A/N: I'm planning on improving my writing through practice and vignettes/drabbles are the perfect way to go by that. Suggestions for prompts are always appreciated!
Origin of title comes from a line in "You're Gonna Go Far, Kid" by Offspring. I highly recommend the song - definitely describes atmosphere of Burn Notice. I recommend checking out the BN fanvideo that ProjectZero uploaded to Youtube using that song.

The very end is a (rewritten) scene from The Reformed by Tom Goldberg, the fourth book in the BN series which I felt would really highlight his sweet side well. Thanks to him! :)

Sometimes, Michael Westen could be sweet.

7:09 A.M.

The sheets rustle and a yawn rolls throughout the room. She slips out of the bed, eyes closed and letting the morning sun warm her face, stretching her muscles – and walks into the doorframe.

7:11 A.M.

Toothpaste. Where is the toothpaste? Hell, where is the toothbrush? Confusion etches her face.

7:12 A.M.

Further contemplation renders a vague memory of leaving it at Michael's house the last time she is over – overnight preparations for a stakeout and all. Why doesn't she have two toothbrushes?

She rinses her mouth with running water from the faucet instead, wondering if Sam's ever forgotten a toothbrush at his lady friends' houses before. Screw that, he probably doesn't even brush his teeth or uses their toothbrushes instead. Unhygienic lard tub.

7:15 A.M.

Several open drawers and cupboards later, she is fuming. Her trusty cutting knife is nowhere to be found; a plastic knife will have to do.

7:18 A.M.

A twinge of guilt appears in the form of a wince – such fine mint deserve to be cut with a fine knife.

7:19 A.M.

"Damnit!" She curses. The sink is mysteriously clogged and hell if she is going to climb under there and see what's wrong. There will be no water for her to boil; she will have to skip her usual herbal tea routine this morning.

Strapping on an iPod and lacing her sneakers, she sets off at a brisk pace for her morning run.

7:29 A.M.

Her eyes scan the place forlornly; barbed fences and danger signs surround the beautiful expanse of water. Her favorite park trail is closed for construction. Oh well, she won't get to jog to the scenery of the lake today. She turns on her heel and heads off in a new direction, never one to let a small tragedy dim her mood. An opportunity to explore new routes, she reasons.

8:05 A.M.

Sure enough, she finds herself jogging along the beach, which is a nice change from the usual residential neighborhoods and nature trails that she typically courses. There's kids laughing and lots of positive energy abound. She takes comfort in the burn of her legs and coupled with the tempo of "Unstoppable" by Kat Deluna, she feels invincible and smiles.

"Oh, you have a pretty smile. You new here?"

She blinks, realizing that a muscular and shirtless twenty-something has sidled up to her.

"Thank you. It'll be the last thing you ever see in this world if you don't go away," she says. "Right now."

His ensuing laugh is irritating. "No, I don't think you really mean that," he smirks. "I'm Karl, what's your name, sweet cheeks?"

She grits her teeth, looking around the beachfront and planning options for tactical retreat. She doesn't want to cause a scene – just finish her run in peace with her music. The electropop rhythm of Lady Gaga's "Telephone" echoes her feelings.

In the end, she decides to just handle this directly. "Look," she says, looking Karl in the eyes, "I'm not interested. So why don't you just –"

"You have really pretty eyes," he cuts in. Well. Five minutes in and he's already praised her more than Michael Westen does in a week. But alas, her heart belongs to him all the same.

"…That's nice. Pay attention. Leave me alone or I'm calling rape. Tu comprendes?" Anywhere else, like a sealed off lakeside trail, she would have just used physical violence but she didn't want to risk being charged with assault in a place with so many potential witnesses. Not to mention how Michael would freak about her carelessness. She speeds up her pace, hoping that the sleazebag just leaves.

Then, she feels a pinch on her ass. Oh no you didn't.

Oh no you didn't.

She swings around, grabbing his wrist with reflexes polished by years of guerrilla warfare and Miami antics, and twists. Hard. Karl goes down on the sidewalk immediately with a surprised yelp of pain.

"Oh my God! Let me go!" He gasps, "Ow, fuck, ow!" Bystanders stop to watch. Great, Karl's caused a scene.

"Apologize," she commands.

"I'm sorry!"

"Sorry for what?"

"I don't know, for talking to you!"

She rolls her eyes. "'I'm sorry for bothering you on your run and for grabbing my ass.' Say that."

"I'm sorry for bothering you and grabbing your ass!" Karl wheezes and his face is contorted in pain against the sidewalk. Fiona raises her eyebrows. "Let this be nature's lesson: keep your hands –"

"Fi!"

Fiona spins around at familiar voice, letting go of Karl's wrist. He scrambles to get up, accidentally kicking her in the shins with his cleats. Who the hell wears cleats when they jog? Fiona thinks bitterly as she collapses to the ground, biting her lip with her eyes closed and willing the pain to subside. She looks up to see Michael Westen throw Karl onto the grass before smiling and waving to curious onlookers with falsely cheery morning greetings. Karl clumsily gets to his feet and sprints off, never once looking back.

"I can take care of myself, you know," she grumbles when he crouches down and cradles her ankle, inspecting for damage. "It's twisted, but big deal," she adds breezily.

"I know you can," Michael replies. "Can you get up?"

Fiona pulls herself up using him as leverage. She shakes out her foot and takes a running step – and would have fallen flat on the pavement had he not caught her.

"You're not okay. Come on, I'll carry you home," he said, crouching down again. Fiona's cheeks flush with embarrassment as she climbs onto his back and she's glad that he can't see her face.

8:31 A.M.

"What were you doing here?" Michael asks after half a mile of walking.

"That nature path I told you about?" Fiona sighs, "It's under construction." She nestles her face into the crook of his neck and mumbles. "Today just sucks. I walked into a door – who does that? I lost my toothbrush, and my sink wouldn't work so I couldn't brew tea."

"You could have asked me to come over and fix it," he replies, eyes straight ahead. He feels Fiona shake her head.

"No, people come to you asking for help all the time. I don't want to give you more work."

Michael cranes his head back, "Fi, you can ask me for anything." His voice is soft and sincere.

"I know…" Fiona mumbles. She knows it's not as simple as Michael sounds it out to be, and her voice must have reflected her lack of confidence in her response because his next words are firm and strong.

"I mean it, Fi," he says, "anything you want. Ask for it, you got it."

"Can we go out on a date?" Fiona's blurt surprises even her. She bites her lip, tentatively waiting for his response. A few seconds pass.

"When do you want to go?"

Fiona grins widely and nuzzles his neck. "Right after you help me unpack my new shipment of guns, clean my house, mow the lawn, and, oh, fix the sink."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did you want me to fix the sink before or after I rearrange your shoe collection?" Fiona can practically hear the smile in his voice. Sometimes, Michael Westen can be sweet. Fiona's world suddenly shines just a little bit brighter and her ankle doesn't hurt anymore. She lets him carry her home on piggyback anyway, relishing in the feel of his strong arms and back.

9:18 A.M.

"Have you been looking for this?" Michael asks, holding up an eight-inch knife that could gut Bigfoot.

"I knew I left it somewhere!" Fiona exclaims. She takes the knife from his hand and admires it a bit. "I bought this in Switzerland. It can cut meat, vegetables, or human flesh with equal acuity."

Fiona smiles at Michael as he rescrews the elbow joint of her sink and pops it back in.

Sometimes sweet, indeed. She wonders if he tastes sweet right now, too.