Title: I Am Worried

Author: i luv ewansmile

Summary: What if Michael thought that Fiona had shredded his files? How would he react? Fiona's POV. Post-Episode 5x03 Mind Games.

Warning: A dark Michael. And not a very happy story.

Author's Note: After not being able to watch the 9pm showing of Burn Notice last night due to severe weather, I stayed up to watch the midnight showing. What a fabulous episode, but the final scene really spoke to me. I stayed up to 2am writing this out. The lost look on Fiona's face and the way Michael so easily ignored her fired me up, and this story is the result of it.

I am worried. I worried that I'm losing him. He's right there in front of me, yet I am losing him. Piece by piece, each file he re-reads through, each "I'll be there in a minute," when he never comes back to bed.

He's slowly pushing me further and further away. He's here with me physically but he's become so distance in his mind. He focuses on one thing and blocks the rest of the world out.

He's paranoid. He's on edge, seeing tails that aren't there. He can't sleep. He wakes up at night from these terrible nightmares, monsters that he can't leave behind or seem to escape from, not even my gentle words of comfort or soft kiss can shield him from them.

How I wish he could just leave it all behind. I wish he could shred his past and leave it there. Start fresh, start anew, with me. Hell, get out of Miami for a while. He needs a break, he needs to learn to let himself relax, let his mind relax. He needs to learn what it means to live, truly live.

He's been walking dead for far too long now. And I notice now even more sickeningly so as he walks through the loft door. His distantly cold eyes scan the room. His brow creases as he sees the files scattered out of the pattern he had left them in.

His jaw tenses and he swallows hard, "Fi, what are you doing?" He accuses. The way he strides up to me strikes within in me the cold chill of fear. I flinch as he grabs me by the shoulders. "What have you done?" He demands to know, shoving me over the workbench, griping my face with his hand, making me look at the scattered papers. "Michael, stop! You're hurting me!" I cry out.

The slap comes hard and fast. Shock and hurt immediately register on my face, as does the involuntary tears. I cover my face in my hands, still reeling from the sting. That was it. All the stress, all the worry, all the fears came out in one turbulent wave of emotion. I begin sobbing, heartbrokenly. I had completely lost him. This wasn't my Michael. This was a monster. He had finally been pushed over the edge.

Never had he actually laid a hand upon me in true anger. Yes, he's hit me for a job but only to save me. But never, ever in rage. The though makes me sick to my stomach. Burning hot acid sears at my throat. I swallow down the bile along with my tolerance. I remove my hands from my face and slowly straighten myself up. Bring my head up and look blearily through my tears.

"You bastard." I whisper. It sounded weak even to my own ears. "You bastard!" I yell louder full force. I wipe angrily at my eyes so that I can see clearly. And that's when I saw it. The moment Michael Westen broke.

He broke down into tears, like a river dam that had too many cracks. He shattered, like a mirror breaking into a million pieces. His face contorted in emotional agony as if he knew, understood that he had lost himself. That he had lost who he was lost the light that had made him pure. And like a flicker of a candle, he had been blown out. And all that was left was a shell of a person, ready to crumble.

The sight took my breath away, sucked the air right out of my lungs. The scene startled me enough I found that I was no longer crying. I stood amazed realizing that a man that I've known for years, toughest person I've ever known stands before me broken.

I don't know what compelled me to do it. Some innate compulsion drove me to wrap my arms around him, to pull him tight against me, capturing him in my embrace. I held him still, slowly calmed the waves before gently rocking him.

He's loose in my grasp; his body lies against me like a toddler sleeping in the arms of its mother. His head buried into the side of my neck. His tears are hot and sticky against my skin. The breath from his mouth warm against my skin as he sobs sends chills down my spine.

I bend under his weight and find myself slowly easing us to the floor where I continue to hold him, rocking him gently back and forth. Silent tears run down my face but I find myself able to breathe. If only I could breathe life into him, make him see.

I push my hands through his hair placing my palms on either side of his face and make him look at me. The look on his face seems to shatter my hold on the situation. I feel like I'm the one who's going crazy.

But it's his eyes, his eyes which anchor me. There is innocence there, of a child who desperately wants help, that wants to be loved. He looks so young and defenseless. Almost as young as the first time I met him in Ireland. A 25-year-old, a child in the grander schemes of things.

He looks so lost. His eyes beg me to help him. His lips start moving but I can't hear a word. His whisper grows in volume and I realize he's repeating, "I'm sorry," over and over again.

I want to be able to say the words. I want to be able to say I forgive you. I love you. But I can't, seeing him like this, lays things clear in my mind. What I've gone through, what I've put myself through, all the hurt, and all the unhealed emotional wounds.

No it's not fair to forgive him for jumping into my life and shaking the foundation of my world. I've lost so much. I've given up so much just to be with him. And yet, I'm not with him, he's slipping through my fingers even as I hold his head between my hands.

"No Michael. I'm the one that's sorry." I suddenly find my voice and the sound of it is equally calm and soothing as it is cold and serious. "I'm sorry I ever let you get this far. I'm sorry I let this burn notice take over your life. I'm sorry I let it consume you. I should have stopped you." I pause, and I realize with a harsh reality, "I should have never come to you in Miami." I shake my head with a sad smile upon my face, "I never could stop coming for you. Every time you needed me I was there. Whether you wanted me to be or not. That's why I'm going to stay with you tonight. But in the morning I will be gone. Because I finally need to do the right thing for me. And that's to be as far away from you as I can possibly stand."

The morning broke far too soon and Fiona Glenanne left much quieter than when she came into Michael Westen's life. She left with one final hope for him, "May you find what you are looking for."