A/N:Thank you all once again for your appreciation and enthusiasm for the REPOST of the 6.01 AU "This is My Island in the Sun."
There is also a brand new chapter of "Be Brave Little Angel" over on the main page and any reviews would definitely be appreciated. Writers live for feedback, so please feed the animals
This is a REPOST of Chapters 7-9 of Puppies, Kittens & Gun Toting Babies and Chapters 3, 10 & 15 of Reconnecting. Season Five was the first time there was a gap in the storyline that matched the gap between the Season Four finale and the Season Five premiere and we couldn't help but wonder what could have happened during that timeframe if Michael didn't see Fiona for the entire six months.
This begins with Michael on plane home following Hector's capture, reviewing what's happened to him since Larry had returned to haunt him and Vaughn Anderson's forces had trapped them all in an abandoned hotel. This is where the similarities between the opening scenes of 5.01 "Company Man" and this AU end.
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5.01 AU – High Risk, High Reward
An alternate for Season Five and beyond following on from 4.18 – Last Stand
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Miami 2011
"Teach me something," he'd challenged as they'd stood in the woods surrounding their target's house.
"You say that like I didn't teach you damned near everything you know," Larry had shot back.
He'd tried to save the life of one of those sorry son of bitches who'd burned him, but the bastard's days of dirty double dealing at the IMF were over the minute Larry Sizemore had come into Albert Mercado's soon to be extinguished life. Why had he fought so hard to save someone who'd helped to ruin his life?
"Jesus, every time I come back here there is less of you in there. You're bottling up your darkness, all the rage, all the good stuff that makes you who you are!"
Larry had been shouting at him, yelling exactly what he'd already been thinking, though not in the same way his former mentor had meant it. "That sonuvabitch, he helped burn you, he deserved to die. Are you gonna tell me different, huh?"
Of course Mercado deserved to die, they all did, including the murderous psychopath who was standing in front of him, berating him as he had when they were partners and they weren't partners, not anymore. They all deserved to die… truth be told, he himself deserved to die, too.
"There it is… There's the look… They took your life away. I know what you wanna do, give yourself permission."
"What makes you think I won't start with you?" How many times had he had the opportunity to do that and hadn't taken the shot. He knew who and what Larry was. Why had he let him live all those times?
"Because you are lost and because I am the way back and deep down you know that."
He had nearly been lost so many times since they had burned him, so many times since they'd forced him out of Ireland, but most especially those times when he'd worked with the man in front of him, the one raging at him for not being the cold blooded killer he'd wanted him to be.
"I can't stand watching you waste who you are, what you have inside, what we could have been!"
The thought of who he could have been if they had still been a team reverberated in his head until he remembered what he'd told Larry, remembered how he'd walked away calm and assured. Once again, Sam Axe had been there for him, had been there to save him from Larry as he'd saved him from himself.
"You're not gonna do it, Larry, cuz if you shoot me, Sam'll kill you where you stand and, while I'd give my life for something I believe in, there's not a thing in this world that you'd die for. Wanna know the difference between you and me? I really do know you and you only think you know me."
That thought about his friend, his best friend he'd amended, about the former Navy SEAL and Lieutenant Commander had chased the ghost of Larry Sizemore to the back of his brain as Sam had always done when the confrontation between them had been physical and not just mental.
The exhaustion of these last six months was starting to tell on him now that Mr Westen had been taken out of the game for the moment and made to sit on the side lines these last few hours. He didn't need a rest, dammit, he needed to finish this as fast as possible. Sitting on a black flight that boarded at 22:00 hours and wouldn't get him back on the ground until at least 02:00 had left him sitting still for four hours too long and had left him with too much time on his hands.
As he'd told Raines, he didn't want answers, he needed them.
Thinking about the mission and where it had taken him, Panama, Brussels, Seattle, Columbia, Ottawa and other stops along the way, hadn't led to him being more focused on the mission, but rather had turned his mind to where he was headed and who he'd left behind there. His frustration at the man who recruited him mounted.
They were at a critical juncture….why had Raines sent him back to Miami?
He needed to stay centered on taking apart the organization that burned him, so he could go back to the people he'd left behind without this millstone around his neck. The fact that his exact status with the Agency, civilian intelligence asset, independent contractor, reinstated agent or officially retired not fired, hadn't been quite settled. Yet it didn't matter, finishing those people who'd muddied that water did.
Sam had been a soldier. Sam had worked with him on multiple covert operations, both as a Ranger and as a spy. Sam understood what he was up against. Sam got the whole compartmentalization thing in a way the women in his life never would, though they both understood about the necessity of keeping secrets and were practiced in the art themselves.
They just didn't happen to like it when that need involved him and only begrudgingly tolerated it as a fact of his life.
The ex-SEAL understood what it meant to seek redemption. Sam had been dishonorably discharged from the Navy for standing up for the little guy regardless of whose toes he'd stepped on, although admittedly Mr. Axe had gotten himself in his own unique brand of trouble with an admiral's wife. There was a huge I-told-you-so card on that table Mike almost never played.
Sure, the older man had spied on him when he'd first found himself stuck in Miami, but Sam had kept him from going off the reservation countless times these past four years because Sam understood what he was going through. Sam Axe deserved better than what he'd gotten from him as a friend in exchange for his unwavering…
"You want this data, Mike? You're gonna have to steal yourself because I'm not gonna give it to you. And hey, if that makes me the Boy Scout you and your friend Larry think I am, man I'm okay with that!"
Okay, maybe unwavering support was a bit strong… but Michael was forced to admit that he had needed that proverbial kick in the ass at the time. Unfortunately, remembering the rest of the conversation had sent him in a direction he hadn't wanted to go, to a place he hesitated to confront…
"I'm not gonna help you any more until you get your head outta your ass! Hey, you want backup at your meeting with Carlos? Call Fi."
This wasn't Sam's fight, yet the man had stuck by him at the risk of his own life and limb and pursuit of happiness. Fiona... Fiona had... Sitting alone on that government Learjet with no one for company but the crew and nothing but time on his hands, he still couldn't begin to process the mental gymnastics necessary at that moment to explain to himself the changes to his connection with Fiona Glenanne during this past year...
"Maybe this isn't your fight, Fi. Just because it's my path doesn't mean it's yours."
"Maybe you're right."
Truly not the time to be having that conversation, trying to set up a road block with the enemy breathing down their necks, but she wouldn't let it go, or maybe she just couldn't... She'd challenged him to explain how this was anything but a "lose-lose" proposition for her and that had been his answer: if you're not with me on this, then you're not with me.
"This may be your war, but we're all caught in the crossfire-"
"Fiona!"
"Save it. You can apologize if we live."
So many stress-filled, harsh, hurt, angry words, so many years of misunderstanding made raw by imminent death.
"That should give you a window to get out with the list."
"That's a suicide mission for you."
One last chance, one last plea and one last time, pushing her away, pushing her onto another path, possibly into the arms of another man, to try and save her from the fate of being entangled with him.
"Michael…"
"You said it yourself, Fiona. Maybe it's time you went your own way."
He'd told his old mentor that he knew him, but that the man didn't really know him at all. Apparently, the same truth held for him in his relationship with the woman who'd been his asset and become so much more.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
"What does it look like?" she'd shot back while shooting back at their adversaries. "I'm tired of you making all the decisions in this relationship." She looked like she almost wanted to shoot him in that given second as much as Vaughn's men. "Is this thing ready to go?"
"Fi, you don't have to be here. You know you—" Of course she didn't HAVE to be there. She wasn't SUPPOSED to be there. How could you save someone who insisted into running head long into danger? The irony wasn't wasted on him either.
"What, run? Come on, Michael. You saw the pattern of fire out there. I wouldn't make it 10 feet. When it's time, we'll do this together... I was always so much better with explosives than you."
He had laughed and almost cried simultaneously at her statement because there was a truth contained in her words greater than the fact that she had been taught the bomb makers art by a master chemist at a young age, a truth he'd wished he'd had more than the last five seconds of his life to process.
And then he'd gotten that opportunity he'd longed for and instead had promptly disappeared into a mysterious black limo in search of another truth, a broader, more dangerous reality that threatened to eclipse more than the truly important thing he'd just learned.
"We'll be landing in fifteen minutes," a disembodied voice announced.
Michael opened his eyes and let them adjust to the lighting slowly, though there was very little of it inside the cabin of the plane. The sun wasn't up just yet, but it wouldn't be long before it was.
He had a desire to arrive before the darkness had abated for a variety of tactical and personal reasons. To sacrifice oneself as he was prepared to do for the good of the mission, for the good of his comrades in arms, that was a concept he readily understood and, although as a spy he had spent his life preparing, nothing in his training or in his experience had prepared him for Fiona's decision to die together rather than live on separately.
()()()()()()
The closer he got to the loft in the black Ford Crown Victoria with the dark tinted windows that the Agency had provided for his use, the more he couldn't get his mind off of what he would and wouldn't find there. The Charger had had its Enterprise moment on the chase from the nuclear plant when he'd had to sacrifice it in an attempt to evade Vaughn's men. Fiona's Hyundai was what he was anticipating finding and hopefully not in the same condition he'd last seen it, which was full of bullet holes after a job gone sideways, or so she had said.
He smiled briefly at her reaction to finding her electric blue baby sitting there, damage repaired and good as new, courtesy of his new friends in the auto business, the Taylor brothers. His prior contact had lost the Triple H Auto Body Repair to a grand jury investigation sometime between his leaving Miami and his forced return. It was his parting gift to her before he'd had to kiss her goodbye, a long and almost tearful thing, and then get back into the black Suburban they'd given him that time, driving away to the mission he'd been anticipating since he'd heard those fateful words. Sometimes that flat, emotionless voice declaring him black listed still troubled him at night, along with the screams of dead factory workers and the soft whimpers of terrified children.
Michael shook his head forcefully and pushed those sounds out of his mind. Once again, he turned his focus to what awaited him. He'd only been back to his home town twice very early on in the operation. The first time came after ten days in CIA custody, sitting in a room answering questions for a week and then another week working out the parameters of the plan that would see him and his newly assigned handler, Max Grant and his team, work their way through the NOC list until they got to the top of this hydra of an organization and finally cut off its real head.
The second time, he'd been gone a month. He was headed to the Caribbean and was sufficiently ahead of Max that he was able to convince Agent Grant to grant him a couple days layover in Miami en route and was very appreciative of the favor.
Michael knew once the manhunt had commenced in earnest, there would be no coming back until it was done and little opportunity for any kind of communication. He owed Fiona more of an explanation than he'd been able to give her when he'd left that encoded note in her bag the first time he'd seen her since his release.
Yes, it was bad trade craft, but unless a virtually defunct Irish Republican terrorist organization broke into the loft and tossed it and her personal belongings without getting shot, even then if they had found the message, they would have had a hard time decoding it and/or assigning any meaning to it.
As the Miami native navigated the traffic from the CIA hangar at Opa Locka Airport, he thought about how he'd come back to the smell of cheap booze and smoke permeating the loft. Finding Fiona passed out on his bed, obviously beaten and apparently inebriated, had caused his heart to skip a beat or two. The image of her sprawled out, bloodied and unconscious, had haunted him.
He remembered the stories Sean had told him while the visiting Irishman gotten his almost brother-in-law on the side when O'Neil had come a calling to have words with him about what his sister had done in the wake of McBride's abrupt departure, about the things she'd done to finish off the REAL IRA in his absence that had cut him to the quick, things that sometimes included drunken bar brawls and part of his heart had seized up with guilt.
But he was good at putting things in a box and moving on, so he had.
Michael parked on the street, opposite the club in Oleg's reserved spot, both watching the building and contemplating the contradiction that was Fiona Glenanne. She'd been a tigress who'd pointed a machine pistol at him and then had repeatedly tried to seduce him, though she could barely stand up straight unaided. But, there was also the helpless kitten quality she'd projected when he'd found her lying there in the bathtub, looking small and vulnerable where she'd passed out again after washing up, as he'd returned from changing the ruined bed sheets. Later on, he'd given those linens a burn notice all of their own in a trash barrel down by the docks while she'd slept.
The pictures flooded his brain: of tending to her, of washing all the debris of that job gone bad from her hair, of drying and dressing her and her wounds with bare minimum cooperation from her, of watching her sleep and spooning the 'medicine' down her throat to keep her comfortable enough to sleep, of watching her come awake to the meal he'd prepared for her, of making quiet love to her and spending the night cocooned around her warm and for once not restless body. Soon enough he was out of the car and headed towards the woman that had captivated his mind, taking up every bit of the rare and precious idle time he'd had in the last six months.
As the dark haired man slipped between the patrons jostling one another in line, he thought of the suit clothes and the jewelry he taken with him. Smooth Talking Johnny was going to take a special someone dancing when this was all over. Why the hell had Raines taken him off the interrogation and send him back to Miami? But that nagging query disappeared as soon as Michael saw that the parking space below the loft was empty.
Was she out on another job? As he walked cautiously up the stairs, something made him reach for the hardware tucked in the back of his waistband. The spy eased the door open and was peering into the darkness beyond the opening when he was slammed with the door and the weapon snatched from his grasp.
Michael pushed back against the heavy metal object and heard a grunt as it bounced off whoever was behind it. Strong hands grabbed him by the forearms and swung him towards the staircase near the center of the room. A circular fan, one of Fi's snow globes and a ceramic mug were all victims of the battle as he and his attacker wrestled to get a hold on one another. Pushing his opponent away, he came around the back of stairs, only to be met on the left side of the staircase and slammed up against the wire mesh that surrounded it so hard the dartboard was knocked off in the process. Mr. Westen flailed, trying to get his balance, and sent a small night lamp crashing to the floor.
A muscular limb pressed across his throat and a gun barrel into his stomach. Before he could make counter move, the smell of familiar cologne instead of perfume hit his nose and the identity of his assailant was on this lips as he blurted out the name in surprise.
"Sam, what the hell are you doing?"
Michael staggered a bit as he was released and then light flooded the loft as the former SEAL snapped on the recessed fixtures at the back of the loft. The sight of Sam Axe wearing fatigues accessorized with night vision goggles and an equipment belt boggled his brain momentarily. Without the loose fitting clothing, it was immediately apparent that his friend had dropped quite a bit of weight and must had spent time doing something besides drinking heavily and romancing women since he'd seen him last. Suddenly, he couldn't remember when he'd previously seen Sam looking so military, right down to the boots, and without a Tommy Bahamas shirt.
"Damn, Mikey, thanks for a chance to test the old reflexes there, but give a fella some warning next time."
As he looked around the loft, Mr. Westen realized why he'd had such a hard time seeing the assault coming. The windows were covered with some kind of film that blocked the available light and had given Sam the obvious advantage. He walked over to finger the panes behind the untouched bed and then ran the palm of his hand over it.
"You like that stuff?" the older man queried as he headed towards the refrigerator. "It's one way film that not only keeps anyone from seeing in, it cuts the light at night. Works pretty good, I'd say. Well, since you're here, I guess that means we get a celebratory beer? Are we done yet? What's the latest?"
Michael joined him at the breakfast bar as the man put a couple of cold ones on top of the worn wooden surface.
"Not quite yet. What's going on, Sam? Where's Fiona?"
"Uh, yeah, about that," Sam said, looking down as he popped the top to both beers without meeting his other man's eyes. "Ya might wanna take a seat while I fill you in about that." He pushed the Heisler towards the other side of the bar.
"Why?" he demanded, immediately fearing the worst. "Is she hurt?"
"No, no, relax, brother. Fi's fine, she's just busy right now."
"Busy?" he echoed. "Busy with what?" The possibilities were already growing at alarming proportions.
"You know, Mikey, I don't know where you get the idea that life just stops for the rest of us while you're off on these crusades of yours," Sam sat down heavily on the bar stool and finally looked his friend full in the face. "But the crazies still come around when you're gone and yours truly here gets the honor of trying to keep Tinkerbell from blowing everything all to hell while we're dealing with it."
"You mean like you did at O'Sullivans," Michael questioned rhetorically.
"Hey, I never said it was easy. In fact, with you gone, I'm just a man down and up one mad bomber with anger management issues. Are we almost done with these guys? Cuz I gotta tell ya, brother, we sure could use your help here on the home front."
"Care to be a little more specific? Like why you're over here rehearsing for the Team Six reunion and why you still haven't told me where Fiona is?"
"Come on, Mike, I'll give you the tour of my new operations center, which coincidentally used to be your home," Sam said with a weary smile. Coming around the wooden barrier, he clapped his friend on the shoulder and turned the younger man towards the staircase, which Michael noticed had been covered in wire mesh as he ascended the stairs.
"Controlling the access points," he remarked as they came around the top.
"Sammy's still got it." He paused next to a dumb founded Michael. "When I need it."
Mr Westen stared at the state of the art computer system that had replaced the old PC which had once sat in the left hand corner. Surrounding the landing was two inch thick sheet metal that the spy immediately knew was bullet proof. The couch was the same, but the amount of firearms, C-4, RDX, det cord, blasting caps, ready-made charges and grenades around it left him a little speechless. And he had thought he was the one fighting an all-out war out there in the real world.
"Sam, where did all this stuff come from? This looks like the contents of Fi's storage locker in Hialeah."
"Good eye, but it's half, actually. Your girlfriend's got the other half of her stash with her. Jesse hooked us up with the tech though, the latest and the greatest in integrated security systems."
"uh... and CIFA just let him borrow all this?" His disbelief was apparent.
"Seriously, Mike?" Sam cocked an eyebrow at the dark haired man and then grinned. "No, this little gem came courtesy of SecuriCorp. I have to say, brother, I was really impressed how quickly Jess was able to wrangle this."
"SecuriCorp? You mean, Jesse's not with CIFA, anymore?" Mr Porter had been cleared of all charges and reinstated following Michael's return to the CIA fold. It had been one of the demands he'd made of Raines in exchange for his cooperation on the operation, not that they could have kept him from going if they tried. But it had been nice to be able to make amends for getting Jesse burned.
"You're really gonna have to read the memos if you aren't gonna show up for the meetings, Mikey."
Michael shook his head slightly as he tried to process that particular piece of news. Jesse had been almost as angry and determined as he had been to right the wrong and return to his job and now he had just quit...?
Before the covert operative could make his next inquiry, a red light began flashing on the computer in concert with a low sounding alarm.
"Aw, dammit!" Sam declared as he reached to the floor and grabbed a heavy leather bag. Straightening up, he looked at his friend's puzzled expression and answered before he asked.
"That's the hot line. Someone's in your Ma's house. We gotta go, brother. I'll fill you in on the way there. Where'd you'd park the Bat-Mobile?"
()()()()()()
As they were flying low through the Miami streets in the near dawn light using his Agency issued vehicle, all the better to keep local law enforcement from detaining them, Mr Axe had brought Michael up to speed on what had been happening in his absence.
Jesse had indeed quit CIFA and gone on to work for the most premiere security consulting firm in the southeast, possibly on the Atlantic seaboard. Besides the pay increase, the perks had been beneficial for both Mr Porter and his friends. As it turned out, they had needed them. Plus it left them with contacts in the government they could actually contact unlike Michael.
The first sign that trouble was a foot was Madeline reporting additional surveillance around her home, especially since the prodigal son Nate and his pregnant wife had returned from Vegas and rented a house nearby. Initially the team had suspected that the younger Westen's former associates were sniffing around looking to connect and collect. While that had been the case in certain instances, odd occurrences and unexplained coincidences had continue to pile up, not only at the Westens' households, but in and around the loft and at the impound yard where the four thousand pounds of mangled metal that used to be Michael's car was stored.
Then had come the kicker.
Two cars had approached Nate's limo while he was driving the missus to a medical appointment. Without any other witnesses, it was hard to say with any real assurance whether the younger sibling had been targeted by his brother's enemies, his own or was merely the unfortunate victim of that all too common Florida driving hazard known as road rage. But the doubt was enough to put the whole team on high alert. If it wasn't an accident, whoever had staged it was very, very good at their craft. The only reason Nate and his wife had survived the resulting crash at all was the heavy body frame of the sedan and their seat belts.
Unfortunately, the accident claimed the life of their unborn son. Two weeks spent in the hospital recovering from her minor injuries, devastating loss and coming to her senses, so she said, had culminated in Mrs. Ruth Westen leaving behind Miami, her husband, her hospital bill, a credit card charge for a plane ticket and a strongly worded letter from a divorce attorney.
Admittedly, while Michael certainly wished his brother all the best, he really hadn't expected Nate's marriage or approaching fatherhood to end particularly well, but this was the last thing he had anticipated or wanted. That he and his friends would be targeted was an unfortunate fact of their lives, but that a true innocent had perished before ever having the chance to get started had truly saddened him and then shortly thereafter had made his blood boil.
When Maddie and the team had returned home with a grieving Nate to find their family heirloom bible, thick coat of dust and all, was lying open on the dining room table with the passage Psalms 30:5 highlighted in gold, then that had been enough to rally the troops. Fiona had taken the two remaining Westens into a protective custody of her own, Sam had taken over sentry duty at the loft and intensified his previous efforts vis a vis getting back into his old Navy working clothes and Jesse had made available as many of his new and old employers' resources as he reasonably could, given his status as the former golden boy of CIFA.
To say that learning all this in the ten minute hell for leather ride from the loft to his childhood home had put Michael back in super spy mode would have been a gross understatement.
Processing his emotions was entirely secondary to gathering intelligence on this new incursion into his personal life. As much as it felt like a sneak attack with tragic results, he had learned over the years that nothing was ever as simple as it appeared on the surface.
Now Raines' reprieve had turned out to be a blessing in disguise.
He knew his friend would be concerned when he had practically leapt out of the vehicle and raced towards his mother's empty house. But Michael had no intention of kicking the front door open and Sam's worries were proved unfounded as the former Ranger had quickly conducted a perimeter check of the grounds while the ex-SEAL had surveyed the garage to determine there was no threat forthcoming from that angle.
Intending to breech the kitchen and front doors simultaneously, both men were surprised when they each found their respective doors unlocked. Mr Westen eased in through the front door while Sam took the longer route through the kitchen and moved immediately to the bedrooms down the long narrow hallway past the laundry room. As Mr Axe returned from clearing the back of the house, Michael noted his friend glancing up over his head and was pleased to see the lock Sam had obviously installed on the attic hatch firmly in place. Later, they would see what was up there, but for now he was satisfied there was no imminent attack from above.
"Whatcha got there, Mike?" Sam queried, coming to stand by the younger man's side at the dining room table.
"Another message," he answered, pointing at the highlighted passage. "And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free."
And though he was standing next to his best friend in his mom's living room right at that moment, in his head he was in another time and place, walking on a beach with someone completely different, in more ways than one.
"What does the bible decode?"
"Oh, I'm not goin to tell. Let's put it this way. You deliver that book to Mr Barrett he'll have everything he needs to wipe out Vaughn and his ilk completely. Let him, Michael. You'll be free. Free to go gunning for Barrett yourself if that's what you want."
"Why tell me any of this?"
"I would have worked with the devil himself to take down those sons of bitches who burned us. Sadly, the devil wasn't available, so I'll have to pin my hopes on you. Go get them, brother."
"Care to enlighten us pagans what it means?" Sam joked, trying to ease the tension he saw building in the tightening of his friend's jaw and the narrowing of those blue eyes that were growing icier by the second.
"It means we have a problem."
()()()()()()
"I need to know if a prisoner is still in custody," Michael's tone was clipped and deliberate despite having to repeat the request more than once. "Yes, of course, I'll wait." What else could he possibly be doing?
After having done a thorough check of Madeline's house and the attic, they had discovered two things. All of Sam and Jesse's security measures were intact and untouched, which meant hopefully that surveillance footage would be available shortly. The pair had also learned that someone had installed their own cameras and listening devices in the 'locked' attic. Jesse had arrived with a single companion, as to minimize the number of outsiders involved in this case and keep it off everyone's radar. According to Mr Porter, the slender Asian woman at his side was worth an entire Geek Squad team and would be able to do wonders.
Sam and Michael went back to the loft to regroup and revise their current risk assessment before calling Fiona. The older man was upstairs coordinating with Jesse and his one-woman tech team back at Casa Westen while the younger man was pacing out on the balcony, trying to hold his temper and longing to hear someone's voice.
"This is a matter of national security." He was going to be the threat to a national security agency if he didn't get some answers pronto! "Get me Raines now!" he snapped after being advised he had insufficient security clearance to be provided the desired information. He knew when he'd been told that Assistant Director Raines was unavailable that no one was going tell him directly whether or not Simon had escaped. He had just wanted someone to tell Raines to call him back immediately because he needed to know the status of Mr. Escher's captivity since being transferred into the CIA's more humane care.
He looked up to see Sam watching him with a slightly bemused look on his face and Michael was sure they were both thinking about their mutual friend whose fondness for problem solving whilst striding around a room was legendary in intelligence circles, although they had both agreed over a decade ago to never speak of her again. He let out a long breath through his teeth and went inside to get a bottle of water, settle in the ugly green chair and try to wait.
"Michael..." William Raines had sounded as frustrated as his former recruit felt when he'd finally gotten back on the line. "I've been trying to get in contact with you. We need you-"
"And I need to know if a certain psychopath that the CIA is supposed to be keeping tabs on has escaped," he cut him off. "So you can ask me anything you want while you're finding out if Simon Escher is still where he's supposed to be."
Apparently, Raines was momentarily at a loss of words, but it didn't last long. "Hold on."
Michael dropped his head into his free hand, covering his eyes and shaking it slowly. At least they weren't hanging up on him instead of leaving him hanging. The tension building in his neck muscles was nothing compared to the aggravation of not being able to see or hear or touch her…
When he'd first approached the loft, he'd been a little bit apprehensive about what sort of reception he would get since she hadn't acknowledged the text he'd sent once his current boss had informed him there was a plane going wheels up at 22:00 and he had better be on it. Ire at Raines for cutting him out of Hector's interrogation had openly warred with the desire to see her.
Now all he wanted to do was get off this call so he could go see her as soon as possible. Sitting next to the bed, reminiscing about the last time they had shared it, had shared each other, was not helping his patience any. Worse yet, Raines returning to the line and informing him that it would take time to verify and that he expected Michael to be on the next plane back to DC within the hour to move forward the stalled interrogation of Hector had done nothing to improve his temper.
Mr Westen dropped the hand holding the phone into his lap and threw his head back, rolling his eyes at the ceiling and clenching his jaw so hard that he was amazed his teeth hadn't shattered.
"Not good news?" Sam guessed as he descended the stairs. The former SEAL didn't need anything more than his friend's expression and the fact that Michael's upper lip had disappeared to know the answer to his own inquiry.
"What's Fiona's number?" he asked with an exasperated sigh.
Sam went to the refrigerator and retrieved the two pre-offered beers before digging into one of his many pants pockets and handing the burner phone to the dark haired man in the dark mood.
"Speed Dial 1, brother. I'll be upstairs if you need me."
Michael took a minute to compose himself before getting up and going back out onto the balcony before dialing.
"Any news, Sam?" came the breathless voice and he realized he'd just how much he'd been longing for it. Why hadn't he just called her before now? Hearing Fiona had opened that box where he kept his feelings for her locked up safely away.
"Fi...?"
"Michael? My God, Michael, is that really you? Are you alright? Are you back? Is it over?" Her questions tumbled one atop of another and he wasn't sure which one to answer first.
"Fiona, are you alright?"
"Yes, I'm fine. I'm here taking care of your mom and Nate. They're okay, too."
For some reason, the covert operative was overcome with a rush of emotion at her words and he found himself blinking back unbidden, unexpected tears and swallowing hard before he spoke.
"I'm sorry, Fiona..." He wasn't sure what exactly he was apologizing for, but it felt insufficient whatever it was.
"I know, Michael..." Her own voice was laden with unshed tears. "Is it over? Are you back?"
"No," he gulped again. "I've just been called back. We got the last operative. We're going to get the names of the people in charge now. We're finally getting to the top of the pyramid."
Somehow it didn't feel as satisfying saying that as he had once thought it would. "How are my mom and Nate holding up, really?"
"Getting your mom to smoke outside has been the toughest part," she laughed, a shaky sound at best. "Nate has been... well, I supposed it's a good thing that I've got him under lock and key."
Michael could just imagine what his little brother's alcohol consumption would be under the circumstances.
"Actually, we've all been bonding over missing..." Fiona trailed off as she apparently realized what she was about to say.
"I've missed you, Fi..." he said in barely more than a whisper.
"Good," she answered simply. "Gives you another reason to come back in one piece, otherwise I'll have to kick your ass."
"Duly noted," and there was a trace of humor in his voice that didn't penetrate his heart very deeply.
"So, where are you? Or are you not allowed to tell me?" There was a definite edge of pique in her jibe.
"I'm with Sam at the loft. We're trying to figure out who broke into my mom's house and left another suggested scripture reading."
"Michael, you don't think-"
"I don't know," he told her honestly. "I've asked Lang—, I'll find out when I get back there."
"So you're going now?"
"I'm leaving Opa Locka in less than an hour."
"Well, that leaves out a goodbye kiss," Fiona responded in a resigned tone, which told Michael she was not anywhere in Dade County, which was more than he probably needed to know.
"Fi..."
"I know, Michael." She let out a heavy sigh and then asked wistfully, "Do you remember what it was like before it got so complicated?"
Silence floated between them like a still winter's morn back in Dublin and then she did something she'd never done except once. She started to sing, soft and low, so quietly that he had to strain to hear her.
"Rest tired eyes a while...Sweet is thy baby's smile. Angels are guarding and they watch o'er thee."
And, in that moment, he wasn't in Miami in the heat and the humidity, he was back in their small dingy, rundown but perfect little flat in Dublin, listening to her hum that tune repeatedly throughout their days together. When she was cooking, when she was washing up, when she was cleaning guns or building a bomb, or doing any other activity that a Glenanne would consider domestic, she hummed that tune.
"Sleep, sleep, grah mo chree...Here on your mamma's knee. Angels are guarding and they watch o'er thee..."
He'd asked her about it one morning while she still thought his name was Michael McBride as he'd awaken to the sound of her actually singing the words in the shower instead of merely carrying the tune. Embarrassed by what she considered a poor singing voice, she'd refused to talk about it when he'd questioned her and his subsequent attempt to 'interrogate' her had rendered her momentarily incoherent and their ensuing love making had rendered the topic supremely unimportant.
"The birdeens sing a fluting song. They sing to thee the whole day long. Wee fairies dance o'er hill and the dale."
She'd finally confessed after much kissing, petting and pleading that it was what her mammy had sung to her and her sister every night as she'd brushed their hair out by the fire back on the farm.
He'd realized then, remembering the derelict ruin of a farmhouse where they had made love for the first time, she was sharing another piece of herself, a secret fragile part of her woman's heart that she showed to no one, shared with no one but him.
"For very love of thee..."
It was silent again for a long protracted moment. Neither of them could seem to find their voices and then she said simply, "Do what you have to do, Michael."
He couldn't make himself say anything, couldn't make himself do anything to break the spell or spoil the moment.
"Do what you have to do and come home to me. We need you. We all do."
And the line went dead.