Author's Note:

Just something to break my writer's block - and I do love these characters. My first BN fic, so thanks for giving it a try.

One

.

Sam Axe pushed at the metal gate, which swung open without protest. He walked through until he noticed the padlock hanging from the inside. He frowned; Mikey doesn't leave the padlock swinging on his gate. Still, he stepped through and surveyed the small concrete area: the Charger was parked under the steps as usual, waiting patiently in the humid afternoon, and nothing signalled trouble - save the padlock on the gate. Sam went for the steps.

When you're a spy, you learn not to take things at face value. That picked padlock on the approach to someone's home may mean a break-in, or it may simply mean someone forgot their keys.

Sam climbed the steps, hauling on the handrail until he reached the door. He raised his hand to pound on it but paused as sudden noises distracted him.

Or of course it could mean that someone had more important things on their mind than a lock.

Sam's face creased as he recognised the unmistakeable sounds of Michael Westen being tortured.

"Aaa! Really? You're going to-! Aaa! Ow! Is that the best you can do!"

There was a crash and a thump. Sam took a step back. He braced himself - but stopped short as a giggle interrupted his plans for door domination.

"Honestly, Michael - you always used to like this."

"That was before I got my - OW! - I got my arm broken in-. ARRGH! Fi! Fi! Not my-. ARGH!"

A ring of metal on wood. An oof! that had Sam wincing. A wicked female laugh and a wooden smack. Sam's feet shuffled him back a good two feet as his brain did flips.

Michael's shout made Sam jump. "OW! Fi - cut it out!"

"Not until I'm completely satisfied."

"Well that's not going to happen if I'm dead." Pause. "ARGH! Fi!"

I do not want to know what's going on behind that door, Sam sniffed to himself. He turned and hurried down the steps. He stopped by the Charger and pulled out his cell phone. A quick thumb at the speed dial and he had slapped it to his ear.

The protesting and giggling from the loft went quiet. Sam heard the line click.

"Yeah, Sam," Michael managed - sounding weary, relieved.

Sam took a deep breath. "Oh, hey, Mike. Busy?" he asked carefully.

"No." There was a scuffle, material scraped over the earpiece, a voice from somewhere behind the phone receiver. Michael sniffed down the phone. "No, Sam. Come on over."

"If you're sure, Mike. -I could come back in a few hours."

"Sam… are you outside?" Michael asked suspiciously.

"Kinda," he allowed.

"Come on up."

Sam looked at the phone in worry. Then he snapped it shut and slid it back into his pocket as he made his way back up the steps. He pushed at the door and it swung open. His feet took him in and his hands guided the metal door shut - but he didn't look over at the middle of the room, nor the bed in it.

"Sam," Fiona said with a sly smile in her voice. "To what do we owe this pleasure?"

Now Sam did look over - to see her walking toward the fridge, wiping her hands together. Sam dared to look at Michael, and was surprised to find him flat out on his front on the bed, his jeans distressed. His white t-shirt was clearly freaking out, warning Sam not to ask what had caused it to be so rumpled.

"Hey Sam," Michael groaned.

"Hard day?" Sam asked lightly, going quickly to the fridge in the far corner.

Fiona closed the door of the appliance rather deliberately in his face, taking her own beer bottle to the other side of the wooden table. "Michael's shoulder has some issues," she said. "I was encouraging it to lighten up."

"I'm sure," Sam said to himself, reaching in the fridge for a beer. "Anyhoo, what else you two up to?"

Fiona turned and pinned him with a look that could have melted the door off the refrigerator without even trying. Sam raised his free hand. "No - I meant - I meant like, have you got any work right now? Cos I might have something-"

Michael propped his chin on the sheets. "What is it?" he muttered, still spread-eagled on his front, clearly with no intention of moving this month.

"Michael's not taking any cases right now," Fiona announced.

Sam looked at Michael. Michael just rolled his eyes. Then they closed as if he really did not need the light pollution and his face planted into the softness.

"Why's that?" Sam dared, pulling the top off the beer bottle.

"His shoulder still isn't healed. He'll get himself into trouble," Fiona said. She sipped her beer, her eyes watching Sam in a way he knew meant she was searching out weak spots for a knife attack on his person.

"Ok, well…" He sipped at his beer, then leant his free hand against the wooden table. "I could do it myself. I mean, it's only a holiday scam thing. It'll be simple."

"Sam, every time you say that, it escalates into a gang war, or a drug cartel, or an FBI bust," Michael muttered into the sheets beneath him.

"Yeah, well, this one couldn't turn out like those others, don't you worry about that. I just thought maybe Fi would like to meet the client, that's all," Sam shrugged, taking another swig of beer.

"Is he devastatingly handsome?" she said eagerly, with a small smile.

Michael's head tipped up slightly. His gaze barely made it to Fiona across the room. Then his face collapsed back into the sheets.

"She's from your neck of the woods," Sam said nonchalantly, sniffing and looking over at the door to the balcony. "Only been in the US a year."

"Really?" Fiona asked, her eyes narrowing. "What does she deal in? Guns? Explosive devices?"

"Flowers," Sam said, turning back to look at her. "She's a florist. Honest."

"That kinda rhymes," Michael grunted into his sheet.

Sam glanced at him, but his eyes went back to Fiona. "Anyway, if you don't want this girl to get any help, then-"

"I never said I wouldn't help," Fiona said archly. "What's the job?"

"Well, she's been working her ass off over here, and her husband's doing the same. They got married late 2011 but had no money for anything else. Now they've made some, she booked a surprise honeymoon through this company. Man, she went for the works. She must really need a holiday," Sam shrugged, sipping his beer.

"And let me guess," Fiona said, perching on the stool next to her. "The company took her money and then vanished. She has no honeymoon to go to."

"Bang on, sister," Sam said. He put down his beer bottle. "All her savings, everything she planned for the two of them? Gone. Down the tubes. Everything. Nine grand just - poof. And the worse thing? The husband didn't even know. And now he's asking for their joint savings so they can go somewhere together."

"Well then, we'll just go and get the money back," Fiona said.

Sam's face morphed into abject apprehension. "You and me?"

"Poor woman's lost what should have been the most amazing holiday of her life. I know what that feels like," she scoffed. "I'm in."

Michael's head didn't raise, but his hand did. "Fi, I don't think-"

"Shush," she commanded, glancing back at him. "Sam and I can handle this. You rest that shoulder. Or I'll have to have another go at straightening it."

Michael's hand dropped. "Good luck, Sam."

Sam took a deep breath, then finished the beer. "Thanks."

"Oh relax," Fiona said brightly, her smile widening to worrying proportions. "It'll be fun."

Michael's head lifted. His eyes went round and wide, communicating an entire world of alarm. From the corner of his eye he caught Fiona looking over at him.

His face went back into the sheets quickly.

.

.

Fiona and Sam went up the well-kept path to the modest house, marvelling at the neat, happy picture of home life. Sam knocked on the door then waited with his hands in his pockets. Fiona looked around, a far-away look on her face.

The door was opened up from the inside. Raven-black hair and amused brown eyes looked out at them both. "Sam!" the woman gushed. "Oh, thanks for coming. Please, come in." She stepped back, opening the door wider. "Sean's not home yet. Perfect timing," she added.

Fiona looked at her from beyond the door. "Your accent… Dublin?"

"Yes it is," she said proudly, looking straight at Fiona. "Have you been there?"

"Off and on," she said quietly, slithering past her into the house. She walked into the front room, finding it just the kind of happy comfort that had been promised by the outside. Sam followed and the woman shut the door, coming into the front room after them.

"Oh where are my manners?" she said, tutting at herself. "Siobhan."

"Siobhan…?"

"Berkowski," she said with a smile, putting her hand out.

Siobhan Berkowski

Client

"Right," Fiona allowed under her breath. She cleared her throat. "Fiona Glenanne."

"You'd be Sam's Irish friend then?" Siobhan asked.

"Yes," she said. "I find it's simpler to sound more like these foreigners these days. Makes shopping so much easier."

"Tell me about it," Siobhan chuckled. "If Sean's home I get him to answer the phone - people understand him."

Fiona smiled. "So… Can you tell us what happened? What brought you to the States?"

"Sean," Siobhan shrugged. She waved a hand out and Sam and Fiona made themselves comfortable on the wide, soft sofa. A brown coffee table sat just in front, and beyond that, another two-man sofa that Siobhan herself sank into gratefully. "My father and I had a business in Clondalkin, near Dublin."

"Nice area," Fiona said.

"You know it?"

"I know… of a few banks in the area," she allowed.

"Oh," Siobhan said, clearly lost. "Well we dealt in flowers. Until Sean came in. He was this brash, loud American… I thought he was obnoxious," she smiled.

"And then you found out he worked with flowers too?" Sam asked.

"Yes. One day, when he came in to settle some orders with my father, he just… asked me on a date. Just like that." She chuckled. "I was surprised, to say the least. But I thought, hey, why not give him the benefit of the doubt, right? He was only in Ireland for six weeks anyway - if it didn't work out, then he'd be leaving. So we went out."

"And you fell in love with him," Fiona said, trying to keep a polite smile on her face.

"No - there was a… I slapped him and took his car home. It was when he came to my father's house the next morning, to get his car back, that I realised he'd just misheard something I said. Bit of a cultural misunderstanding." Siobhan looked at Fiona. "We dated. He left Ireland. We still kept in contact - phone calls, e-mails, Skype… Then my father passed away, and I was left with the business. I tried to keep it going - I did. But… it wasn't the same without him." She sighed, looking across to the net curtain on the windows. "America just seemed so clean, so new," she added.

Sam and Fiona exchanged a glance.

Fiona leant toward Siobhan, lacing her fingers. "Sam tells me some travel agency took all your money," she said. "What happened?"

"I saw this ad in the paper," she said, getting up and going to the bureau in the corner of the room. She rifled through it for a moment before producing a piece of newspaper. "It promised exotic holidays on a budget, so I went along. I wanted something special - we didn't get a honeymoon when we got married over a year ago." She carried the cutting over, passing it to Fiona.

"'A+ Holiday Destinations, Ltd. Your dreams are waiting for you to arrive'," Fiona read out. Her face rumpled in abject disapproval. "Sounds… delightful."

"I know, but it promised cheap holidays," Siobhan said quietly.

Fiona passed the paper to Sam. She looked at the woman carefully. "What happened when you went in?"

"I spoke to this nice bloke - Ben, his name was. He was friendly, there was no pressure, I liked the place. I went in about three times, discussing details and everything. He said if I could give him a deposit of nine thousand dollars, he'd put the package together for us. I thought it was a lot, but… but he said the balance wouldn't be much and I'd be securing a brilliant holiday for me and Sean. So… I did it. It went against all my instincts, but I did it," Siobhan said, putting her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. "I was so stupid! But I just wanted time alone, with him, without any business or banks or phone calls or invoices or manila folders full of more work! He works so hard - all the time - and he needs to slow down, take a break."

"We've all been there," Fiona said quietly. From the corner of her eye she noticed Sam watching her. She cleared her throat. "Don't blame yourself. And we're going to get the money back."

"The important thing is that Sean doesn't find out about this until you have got it back. Ok?" Sam said.

Siobhan nodded, brushing her hair from her cheek and looking at them both. "What do you need me to do?"

"We need you to tell us everything you can about these bastards," Fiona said, her voice somewhat harsh. "Then we'll go to work on them."

"-On getting your money back," Sam corrected quickly. He smiled determinedly. "What can you tell us?"

.

.

Fiona shoved open the metal door to Michael's loft, marching in and dropping her bag to the workbench. She looked over and found him sat at the wooden excuse for a kitchen table, a plethora of tiny wires and electronica scattered about under his black-smudged hands. One hand had two wires trapped in it, the other harbouring a soldering iron. He had his favourite lazy-day jeans on, a simple blue t-shirt not even tucked in.

"How'd it go?" he muttered, pre-occupied.

Sam came in through the door, carrying a manila folder of papers and a six-pack of beers. "Hey, Mikey. Delivery."

"In the fridge, Sam," Michael said, under his breath. He squinted, leaning down to solder two minuscule wires together.

Sam went round him to the fridge, sliding the six-pack inside. "Whatcha doing?" he asked, closing the fridge door and looking over the seated man's shoulder.

"Spare listening device," Michael muttered.

Sam looked over at Fiona, who raised her eyebrows and folded her arms in just the way that made her look like the kind of judge who judges judges. For a living. Sam noticed this and patted Michael on the shoulder, making him drop one of the wires. Michael closed his eyes in an attempt to rein in irritation. "You need to take a break, brother," Sam said in a loud voice. "Doing that all day will kill your eyesight."

Michael opened his eyes and made himself smile at Sam. "Thank you, Sam, for your concern. Aren't you and Fi supposed to be somewhere?"

Fiona came up to the table, looking at the single wire left in Michael's hand. "We talked to the client - nice lady. She gave us a load of info, and Sam - the amazing bloodhound that he is - tracked down some people we can start interrogating." She reached out and twisted the wire from his grip to inspect it.

"That's great," Michael said, with a wide, pasted-on smile that only looked half as forced as it actually was. "Are you going to start that now? Like, right now?" he asked, his eyes innocently hopeful.

"When we've worked out a battle plan," she said airily, going round the table to the fridge.

Michael slid the soldering iron into its cradle and picked up both wires, arranging them carefully in his left hand. He slid the soldering iron back out and again leant over to melt them together. "Well be careful, Fi. Call me if you need something."

She pulled the door open, picked up a yoghurt, and closed the door again. "I think we can handle a few scam artists in a holiday shop," she said, pulling the lid open on the pot. She turned and scrabbled round for a spoon, and then turned back to him.

"That was my last yoghurt," he sighed, resigned but still intent upon getting the wires soldered together before anything else could disturb him.

Fiona leant across him deliberately, her hair obscuring his vision. He simply waited whilst trying not to pout. But she set the yoghurt pot and spoon by his left hand, before pausing. "Eat something. And don't strain your eyes."

He drew in a breath to reply, but when he pulled his head back and up he found her eyes a few inches away. His words stalled.

She looked his face over for a long moment that turned into two.

"Well then," Sam said loudly, clearing his throat, "let's go through this intel, huh?"

Fiona's eyes ran to the V-necked t-shirt on Michael before she pulled out of his way. She whipped her hair over her shoulder, walking round the bench to her bag, still sitting on the long workbench under the window. "I only came to see if you had spare rounds for my nine millimetre," she said professionally.

"Top drawer," Michael said, watching her rip the aforementioned hiding place open.

She reached in and found a box, shaking it to make her smile. "Thanks. I'll get you some replacements later," she said, whisking her bag up and walking out. Sam followed quickly.

"Consider them a gift!" Michael called, as the door swung shut. He huffed, stretched his back, and then settled back down to the soldering job in his hands.

Until there was a loud electronic trilling. He frowned at the mobile phone on the workbench, then at his hands. The sound went on. He scowled fit to put the fear of Westen into any scam artist and set the soldering iron back in its cradle. He reached out with his right hand and picked up the phone, trapping it between his neck and shoulder. "Yeah, Ma." He listened to the voice from the other end and sighed. "It's not a grinder, it's a blender," he said clearly, trying to remain patient. "No, no no - don't put the-. Wait. I'm coming over. No - don't touch it. Not with the wire hanging out of the-. Ma-. Ma! Will you listen to me? I'm coming over. Don't touch it."

He put the phone down, laid the wires on the table, and reached over. He unplugged the soldering iron and huffed, picking up his car keys and finding some trainers.

As he walked out and locked the front door, the untouched pot of yoghurt simply watched, judging him in its own pasteurised way.

.

And we're off! Thanks for reading this far!