hotel with her all those months ago—

He finally gives in.

[holylulusworld]

Burn Notice (4) - Back to you

Title: Burn Notice (4) - Back to you

Prompt filled for @writersmonth​​​​​​: Day 27 - word: silk

Summary: You finally settled for a life without the man you once loved. You made the plan without a certain man. 

Pairing: Nick Fowler x fem!Reader (former CIA!Agent)

Characters: Sam Axe (Burn Notice)

Warnings: angst, language, toxic relationship, mentions of cheating, angry reader, arguments, death of a cat (mentioned)

A/N: Inspired by the TV series “Burn Notice” with Jeffrey Donovan as Michael Westen. Look at this. Did I turn this into a crossover with Burn Notice? Yes, I did.

<< Part 3

Burn Notice masterlist 

Divider by @firefly-graphics​

“Great, just great,” you kick the dashboard with your foot. “This is all your fault. All I build over so many years just got…dusted. My home, my restaurant…even my fucking cat.”

“Sorry for the cat. I didn’t have the time to grab the poor guy,” Nick swallows thickly as you kick the dashboard again. “Violence won’t fix this. We need to be smart and look for a hideout. I guess all of my hideouts already got discovered.”

“I got a cabin in the woods. We can hide there for a while. No one knows about it,” almost no one, you think to yourself as you try to not scream. You build a life, and thanks to Nick it got destroyed in the blink of an eye. “I can’t believe you ruined my life once again.”

“I didn’t intend on ruining your life. If you want to blame someone, blame Mace,” you dip your head to glance at Nick. “You know it must be her, right? She’s the traitor and wants me to play the scapegoat.”

“Mace,” nodding you look out of the window, something about the way Nick talks about what happened doesn’t sit right with you. “It must be her…that bitch came to my restaurant. I wanted to strangle her with her a silk scarf.”

“Do you have anyone you can turn to? Maybe someone from before we worked together. You always talked about a friend helping you out.”

“A friend,” whipping your head toward Nick you try not to frown. “We shouldn’t involve more people, Nick. This whole situation is a mess. Do you want Mace to kill someone because of you? She already killed my damn cat!”

“I remember clearly that you saved that guy’s ass while we were on a mission. What was his name? I can’t remember.”

You look at the street, wondering why Nick doesn’t stop bringing your friend up. Or rather someone you haven’t seen in ages. “We should get to the cabin as fast as possible. Did you manage to save anything?”

“I grabbed the bag from the couch and my burner phone. That’s all I could save,” Nick tries to keep his eyes on the street while talking to you. “I’m sorry about your house and the cat.”

“You already said that. Can you stop talking for a while? I’m so fucking tired,” you run your hand down your face. The adrenaline is wearing off and you feel like all energy got drained out of your body. You close your eyes, ready to just sleep the day off.

“Where to, Y/N? I don’t know where your cabin is,” he laughs as you blink your eyes open. “Just give me the direction and I’ll let you sleep.”

“Y/N, are you sure no one knows about this cabin?” Nick looks around the small cabin. “I need to know if we are safe here.” He glances out of the window, huffing, as you won’t answer him right away. “Y/N!”

“I told you,” you drop your bags to the ground, “no one knows about my secret hideout. I haven’t been here in ages.” You close your eyes, taking deep breaths to calm your nerves. The last time you came to the cabin was right after you found out about Nick and Mace.  

“Good…that’s good. And the bags in your car, a good backup plan,” Nick already crouches down to unzip the duffle bags you hid in your car. “Guns. Money…burner phones. You’re a smart girl, special agent.”

“I haven’t been an agent for the longest time, Nick. I was out and had a good life. Hell, I fulfilled all of my dreams. I had a restaurant, a nice house, and a cat! Then you come around and my world just explodes.”

“Baby, I’m sorry,” he tries to charm his way out of a confrontation with his cocky smile and his soft blue eyes. Nick looks down at you, hoping you will give in. “Let me check the surroundings and hide the car. You should rest a bit more.”

“Fine,” you cross your arms over your chest as Nick walks out of the door. “What the fuck!” You stomp your left foot to the ground. “Okay, think…I need to think.”

You rub your forehead. “The footage. What did I see?” you sit on the only bed at the cabin, closing your eyes to recall the footage you and Nick watched not days ago. “It seemed like Mace ran off with the information. Ten heavily armed guys stormed into the room and still, Nick made it out alive.”

Getting back up from the bed you start to pace back in front inside the room. Nick takes his sweet time hiding the car, but you don’t mind. You need a moment to clear your mind. “How did he get out of the hotel? How did he find me? How did Mace fine me?”

“Babe, the car is well hidden now,” he walks back inside the cabin. “We should be safe for now.”

“Safe. Right,” you sarcastically reply. “We are not safe, genius.” You glare at Nick. “They burned my fucking house down! Thanks to you I’ll never be safe again. I’m on the run with a wanted man. And I don’t even like you anymore.”

“You love me,” Nick smirks as you lift your hands to strangle him. “Don’t kill your only ally, baby doll.”

“Ally? You are my worst nightmare, Fowler. How do you intend on getting us out of this mess, huh?” you cock your head, waiting for Nick to bring up another stupid plan. “Come on. Don’t be shy now. Tell me about your great plan.”

“I don’t know yet. Mace tried to kill us. This means she knows we saw the footage,” he concludes. “Let’s take a deep breath and think about our next step.”

“Fine by me,” he shrugs his jacket off as you glance at the phone he tries to stuff into his back pocket. It’s not the burner phone he got from you. “I need fresh air. You can check if we got enough food for at least a week.”

“I bought everything while you were asleep,” Nick rolls his eyes as you stomp out of the cabin. “Baby doll don’t be mad at me. I’m sorry…”

“Sam, hey,” you nervously rub your forehead. “I wouldn’t call if it wasn’t…the shit went down fast. Do you remember the guy cheating on me? My former partner, Nick Fowler.”

“Chuck Finley at your service,” Sam chuckles on the phone. “What’s wrong honey? Did you miss good ole Sam?”

“I got no time for jokes. I need help…and maybe even him…” there is silence for a moment on the other side of the line. “I-Nick got a burn notice. At least he told me so.” You glance over your shoulder to check if Nick is spying on you. “Can Jesse check on him, and a special agent named Mason Brown.”

“What happened, Y/N?” Sam’s voice is laced with worry now. “Y/N?”

“Mace dropped by at my restaurant and when I came home, my house was in flames,” you sigh deeply.

“Okay, tell me where you are. Jesse will check on both, and the burn notice of your friend but,” you swallow thickly. “we can’t involve…him. You know that. He’s out of…everything.”

“I know. It’s my last resort to call him. Please do your best to find out what’s going on,” you sniff. “I’m at the cabin.”

“Hang on, honey. I’m on my way. Jesse will come too. Give me two days to get to you. Can you do this?” 

“Thank you…Sam,” you lick your lips. “I’ll survive two more days with Nick Fowler. Can’t tell the same about him. If he tries to charm his way out of this mess one more time, I’ll split his skull.”

“Fair enough,” Sam laughs into the phone. “I’m on my way. Don’t do anything reckless.”

“Says the man jumping in front of guns all the time…”

“You took your time. Did you chase a poor wolf through the woods?” Nick watches you walk back inside the cabin. “What will we do now? Do you think we should try to contact someone? A friend maybe.”

“Do you even have a friend?” you grunt. 

“You,” you roll your eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t make any friends during my time at the agency. I considered you my best friend and the only woman I ever truly loved.”

“Nick, just stop it,” you’re too tired to talk to the man breaking your heart. And you are not in the mood to listen to more lies tonight. “I need to sleep this fucking day off. We can decide on what to do tomorrow.”

Your ringing phone wakes you from your dreamless slumber. While you slowly sit up to check on the phone, Nick is nowhere to be found. “Sam, I thought you said you need two days,” you grumble into the phone. “Did Jesse already find something out?”

“Y/N,” you sit a little straighter when a familiar voice calls out your name. “I-we are on our way. I just wanted to check on you.”

“Sam said we can’t contact you. Why do you call? It’s too dangerous,” rubbing your tired eyes you try not to cry.

“How many times did you save me after I got the burn notice?” he whispers on the phone. “I’m sorry for leaving without saying goodbye. It was for the best back then.”

“You shouldn’t come here. The CIA is after Nick,” you hastily say. “Stay away. Don’t come here.”

“It’s too late to go back now.”

“I mean it.”

“So do I,” you laugh as you hear Sam and Jesse call your name. “Hang on, Y/N. I’ll be there in a minute, and we will fix whatever Fowler did. Jesse will get more information soon. Just be careful. Trust no one.”

“I-“ the moment Nick steps back inside the cabin you clamp your mouth shut. You can’t hide you were talking to someone. But Nick can’t know whom you were talking to. “Be careful and thank you.”

“Who was on the phone?” Nick immediately asks. “I thought you didn’t want to involve more people.”

“I called a friend. He will be here in two days,” he nods, eyes narrowing as you refuse to give him a name. “We just need to hang on a little longer.”

“I’ll check on the car again. We don’t want anyone to see it,” you frown as Nick hurriedly makes his way out of the cabin again. You wait for a heartbeat, and another before you silently follow him outside.

Nick walks deeper into the woods, far away from the car he hid behind the cabin, and you follow him.

You’ve got a bad feeling since you found your house in flames. Something is off with Nick and you will find out what he’s hiding. One way…or another…

>> Part 5

[i-used-to-be-a-spy]

Burn Notice s1e11 Dead Drop

[i-used-to-be-a-spy]

I spent like 8 hours on this?? So please read haha