Prologue;
Belfast, 1999;
There's a certain shine in her eyes that reminds him of midday sunlight hitting broken glass, a menacing sparkle that packs heat, promises peril and hazard, and it's the first immediate physical trait that comes to mind, not just for him, but for anyone that might be attempting to describe Fiona; most likely for a police sketch. And it's this particular quality that so effectively surrendered Michael Westen to his figurative, and even on occasion literal, knees. It's this impish glint that soundly secured the transfer, however unwilling, of Michael's cherry pit heart from his own safe possession into the unpredictability of hers.
She wears pant suits and jeans and tee-shirts, and forgoes socks altogether when it comes to tennis shoes, but when you're lucky – really, really lucky – you catch her on a night she's wearing a thigh skimming dress, and sipping a glass of red wine at the Black Sand Pub. Don't be surprised, either, when she turns up behind the bar; helping serve steaming cold mugs of bootleg ale, when the tenders can't keep up with the demand for the supply. Ruddy hair, with the slightest of swirls to it, that reaches a good ways past her chest, and sweet like cinnamon full lips; she'd be the picture of girl-next-door innocence, if it wasn't all instantaneously betrayed by the impossible depravity of her ocean eyes. She's beautiful by some standards, but lands only on the better side of plain by others; attractive until she says something with that abrasive mouth, and presses a snub-nosed revolver into your belly. She made Michael choke on oxygen, though. Messy kisses, lopsided and wet. Half of the time she missed his lips altogether, and caught the top of his cupid's bow, instead. He'd hold her cheeks still, though, and correct it, because nothing was better than the taste and feel of her abrasive mouth. He'd found that something near eight months ago, when he wasn't even sure if he should be enjoying her that fucking much, but now that he'd fully succumbed, he let it whisper to him, secrets and demands, and he followed them.
"H-h-harder, Michael." She starts and fumbles, a smothered whine from deep in her throat. He's teasing her, being far too gentle for her current liking. It's three-something in the morning, and she can't get enough. Michael is freshly returned from a four day weekend in Kilkenny, visiting his mum and gran, or so Fiona thinks. The actuality is… well, rather kind of hugely vastly different. The C.I.A.'s nasty little habit of arranging for the odd 'respite' weekend or two, in which Michael is granted a couple of personal days, is quickly wearing out its welcome. He tries to politely decline, but Card says something about all work and no play (if only he knew), and refuses his refusal. Samantha is desperate to see him, of course, and it's truthfully becoming more of a chore than Michael is willing to admit because, these days, Michael Westen feels like more of a charade than Michael McBride does. He makes love to Samantha in such an urgent way that leaves any suspicions she may have had carefully pacified. And he thinks of Fiona, Fiona, Fiona the whole damn time. It stings and he knows it's wrong, someone's going to get real hurt, real soon, but he persuades himself that it's strictly all for the job, for God and country.
But oh, if there is a God, it's here. Fiona is laid out, deliciously nude, in front of him on the stark white sheets. Her body is petite and full of slender grace, and her frustrated objections are nothing short of endearing to him. "Michael, please." A second attempt. Her voice is hoarse, thick with craving, and it's in these fevered moments that he can hear an involuntary transition in her annunciation of the first vowel in his name; from Michael to My-chael, all selfish and irresistible. And that's when he finally gives in.