Cheaters and Thieves, a burn notice fanfic

Title: Cheaters and Thieves
Author: chinesebakery
Characters: Sam, Fiona (Sam/Fiona)
Rating: K+
Spoilers: 1x12, AU from there
Summary: With Michael gone, Fiona and Sam take up a case of their own.
A/N: Thanks to latante for the sensational beta.

"For God's sake! Can't you be just a little gentle?"

"You're such a cry baby. It's just a scratch," Fiona rolled her eyes and continued cleaning the cut on Sam's face.

"You're really enjoying this, aren't you?" Sam asked through gritted teeth. "You sadistic –"

"Hey, I'm sure Veronica would love to clean your war wounds."

"Okay, okay, just try... Owww, son of a –"

"There! All done."

"Thanks," Sam said grudgingly, as he rubbed his bruised cheek, before getting up to search for a beer in Michael's hopelessly yogurt-packed fridge. No luck there.

"So, what do we do now?"

"I don't know," Fiona sighed. "We wait?"

Michael's place felt huge and desperately silent, all of a sudden.

"What do you mean, you loaned out the Cadillac?"

"Look, calm down, okay? It's just for a few days. Everything's fine."

"How stupid do you think I am? You look like you got run over by a truck."

"It's just a scratch."

"Just tell me the truth, Sam. Did you gamble away the car?"

She wouldn't let it go. When Sam came home that night, battered and broody, smelling of booze and burned things, all Veronica talked about was the damned missing car. He couldn't tell her the truth, obviously. Those two sides of his life weren't supposed to intersect.

There shouldn't even be another side to his life. That was the whole point of retiring in Miami. It had taken him long enough to eliminate everything that stood between him and an eternity of identical days spent downing mojitos and ogling spring-breakers in tiny bikinis on a beach-side terrace.

"I've been very understanding, Sam. Very understanding. But if you don't tell me what the hell happened..."

Those had been the days, when his most pressing worry was whether or not he could charm a perky waitress into keeping a tab open. Those had been the days, Sam mused as he crashed on Michael's bed with just a six-pack, a toothbrush and a change of clothes.

It had been a long time since he'd slept with a gun under his pillow.

"What?"

"Nice bark. Do you always pick up the phone like that?"

"What do you want, Sam?"

"Oh, I'm fine, Fiona, thanks for asking. I miss the Caddy, though. How about you?"

"I'm hanging up now."

"No, wait – did you hear anything?"

"Nope," she sighed. "Nothing yet."

Sam didn't have many friends anymore. That's what he found out when he started looking around for a safer place to stay. Either certain people had picked up their phones to give a friendly word in the ear to every single one of his acquaintances, or he'd been a really shitty pal all these years.

He wasn't doing great on the money side of things either, and living on soon-to-be-expired low-fat yogurt was clearly not for him.

When the friend of a friend called him to ask for help, he was only too happy to oblige. The job was as low as they got, but the client was paranoid enough to pay top dollar for discretion, and rather eager to recover the possessions his girlfriend had lifted from his wife's safe before the latter found out. So paranoid, in fact, that the fee was almost high enough to pay for two on the job.

"I'm warning you," Fiona announced by way of greeting as she sat down opposite Sam at the crowded terrace-bar. "If you're going to cry over your car again..."

"It's not the car I'm worried about," Sam muttered. "It's been –"

"Sa-am," Fiona sing-songed, warningly.

"– three days. How can you be so calm about this?"

"Michael's really good at what he does."

"I've got to say, I find your way of dealing with things a little unhealthy."

"He'll contact us when it's safe for him to do so. It's not exactly the first time Michael's gone incommunicado."

"Only this time he's got no backup, no weapon, and no clue about what he's dealing with."

"God, Sam, what could I possibly do to shut you up?"

"Buy me lunch?" Sam shrugged, unphased, and took a sip of beer.

"I was thinking of something a little more radical, but that'll do."

"So, you want to hear about the job or not?"

"I can't believe I agreed to this," Fiona pouted as she pulled up in front of the obnoxiously huge house Sam indicated.

"Will you stop whining? The guy's an old friend. Besides, it's keeping us busy while we wait to hear from – you know."

"If you really need something to do with your time, you ought to be at home entertaining your lady friend and leaving me out of your third-rate PI jobs."

"Well, I would. But Vee and I had a slight misunderstanding and –"

"You can't stay at my place!"

"I didn't ask."

"Oh, but you were going to."

"Look, it's just for tonight. Okay, maybe tomorrow too."

"No. Absolutely not. Michael's apartment is currently unoccupied. Why can't you stay there?"

"Cause I don't like idea of waking up with a gun pointed at my head. You just can't trust conspiracy goons nowadays."

"If they wanted you dead, you'd be dead."

"Please?" Sam tried again, twisting his face into the least effective puppy-dog face she'd ever seen. Fiona couldn't help but chuckle.

"You do know how pathetic you are, don't you?"

"Thanks, roomie," Sam grinned as he buzzed the intercom.

The inside of the house looked exactly like it did from the outside: huge, tacky and definitely smug, just like the client himself. As he recounted the tale of his meeting with 'Naomi' in a bar the month before, Fiona's annoyance grew.

"Can you describe her?"

"Twenty-five-ish, blond... Pretty," Dean shrugged. "She told me she was a paralegal, but I don't know how much of what she told me was true."

"Anything more distinctive?"

"I can't think of anything."

"Of course not," Fiona muttered.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Nothing," she shrugged, and motioned for Sam to continue his questioning.

"Do you have a picture?"

"No."

"Any means to reach her? A phone number, an address?"

"She gave me her cell but it's been disconnected since."

"And you never went to her place?"

"No. She said her roommate didn't like her having people over."

"And you believed that?" Fiona sniffed disdainfully.

"Of course I did. I had no reason to doubt what she told me."

"Right," she rolled her eyes.

"So you met in hotels?"

"I didn't keep the receipts, obviously, but I wrote you a list. She only came here once, three nights ago. My wife is visiting her mother in Palm Bay. I didn't notice anything until I went to get some documents from the safe yesterday."

"Did you open the safe while she was here?"

"Of course not."

"But you said it wasn't forced."

"It wasn't. I don't know what happened."

"There are other ways to get into a safe than to blow the thing," Fiona shrugged.

"I'm gonna need a list of the things she lifted, too."

"It's all here," Dean said and handed him a kraft envelope.

"Thanks. Can we take a look at the safe?"

"Sure. It's in the office. Do you think you'll find her? My wife's coming home on Sunday and – "

"Don't worry, we're on it."

"But, in the mean time, if a woman half your age hits on you in a bar, I suggest you go straight home and buy your wife some flowers." Fiona suggested sarcastically.

"Look, I don't need a lecture," he snapped defensively. "I just need my things back."

"Your wife's things," Fiona pointed out.

"Okay," Sam got up, pulling on Fiona's elbow. "Let's see the safe."

"What do you think?"

"It's a clean job," Fiona said, her tone appreciative. "She knew what she was doing."

"But how would a blond twenty-something alleged paralegal know how to open that thing?"

"Right. A girl couldn't possibly do that alone. It had to be her male accomplice," Fiona supplied, her tone venomous.

"Or it could have been a female accomplice," Sam conceded with a smirk. "So, what's the plan?"

"You check with Barry if he's heard about any the salable goods from the safe, and I'm going shopping. We're going out tonight. I need a new dress."

"Sounds fine, but I don't have a car."

"Can't you hitch a ride?" she asked hopefully.

"Not as easily as you could," he replied, staring pointedly at her bare shoulders.

"Killjoy," Fiona pouted. "You're worse than Michael."

"Come on," Sam grinned, "I'm sure you've got plenty of appropriately slutty outfits already."

"You're kidding me, right?" Barry asked as he skimmed through the list of missing goods. "What am I supposed to do with that? 'Gold watch'? 'Diamond ring'? Come on."

"My guy's not really detail-oriented," Sam admitted. "You didn't happen to hear about a hot blonde emptying unsuspecting mooks' safe, would you?" Sam tried.

The look Barry shot him was answer enough.

"So, this is your lair, eh?" Sam grinned as he took in Fiona's living room. "I was expecting something a little less... homely. Aww, here's your snow globe collection. That's just precious!"

"Hey, don't touch them. They're fragile," Fiona snapped, purposely ignoring his amusement. "Okay, we need to establish some ground rules here. Things you're allowed to touch: nothing. Places you're allowed to be: the couch. Don't even think of stepping into my room, or else. You've got 48 hours. Questions?"

"What if I need to pee?" Sam asked innocently.

"Hold it in," she grinned, baring her teeth.

Fiona had her flaws, but at least she kept beers in the fridge. It took her over half an hour to get ready for their little soirée, but when she finally emerged from her bedroom in a mind-bogglingly tiny outfit, she looked rather pleased with herself.

"Okay, I'm ready. Let's go."

"And you're dressed like an east coast Daisy Duke because...?"

"Because, tonight you're the sugar daddy and I'm the damsel in need of some serious pocket money, in any shape or form."

"No offense, but aren't you a little old for those hot-pants?"

"They're formal shorts. Perfectly age-appropriate."

"If you say so."

"You're such a gentleman," Fiona glared. "Now I totally understand why your sugar-mamas spoil you."

"Don't I get to wear a disguise too?"

Fiona stared at his brightly-colored Hawaiian shirt and heavy gold necklace for a minute before raising an eyebrow.

"You're perfect just the way you are."

As it turned out, both of them faded into the background rather easily. The place was packed with scantily-clothed women, and Sam was hardly the only man in the room looking like he was battling a mid-life crisis. There didn't seem to be any actual couples.

"So," Fiona muttered, "your pal just felt like having an innocent little beer and he landed here. Accidentally."

"He said she wasn't a pro."

"Either she's incredibly stealthy, or he's unbelievably stupid."

"Could be a bit of both."

"Well, I wonder if the barman can i.d. the 'girlfriend'? I'm gonna have a drink, see if I can learn something."

"'Evening, lady," Sam grinned as he sat next to Fiona fifteen minutes later. "Can I buy you a drink?"

"What if I say no?"

"That's all right. I can barely afford a glass of water in this place, anyway. Hey, see that girl, chatting up the guy in the really bad blue suit?"

"That's too easy," Fiona groaned. "I hate it when it's that easy."

"Sorry to disappoint you."

"You're not gonna let me reach for her in here, are you?"

"As much as I love starting gratuitous shooting in random pickup joints, I suggest we settle for waiting outside."

Fiona made a face, but grabbed his arm to escort him outside.

They'd been sitting in Fiona's rental car for just a few minutes when she turned to him.

"The doorman's staring at us," she said, matter-of-factly. "And walkie-talking."

The next moment, Fiona was sprawled over him, her arms around his neck and her tongue in his mouth.

He'd thought about it before, of course. It was virtually impossible to associate with a woman who looked like Fiona – all long limbs, soft-looking hair, and unapologetic madness – without ever thinking about it. And that little role-playing in the yacht a few weeks before certainly hadn't helped.

But this was a different deal entirely – there wasn't any immediate danger, no tiresome apprentice criminal in sight, and, most importantly, no Michael. All of which allowed him to notice a few things.

Like her perfume, something light and spicy that wasn't entirely unpleasant. Like her breasts pushing against his chest. And like she was half-straddling him, which was a terrible idea.

Sam began to realize that his own response was growing a little more enthusiastic than was strictly necessary to entertain the guy with the walkie-talkie.

"What the hell are you doing?" he whisper-growled as he tried to pull back.

"Told you," Fiona murmured against his mouth. "He was staring."

"And your logical response to that is to tackle me?"

"Well, it worked," Fiona nodded at the rear-view mirror. The man wasn't looking in their direction anymore. She leaned over to plant a kiss on his neck for good measure.

"Just so we're clear, you don't get to slap me this time."

"Aw, why not? It's my favorite part."

"Please don't tell me it's Michael's," Sam grimaced.

"You'd be surprised."

"Kids these days. What happened to 'make love, not war'?"

"Here she comes," Fiona interrupted their odd flirtation, taking in the tall blonde in a tiny, hot-pink dress swaying out the bar's front door, her elbow hooked through an older man's arm. On her way out, she turned to blow kisses at the doorman.

"One lost, ten found," Fiona offered.

"Yeah," Sam agreed absently, enthralled by woman's seductive gait as she strutted towards the waiting cab.

"Should we follow them? Or just sit here and stare?" Fiona asked, rolling her eyes.

"Mmh," he pondered, rubbing his chin.

"We could rough her up until she tells us –"she grinned, anticipating.

"Just drive, okay?" Sam sighed, shaking his head.

The couple pulled into the hotel lot that, as Sam pointed, was the first on Dean's list.

"The girl loves her routine," Fiona shrugged as she picked the cheap lock to their room.

Fifteen minutes later, they were driving back to the girl's place to retrieve Dean's goods, which, as Fiona pointed out, was the perfect ending to the most disappointingly unchallenging case she'd ever worked on.

"There's one thing I meant to ask you," Fiona said to the young woman sulking in the back seat. "How did you now how to open that safe?"

"My girlfriend's very talented," she shrugged,

"Oh, your girlfriend," Fiona repeated happily. "Give her my compliments, will you?"

There were no last minute complications. No boyfriend hiding in a corner with a semi-automatic pointed at their heads, no trap, no ambush, no nothing. Which, to Sam's increasing annoyance, made Fiona sigh all the way home.

"Will you stop your passive-aggressive breathing? If you've got something to say, just say it."

"Well, that was an incredible waste of my time!"

"And I was just starting to miss your constant whining," Sam muttered, shaking his head.

"Guess who's sleeping on Michael's floor tonight?"

"I love your whining. It's the most melodious whining I've ever heard."

"That's better," she grinned.

Sam woke at noon the next day to find Fiona gone.

All five messages on his cell were from Veronica, ranging in tone from worried to whiny to vaguely threatening. He listened to and erased each one methodically before switching his phone off, swallowing his pride about having to use Fiona's girly-scented soap, and heading for the shower.

When Fiona reappeared, Sam was half-sitting, half-lying on the couch in his boxers and undershirt, with the TV turned on to a woman smiling tensely through a cardio session on HSN.

"Getting comfortable, I see," Fiona noted, glaring at the empty beer bottles lying on the floor. "Isn't that a bit much for 3:00 in the afternoon?"

"Oh, come on," he said, stumbling towards the kitchen, "I'm celebrating. We've got a nice wad of bills, a happy client, an oblivious wife…."

"Yeah, about that…"

"Please tell me you didn't," Sam groaned, and pushed her away from his path toward the fridge to grab a couple of beers.

"She deserved to know her husband is a backstabbing douchebag."

"Just when I was starting to think you were actually less of a witch than you usually act," Sam shook his head as he handed her a bottle.

The beers didn't last long, but Fiona had some rum that tasted like Christmas candy with a twist. It was oddly comfortable to sit there, passing the booze back and forth, talking like nothing was missing.As the bottle emptied, Fiona's old accent reappeared a little, making her sound funny and familiar.

"Do you miss your old job?" Fiona asked, before grabbing the bottle again.

"I didn't think I did until Michael showed up. Now, I don't know."

"Running after cheaters and thieves certainly give one's life a sense of purpose."

"It's just... fun, you know? Sort of exciting. As much as I enjoy being the local bikini inspector, it's nice to feel useful once in a while."

"Yeah, we're a regular A-Team, the three of us," Fiona smirked. The smile didn't last, though, and she looked away thoughtfully for a minute, pondering her next question.

"Do you think he's dead?" she asked suddenly, her voice strangely emotionless.

"No," Sam lied. "He's Michael. That's what he does. Always one step ahead of the bad guys, right?"

"Right," she sighed. "The last time he bailed on me, I swore I'd kill him myself when our paths crossed again."

"If I recall correctly, all you did was call his mom."

"Exactly," she grinned. The next moment, she burst into tears.

They sat there for a long time, her head resting on his chest his arms awkwardly enclosing her small frame. He couldn't find anything to say that wouldn't trigger another crying fit, so he just held her and waited for her breathing to resume its normal rhythm. He never expected her to lift her chin and find his lips with hers.

This time, there was no excuse. He needed an excuse. It was the only thing that could make unseemly things like this work.

"There's no walkie-talking guy anywhere," he muttered, his lips resting on the corner of her mouth.

"Shut up. I'm feeling vulnerable."

"Is that supposed to convince me this is a good idea?"

"Oh," she frowned. "You may have a point there."

But with a little tip of his head to the side, they were kissing again, which had to be the least sensible thing he'd done in a long time. When she pulled away, he braced himself for the slap he knew had to come, but she merely gave him a quizzical look.

"Maybe I'm feeling vulnerable, too," he said, a little breathless. "After all, I –"

"Mention the car and I'll break your neck."

"I was gonna say I just lost my best friend."

"Oh," she said again, before pulling her shirt over her head, "that."

When she woke him up later in the night, with her hands and her mouth and her hair tickling his stomach, his first thought was that he'd never heard of this particular stage of grief before.

This was much more complication than it was worth. Maybe it was something he'd never known he wanted, or maybe it was just erratic and spectacularly inopportune. The one thing he was sure of was that in the morning, it would be much more convenient for the both of them to forget that the night ever happened.

Still, when she grabbed his hair to pull his mouth to hers, he let his mind shut down completely.

The next morning, Michael came back.

One minute Fiona was lying next to him, her hand on his chest, and the next, her phone was ringing and everything changed. Sam couldn't decide if his relief was greater than his guilt, and didn't know what to do with the odd touch of disappointment mixed into the confusion.

They didn't talk as they got dressed, or at all, really. Before he climbed in the passenger seat, Fiona gave him a soft smile he couldn't read properly, although he understood the general idea. It was fine, really. He'd been meaning to patch things up with Veronica, anyway.

Life went on, surprisingly normal, with its loads of cheaters, thieves, conspirators and car chases. Sam really did love being part of the A-Team. It was nice, being useful, being good at something besides downing cocktails.

But sometimes, when Fiona was mad or tipsy, that Irish accent crept back into her vowels, and he needed to look away.

END