Disclaimer: Not mine.

A/N: Set during Long Way Back. What did the attack at the safehouse look like from Fiona's point of view?

Michael is dead. Sean is dead.

Fiona slumped down in the chair where O'Neill had left her, the words running through her head on a continuous loop.

Michael is dead. Sean is dead.

Sean had fallen first, taking a bullet to the chest and another to the stomach, and Fiona had cried out in helpless fury as he collapsed. One of O'Neill's men had grabbed her from behind, dragging her out of the safehouse, but not before she'd seen Michael shot in the back by another of the men and O'Neill himself drawing his pistol and approaching him with that evil smirk he'd worn years ago, back when he'd told her about his plan to bomb a girls' prep school. She didn't see the shot that killed Michael, but she felt it, her entire body going rigid as O'Neill said something she couldn't quite hear and the sound of gunfire echoed through the room.

And now she was cuffed to a chair, the captive of a bloodthirsty psychopath who was going to auction her off to the highest bidder in order to further his political ambitions, and somehow she couldn't bring herself to care. About his political ambitions, yes; she felt rage blossom in her chest when she thought of O'Neill becoming a powerful player back home, using her as his leverage to put himself in a position to abuse her people and betray her country. But about her own fate, about the torture he'd promised her would be forthcoming?

Michael is dead. Sean is dead.

She'd never cared much about what would happen to her. If she had, she never would have made a career out of making bombs and smuggling guns; it took a certain attitude of je m'en fous to live constantly on that edge. Instead, she sank all of her passion and energy into other people's plights, fighting like a wildcat to protect the weak and the defenseless. It was something that she and Michael had in common, although their methods weren't always similar or even compatible. She'd started out with a particular soft spot for her family that had expanded after her sister's death to include all children, and then somehow expanded again over the last few years to include burned American spies, their chain-smoking mothers, and their washed-up ex-Navy SEAL buddies. Caring about Michael and Madeline and Sam and Sean and her mother kept her from having to care about herself.

Michael is dead. Sean is dead.

Losing Claire hadn't broken her mother, but it had left a fine crack that ran the length of her psyche, reminiscent of the porcelain teacup Fiona had knocked from the kitchen table as a little girl. Losing her firstborn son would shatter her altogether. Sean had died trying to protect Fiona, and her mother would never forgive her for it.

Without Michael to keep pulling him back into the real world, Sam would spiral downward and eventually end up as the disreputable drunkard he would have become years ago if Michael hadn't returned to Miami. She wasn't sure what losing Michel would do to Madeline, but she could guess, and it wasn't anything she wanted to be there to witness.

She wasn't sure what losing Michel would do to her, and a little part of her was relieved that she wasn't going to live long enough to find out.

The sound of gunfire - assault rifle, the section of her brain dedicated to weaponry and explosives supplied automatically, shooting .308 incendiary rounds - followed by the thump-and-whoosh of an exploding propane tank rocked her out of her fugue. The door to the dark little room slammed open and O'Neill yanked her out of the chair, swinging her around in front of him and dragging her outside. He was using her as a human shield, which was irritating on principle as well as short-sighted of him, since if he intended to make a name for himself by auctioning her off, he'd need her alive to do it.

He needed her alive...

Michael is dead. Sean is dead.

Fiona waited for her chance, putting up enough resistance that O'Neill wouldn't suspect she had an ulterior motive. She didn't know who was shooting at O'Neill's people and she didn't care, although her money would be on Sam, out to get vengeance for Michael's death. At the first opportunity, she struck, driving her head back into O'Neill's chin hard enough to make sparks dance in front of her eyes. His grip on her loosened and she took a running jump off of the dock. The bullet that grazed her arm on the way down merely added insult to injury.

The water was cool for August in Miami, but the salt burned her wounded arm like an acetylene torch. She cried out and the water swallowed the sound, flooding her nose and mouth and lungs with saline, and the world spun crazily as her head throbbed.

O'Neill needed her alive.

Michael is dead. Sean is dead.

For the first time in her life, Fiona Glenanne stopped fighting and took the easy way out, and the water sloshed against her skin as the current pulled her under.

The next thing she felt was pain, a lance of agony shooting through her left arm. It took her a moment to realize she was out of the water. She gasped, her lungs greedy for oxygen, and the arms holding her tightened their grip. She tried to struggle, to get away from O'Neill and his men before it was too late, but her body felt like it was made of lead and her limbs refused to cooperate. A pained whimper escaped her as her captor set her down on the beach. Helpless, she waited for O'Neill's triumphant taunt, for a slap or a kick as her reward for trying to escape. Instead, a strong hand wrapped around her arm and lifted it, and despite the gentleness of the manipulation she couldn't hold back another cry of pain. Her eyes opened of their own accord, and she came face to face with a ghost.

Michael is dead. Sean is dead.

"Fi?" Michael smoothed her wet hair back from her face, concern visible in his eyes. "Fiona? Fi? Talk to me."

She tried to say his name, but it caught in her throat. Michael is alive. Sean -

"Sean?"

Her brother's name came out as a croak, but Michael understood her anyway.

"Sean's going to be fine, Fi. Everybody's fine. It's all over." He looked away then, waving curtly before turning back to her. "The Coast Guard is on the way, so we need to get out of here. Brace yourself."

She nodded, steeling herself against the fresh protest from her wounded arm as Michael lifted her off of the sand. He carried her as though she weighed nothing at all, her head cradled against his chest, and Fiona listened dreamily to the reassuring beat of his heart beneath her ear. Her eyes slid shut again and this time the approaching darkness held no anguish, no regrets.

Michael is alive. Sean is alive.

She drifted back into unconsciousness without protest. Michael laid her still form across the backseat of the Charger, returning Sam's questioning look with a weary half-smile.

"She's okay. Let's get the hell out of here."

He climbed into the back, settling her head in his lap and holding her arm still against her side as Sam fired up the car and tore out of the lot. Her wet hair fell stubbornly into her face and he brushed it back again, stroking her forehead fondly.

"Sweet dreams, Fi."

And surprisingly enough, they were.