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Entry tags:
FIC: Contrariwise
Title: Contrariwise
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wizefics
Fandom: Burn Notice
Characters: Fiona, Fiona/OMC, Fiona/Michael
Prompt: 47) I'm moved by contraries, by opposites, the strength that was my mother's eyes, the beauty of my father's hands. -- Judith Jamison.
Rating: Teen
Warnings: Violence and sexual situations.
Summary: Fiona Glenanne, in all her glory.
Disclaimer: I don't own Burn Notice and don't make money doing this.
A/N: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
femgenficathon, for which I am terribly late posting. Also written for prompt 002. Heart at 10_fics. I owe many thanks to strangevisitor7 and sabaceanbabe for the betas and suggestions. It's a better story because of them. Any and all mistakes or failings that remain are mine, all mine.
As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated!
***************
There is a certain beauty in violence - an artistry that can only be drawn with a gun; symphonies created solely by the sound of bullets; masterpieces created with the flick of a hidden blade suddenly revealed; plays unfolding in the wake of bomb blasts - that can be hard to see if the observer is afraid to look for it.
Fiona had always appreciated the artistry of death, ever since the moment she first witnessed it. She was six years old and she could still remember the sound of her father’s laugh, just before he was gunned down by an Orangeman outside a pub in Belfast. She was six years old, but she still remembers that they were laughing as they walked down the street, her hand held firmly in his. He was asking her what she thought Father Christmas would bring her for Christmas, when a car suddenly squealed around the corner. He threw her down behind a rubbish bin and she rolled, the world spinning on its axis.
Three gun shots - one... two... three... - and a spray of blood arced through the air leaving a pattern on the brick alley wall. Fiona slowly climbed to her knees and she crouched in the snow, staring at the bloody pattern in mute fascination until the police arrived.
Sirens. She could hear voices over police radios and then the police were there. A large man with gray hair picked her up and carried her away from the body. “It’s gonna be alright, sweetheart.”
Turning, Fiona looked at the man who held her. She could still hear the static of the other officers’ radios and the dark whisper that floated over her father's corpse. "Bloody IRA bastard got what he deserved."
“How?” Fiona asked. The officer’s jaw tightened and he squeezed her.
“I don’t know.” It was the most honest statement Fiona had ever heard and she put her head on his shoulder until they arrived back at the police station. She fell asleep in his arms, sighing softly, but she didn’t cry.
********************
Fiona’s mother thrived on drama. Being the widow of a martyr gave her ample opportunity to sit in the center of the spotlight. Fiona hated it – every minute of it. She hated the stifled smothering feeling of the wake. She hated the way everyone kept crying. She hated that her mother wouldn’t stop weeping hysterically.
Mostly, Fiona hated that her mother told everyone that Fiona didn't cry because she was in shock. As soon as she could escape her mother’s grasp, Fiona snuck into the front parlor. People were standing around talking in hushed tones, which was, because no one was ever quiet in her family’s home. Normally, it was filled to the rafters with laughter and good natured quarrels between her brothers, her uncles, her family. Even stranger to her young eyes was the coffin lying in the front of the room. She wove in between the legs of her brothers and uncles until she reached the coffin. Reaching out, she trialed one hand over the smooth mahogany, smudging the shiny brass handle.
“Fiona, Fiona don’t.” Her brother Colin came to her side.
“Da’s gone?” Fiona asked, her voice wavering slightly.
“Yes.” Colin’s voice was tight, but he knelt beside her and pulled her close with one arm. “He’s gone.”
“Why?”
“It’s complicated, Fi.” Colin sighed.
“What will happen to the men who shot him?”
“They’ll get what’s comin’ to them.” Her Uncle Jack’s voice was loud in the sudden silence. “Don’t you worry your head about that, Fiona.”
Colin stood, picking her up as he did and Fiona rested her head against his shoulder. “Promise?”
“We promise.” Colin answered solemnly, taking her out of the front room and back to their mother.
Fiona believed him. She stayed next to her mother for the rest of the wake, watching as her brothers and uncles condemned the cursed English. Everything was different now. The same men who had laughed and teased her the day before were different somehow. They spoke softly as they paid their final respects to her father, their hands forming the sign of the cross, even while their eyes burned with unholy light.
Fiona knew she wouldn’t forget. She knew, even as she listened to familiar prayers that extolled brotherly love, that no one would forgive.
********************
The day Fiona turned sixteen, she took control of her own destiny. She waited until the pub down the street closed for repairs, and then, all long legs and sashaying hair, she let herself into a meeting she shouldn't even have known was going on. Her brother Colin stood up in shock.
“Fiona, you can’t be here.”
“You’re wrong, Colin. I have every right to be here.” She looked around, calmly meeting the eyes of those who challenged her, friends, family, men that she went to Church with, men that she laughed with, old men who teased her, and the young men who flirted with her. She stared at them all until they looked away. “I earned my membership to this group ten years ago.”
Silence greeted her pronouncement and she sat down. After a moment, the meeting began again, and Fiona relaxed. She sat in the midst of a group that spread violence like a blanket over the countryside, but she had never felt like she belonged anywhere more.
Fiona hid her shaking hands under the table and stared at the grainy pattern in the wooden planks. It was stained and she lifted one finger to trace the pattern slowly. In her mind’s eye, it looked like blood and she could almost hear the static of police radios.
********************
Fiona killed a man when she was just three months shy of seventeen years old. It was just like she remembered it, gun shots resonating in her ears like music, blood spraying like warm sticky paint over the blank tapestry of a pub wall. Fiona stared at the scene until the sounds of sirens startled her. She forced her legs to move and she fled into the dark like the hounds of hell were chasing her. She didn’t realize that she was crying until she got home. It was the first time she remembered crying since her father died.
“Fiona, what’s wrong?” Her mother stood up, knitting falling to the ground forgotten.
Colin didn’t look up from where he was reading the paper and Fiona shook her head. “I’m fine, mum.”
An hour later, Fiona had just gotten out of the shower when she heard Colin’s voice through the door. “Go out, Fiona. Get a drink. Make sure people see you.”
“Colin, I…”
“You wanted in, Fiona.” Colin cut her off, sounding tired. “Now do as I say. It’s for your own good. In case you’ll be needing an alibi.”
Fiona obeyed and went down to the pub. Surrounded by the other members of her unit, she drank until the room spun around her, singing patriotic songs until her throat ached, and dancing until her legs stopped shaking. When Seamus grew brave enough to kiss her, she let him.
She woke up the next morning knowing that there were sins she should confess before they damned her soul. Instead, she stayed where she was and watched the sunlight stream through the window and play across Seamus' back.
When he rolled over on his back, Fiona shifted so that her head rested on his shoulder. Closing her eyes, she wondered what she had done.
********************
Miami was unlike any place that Fiona had ever been, but that was fitting because Michael was unlike any man Fiona had ever known. He was like her. He lived in a world colored with shades of gray, and when he fought, Fiona could tell that he heard and responded to the siren song of death.
When they made love, sex tinged with hints of violence, tenderness belying the shadow of death that hung over them both, Fiona could almost remember what it meant to be a little girl whose biggest concern was whether Father Christmas would remember her fondly.
Michael rolled on his back and Fiona settled against his side, her head pillowed on his shoulder. There were no promises for the future, no declarations of love, no sweet nothings whispered in her ear. Instead, there was only silence, but to Fiona, it was as close as she would ever get to going home.
It wasn’t much, but it was enough.
Author:
wizeficsFandom: Burn Notice
Characters: Fiona, Fiona/OMC, Fiona/Michael
Prompt: 47) I'm moved by contraries, by opposites, the strength that was my mother's eyes, the beauty of my father's hands. -- Judith Jamison.
Rating: Teen
Warnings: Violence and sexual situations.
Summary: Fiona Glenanne, in all her glory.
Disclaimer: I don't own Burn Notice and don't make money doing this.
A/N: Written for
femgenficathon, for which I am terribly late posting. Also written for prompt 002. Heart at 10_fics. I owe many thanks to strangevisitor7 and sabaceanbabe for the betas and suggestions. It's a better story because of them. Any and all mistakes or failings that remain are mine, all mine.As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated!
***************
There is a certain beauty in violence - an artistry that can only be drawn with a gun; symphonies created solely by the sound of bullets; masterpieces created with the flick of a hidden blade suddenly revealed; plays unfolding in the wake of bomb blasts - that can be hard to see if the observer is afraid to look for it.
Fiona had always appreciated the artistry of death, ever since the moment she first witnessed it. She was six years old and she could still remember the sound of her father’s laugh, just before he was gunned down by an Orangeman outside a pub in Belfast. She was six years old, but she still remembers that they were laughing as they walked down the street, her hand held firmly in his. He was asking her what she thought Father Christmas would bring her for Christmas, when a car suddenly squealed around the corner. He threw her down behind a rubbish bin and she rolled, the world spinning on its axis.
Three gun shots - one... two... three... - and a spray of blood arced through the air leaving a pattern on the brick alley wall. Fiona slowly climbed to her knees and she crouched in the snow, staring at the bloody pattern in mute fascination until the police arrived.
Sirens. She could hear voices over police radios and then the police were there. A large man with gray hair picked her up and carried her away from the body. “It’s gonna be alright, sweetheart.”
Turning, Fiona looked at the man who held her. She could still hear the static of the other officers’ radios and the dark whisper that floated over her father's corpse. "Bloody IRA bastard got what he deserved."
“How?” Fiona asked. The officer’s jaw tightened and he squeezed her.
“I don’t know.” It was the most honest statement Fiona had ever heard and she put her head on his shoulder until they arrived back at the police station. She fell asleep in his arms, sighing softly, but she didn’t cry.
Fiona’s mother thrived on drama. Being the widow of a martyr gave her ample opportunity to sit in the center of the spotlight. Fiona hated it – every minute of it. She hated the stifled smothering feeling of the wake. She hated the way everyone kept crying. She hated that her mother wouldn’t stop weeping hysterically.
Mostly, Fiona hated that her mother told everyone that Fiona didn't cry because she was in shock. As soon as she could escape her mother’s grasp, Fiona snuck into the front parlor. People were standing around talking in hushed tones, which was, because no one was ever quiet in her family’s home. Normally, it was filled to the rafters with laughter and good natured quarrels between her brothers, her uncles, her family. Even stranger to her young eyes was the coffin lying in the front of the room. She wove in between the legs of her brothers and uncles until she reached the coffin. Reaching out, she trialed one hand over the smooth mahogany, smudging the shiny brass handle.
“Fiona, Fiona don’t.” Her brother Colin came to her side.
“Da’s gone?” Fiona asked, her voice wavering slightly.
“Yes.” Colin’s voice was tight, but he knelt beside her and pulled her close with one arm. “He’s gone.”
“Why?”
“It’s complicated, Fi.” Colin sighed.
“What will happen to the men who shot him?”
“They’ll get what’s comin’ to them.” Her Uncle Jack’s voice was loud in the sudden silence. “Don’t you worry your head about that, Fiona.”
Colin stood, picking her up as he did and Fiona rested her head against his shoulder. “Promise?”
“We promise.” Colin answered solemnly, taking her out of the front room and back to their mother.
Fiona believed him. She stayed next to her mother for the rest of the wake, watching as her brothers and uncles condemned the cursed English. Everything was different now. The same men who had laughed and teased her the day before were different somehow. They spoke softly as they paid their final respects to her father, their hands forming the sign of the cross, even while their eyes burned with unholy light.
Fiona knew she wouldn’t forget. She knew, even as she listened to familiar prayers that extolled brotherly love, that no one would forgive.
The day Fiona turned sixteen, she took control of her own destiny. She waited until the pub down the street closed for repairs, and then, all long legs and sashaying hair, she let herself into a meeting she shouldn't even have known was going on. Her brother Colin stood up in shock.
“Fiona, you can’t be here.”
“You’re wrong, Colin. I have every right to be here.” She looked around, calmly meeting the eyes of those who challenged her, friends, family, men that she went to Church with, men that she laughed with, old men who teased her, and the young men who flirted with her. She stared at them all until they looked away. “I earned my membership to this group ten years ago.”
Silence greeted her pronouncement and she sat down. After a moment, the meeting began again, and Fiona relaxed. She sat in the midst of a group that spread violence like a blanket over the countryside, but she had never felt like she belonged anywhere more.
Fiona hid her shaking hands under the table and stared at the grainy pattern in the wooden planks. It was stained and she lifted one finger to trace the pattern slowly. In her mind’s eye, it looked like blood and she could almost hear the static of police radios.
Fiona killed a man when she was just three months shy of seventeen years old. It was just like she remembered it, gun shots resonating in her ears like music, blood spraying like warm sticky paint over the blank tapestry of a pub wall. Fiona stared at the scene until the sounds of sirens startled her. She forced her legs to move and she fled into the dark like the hounds of hell were chasing her. She didn’t realize that she was crying until she got home. It was the first time she remembered crying since her father died.
“Fiona, what’s wrong?” Her mother stood up, knitting falling to the ground forgotten.
Colin didn’t look up from where he was reading the paper and Fiona shook her head. “I’m fine, mum.”
An hour later, Fiona had just gotten out of the shower when she heard Colin’s voice through the door. “Go out, Fiona. Get a drink. Make sure people see you.”
“Colin, I…”
“You wanted in, Fiona.” Colin cut her off, sounding tired. “Now do as I say. It’s for your own good. In case you’ll be needing an alibi.”
Fiona obeyed and went down to the pub. Surrounded by the other members of her unit, she drank until the room spun around her, singing patriotic songs until her throat ached, and dancing until her legs stopped shaking. When Seamus grew brave enough to kiss her, she let him.
She woke up the next morning knowing that there were sins she should confess before they damned her soul. Instead, she stayed where she was and watched the sunlight stream through the window and play across Seamus' back.
When he rolled over on his back, Fiona shifted so that her head rested on his shoulder. Closing her eyes, she wondered what she had done.
Miami was unlike any place that Fiona had ever been, but that was fitting because Michael was unlike any man Fiona had ever known. He was like her. He lived in a world colored with shades of gray, and when he fought, Fiona could tell that he heard and responded to the siren song of death.
When they made love, sex tinged with hints of violence, tenderness belying the shadow of death that hung over them both, Fiona could almost remember what it meant to be a little girl whose biggest concern was whether Father Christmas would remember her fondly.
Michael rolled on his back and Fiona settled against his side, her head pillowed on his shoulder. There were no promises for the future, no declarations of love, no sweet nothings whispered in her ear. Instead, there was only silence, but to Fiona, it was as close as she would ever get to going home.
It wasn’t much, but it was enough.
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I'm so glad you liked my portrayal of Fiona, but I should warn you that only the very last section is in anyway canon. The rest is pure speculation (except that we know she worked for the IRA at one point).
There isn't enough Burn Notice fiction in general, and there certainly isn't enough Fiona. But I encourage you to watch the show if you can.
Thanks for reading!
Well done!
I'm hoping that as Burn Notice progresses from the back end of season two and into season three, more of Fiona's background is revealed. (And IMHO, Gabrielle Anwar doesn't get enough credit for what she's brought to the show. She's an incredibly talented actress and brings layers of depth to Fi that another actress might never have uncovered)
Re: Well done!
I totally agree about Gabrielle Anwar. She is amazing and Fiona, in a lot of ways, drives the story more than even Michael.
I really appreciate your comments and compliments!
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I really appreciate that. :)
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Love it. Fiona's just... yes. Wonderful.
I got through episode 7 last night, btw. Just like them to turn a fight into sex. I'll attack the next ones tonight so I can get the fourth disc on its way this week.
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