Three Times Michael Almost Shot Fiona...And One Time He Did
My inspiration for this story came from a scene in the extended version of the pilot. There's a line that has always intrigued me. In one of the extra scenes, Michael is testing his homemade cell phone bug on the roof of the loft when Fiona sneaks up on him and demands he take her to dinner. When he realizes someone is there he almost points a gun at her. She tells him smugly, "It's good to know I can still sneak up on you." He's annoyed and replies, "You know, one of these days I'm gonna shoot you by accident." She's still amused and says, "Oh, you might shoot me one of these days, but it won't be by accident."
So here we have it…three times Michael almost shot Fiona and one time he actually did…
The First Time:
"There she is!" the asset cried as he shook Michael's shoulder with one hand and pointed with the other.
Michael scrunched his face and tried to contain his sudden desire to smack the man across the face. "Would you be quiet!" he muttered and grabbed the man's pointing hand. "Do you want her to kill you?" Tourists milled around the busy New York City café and Michael hoped none of them noticed the man's odd behavior.
Across the table, Michael's partner leaned over in his seat. He used the zoom lens on his camera to get a closer look at the woman in question. "Well," he whistled under his breath, "She's almost too hot to shoot."
The asset glared at him. "How can you say that? She's a terrorist! She blew up my brother's shop in Belfast five years ago."
Michael did the math in his head and groaned. He grabbed the camera and took a look at the woman in question, sitting out on her third floor balcony enjoying an afternoon tea. They'd been tracking her ever since she'd sold guns to a Spanish separatist group in Morocco…following flight plans across northern Africa and around Europe, watching her bank statements and credit cards, and finally tracking her down at a hotel in Manhattan, but this was the first time they'd actually laid eyes on her.
He should have known.
Her hair was shorter now than when he last knew her. She blew the steam off the tea daintily but then gulped it down like an ill-mannered child. He had to fight hard to keep the smile off his face. He'd always loved how incongruous her personality could be.
"Westen," his partner grumbled. "Don't stare."
He snapped a few pictures then lowered the camera again.
Her hotel room was nice. A bit too Old World for her tastes, but she wasn't paying for it. The balcony was the best part. The hustle and bustle of the city made her feel more alive than she had in years. The brisk air reminded her of home more than the searing heat of the desert and all the noise helped her block out thoughts of people and places she needed to leave behind. New York, she thought to herself, might not be such a bad place to settle down and stay awhile.
They found some empty office space across the street and a few stories above Fiona's room. Their directives from the CIA had been clear: Take her out. It was not a mission they had officially sanctioned. The CIA didn't officially sanction any projects on US soil and certainly not to kill foreign nationals, but that's why there were people like Michael Westen in the world…or not in the world, as the official line may be.
Of the two men, Michael was the better shot. He took his time setting up the sniper rifle he was most fond of using. His partner was in the lobby of the hotel where she was staying. At any moment, Michael knew, he would call to inform him that she was back from whatever errand she was running.
He considered his options. There was no way he could kill her. While she had started as no more than an asset back in Ireland, there was a reason why her name was still in his wallet. His only option, he decided, was to arrange a miss.
He flipped open his cell phone and dialed the hotel.
She returned from apartment hunting and flopped down on the bed. Her new heels were clearly not broken in yet, so she kicked them off and stretched lazily.
A knock on the door startled her awake a few minutes later.
"Room service," a voice called through the door.
Her senses went on high alert. She had not made any room service requests. The peephole showed only a waiter with a covered tray. With a hand on the gun in her waistband, she carefully unlocked the door.
"Hi," she greeted the man casually.
"Good afternoon, Ma'am." She watched him with a steady gaze as he set the tray down on the table and walked back out.
The covered tray displayed no obvious signs of being booby-trapped or otherwise dangerous. Still, she wrapped her arm in a towel and turned her face away as she lifted the lid. Underneath she found merely the standard, hotel tea service, the same one she'd been ordering every afternoon.
'Maybe they just expect I'd like tea today since I've ordered it every afternoon,' she thought.
Upon closer inspection however, she noticed that they had not delivered milk or sugar, but rather honey. The only person she knew who took honey in their tea was…
Her heart started to race.
The only person she knew who took honey in their tea was an American…an American spy.
Her mind joined her heart and started to race through the possible meaning of this delivery. She hadn't learned he liked honey in his tea until a job they did in Berlin. Her thoughts drifted to that adventure, and she suddenly knew what he was trying to tell her.
His phone rang just a moment after he hung up with the hotel's kitchen.
"She's back," his partner told him. "You ready?"
"All set," Michael answered curtly.
"I'm going to head back across the street and watch. Call if you need anything."
Michael's answer was little more than a grunt. Despite his training, his heart was racing. If anything appeared to be amiss on his end, there would be an investigation. There would be an investigation and eventually someone would discover the connection between the two of them. Then he would be benched and someone with no mercy would take his place. She'd be dead within a month. It had to be an accident. It couldn't be his fault.
He checked his scope. The dark curtains blocked his view. He waited, trying to control his nervous energy. If she didn't understand…if she didn't remember…
His finger sat on the trigger, patiently waiting. Finally the curtains were pulled back. The door to the balcony slid open and suddenly she was there, holding the cup and saucer in her hands.
She lifted a foot to take a step outside and he pulled the trigger.
Her foot fell awkwardly and she stumbled forwards, dropping the cup. She ended up on the ground just as the bullet flew over her head and lodged in the doorframe.
He sucked in a deep breath and closed his eyes in relief. He peered through the scope again and saw her smile up in his general direction, following the trajectory of the bullet. His phone was ringing, but he couldn't help but smile to himself. She scurried back inside as he bounced a few more bullets off the wall of the building for good measure.
"Get out! We're blown," his partner yelled opening the door. "Why aren't you answering your phone? Come on, let's go!"
The report that came out later said it was an accident. It was too dangerous, the agency decided, to continue to track her.
It would be years before he saw her again.