A/N: This series chronicles those who are left behind the in the BN universe and will cover events following Asset Management. This is the companion story to the one on the main page which chronicles the similar events before said tale. It starts without Fiona, but she will showing up soon, so fear not.

Thanks as always to Amanda Hawthorne and Purdy's Pal for reading through and to Daisy Day for always being a ray of sunshine and asking for Karma updates and CJ for just being CJ Much Love to all the Burner Girls on FB and Twitter and many thanks to everyone who kept waiting patiently for an update; your enthusiasm and your reviews are very, very much appreciate!

()()()

Moscow, Summer, 1999

Samantha Keyes sat at her dressing table, admiring the necklace that adorned her slender throat. While she appreciated the beauty of the diamonds and sapphires as they reflected the multi-hued highlights back at her from lighted mirror, she couldn't understand why someone would convert half a million rubles into something so easily removed without their knowledge.

As the dark haired woman removed the jewelry, she shrugged. Oh, well, just makes my job easier.

Moscow's most talented thief put the bounty of her latest job into the protective false bottom of an ordinary looking handbag. She would be exchanging it an hour for hard currency at one of the capitals older nightclubs. The clubs had thrived during the reign of the oligarchs; had survived the economic crises of the past few years and were flourishing yet again as oil money flowed once more in the coffers of the ruling class, cobbled together from wealthy ambitious men and old communist apparatchiks.

She'd been drawn here by the promise of Soviet wealth and technology that was now passing into other hands. Once upon a time in Russia, the state owned everything. Now a select group of former officials, brazen businessmen and shady characters held the reins and it was a perfect environment for someone with her talents to flourish.

The motherland had been very good to her. The pale woman smiled at her reflection as she began to apply the heavy makeup that was de rigor in those dark places with the flashing lights and a thick layer of foreign tobacco smoke where she conducted her business. As she slipped out of her dressing gown, the reflection of her own naked body had her mind drifting away towards the greatest prize she'd managed to acquire and she wondered once again where Michael Westen was right now.

Prior to this, they had been together almost constantly, from the time she'd done her first job with him until their last one together, where they had danced in the Krysha Ballroom of the Grand Hotel Europe on New Year's Eve. He had used her on numerous assignments and their time between jobs had been spent between the sheets. This recent separation, which was going on two years now, had been strange but not unexpected. The spy had been very clear that there would be long absences.

Staring at the image in the glass as she contained her mass of brown curls in a tight hair net, it reminded her of their first job together in St. Petersburg. They had been executing a Trojan Horse operation. Her job had been squeezing in behind a false panel at the front of the cargo area while he pretended to be some low level mob "go-fer" driving to the truck into their warehouse and leaving her inside to do the dirty work over night. His assignment had been to keep watch and then leave with the truck containing her and its additional cargo the next day.

It was a perfect op from the CIA's perspective. If she got caught, they would wash their hands of her, so her fee was appropriately high. It could've been a set-up, but something about the handsome young man with the black hair and the black scowl that had intrigued her and somehow made her trust him.

The plan would have worked brilliantly too, except the Russian mobsters they were ripping off showed up too early and he'd suddenly had no option but to squeeze into that confined place with her. After minimal cursing over the absentee driver, someone else had entered the cab and put the truck in gear.

He sat on the floor of the truck, up against one corner of the space, opening his arms and legs for her to settle between them as she pulled the false panel into place just in time. They had no more than met prior to this job and suddenly they were violating all kinds of personal space zones as the truck lurched and bumped over the poorly maintained back roads of the old city.

With her back and backside continually rubbing up against him as he was compressed into the wall of that oh so small compartment, it soon became apparent that he'd been on long term assignment a little too long. She wanted to comment, worse yet laugh, over the situation. She reached up and pulled the scarf from her neck that she had intended to use to cover her face. One never knew what would come in handy in her line of work and she was always prepared to travel light, but travel smart.

"I assume you're trained to keep silent under any circumstances," she whispered, barely needing to turn her face, as his was already perched just over her shoulder. Luckily for her partner de jour, the long, wavy brown hair that usually flowed everywhere was tightly tucked in a woolen cap.

As he replied with positive but puzzled hum, she snaked her arms behind herself, scarf in hand, and deftly demonstrated the dexterity that made her Moscow's premier acquisitions expert, unbuckling his belt and freeing his fly. Samantha felt his body stiffen to match what was already sufficiently stiff.

"I can solve your problem for you if you can keep quiet about it," she assured him, her hand slipping into the nearly non-existent space between them. She chuckled softly as he bucked into her touch, somewhat involuntary it seemed. She decided she wasn't going to give him the choice of saying no to her offer.

"Don't worry," she advised with a smirk evident in her voice, "I think you'll find I'm very good with my hands and very good at what I do. No one will ever know I've been here." She tucked the scarf into his open trousers within easy reach. There would be no evidence once she had accomplished her task.

Ms. Keyes was feeling very smug as she spread the pre cum, expertly sheathing him in her now slippery hand. Varying the pressure as she stroked his length, she used her thumb to massage the head on the upstroke and couldn't help the grin that was forming on her face as barely audible moans escaped his lips and his limbs tighten against her while she used her bottom to put a pleasant pressure on his balls.

He managed to stay mostly silent and not quite still. When she felt him clenching and shuddering against her in that small space, she skillfully slipped the scarf around him to contain every drop, pumping him dry and leaving him unsoiled at the same time. Knowing that she literally and figuratively had him in the palm of her hand, that slight grin blossomed into a huge self-satisfied smile.

As the highly trained covert operative behind her turned his head and laid his face alongside her back, trying to get his breathing under control with minimal sound, she was already imagining the possibilities.

The nude woman smiled at her own reflection. She had never washed that scarf she'd used to contain and then clean him. It was safely locked away where thieves keep their secret treasures. Samantha shook herself free from the memory as she secured the platinum blonde wig firmly in place.

It was time to get ready for the drop.

()()()()

Samantha sat at the bar in Utopia, tapping her toe of her stiletto heels on her bar stool in time to the beat of the techno dance music and scanning the crowd for her contact. She favored this club, despite the fact the drinks were ridiculously overpriced, because of the crowd control. Not just anyone could get in unlike its cross town rival, Titanic, which was home to hoards of college students with its cheap cover and easy access. The club was appropriately dark and noisy, filled with smoke and crowded with people, a perfect background for her perfect cover. But it was a very different room filled not with gyrating couples but gracefully swirling pairs that was on her mind right at that particular moment.

It had been some hours yet until midnight in Krysha Ballroom of the Grand Hotel Europe on New Year's Eve, the last day of 1996. The elegant but understated chandeliers had been turned down low and Samantha had sworn that she could see the stars through the striking, pale blue stained glass ceiling that arched over her head. The white washed walls then met the dark grey marble floor, where the beautiful folk adorned in their sophisticated finery danced and twirled to a string quartet playing the refined music of another era. This was the Russia that had once belonged to her ancestors.

Michael, looking the epitome of male perfection in his tuxedo, was busy searching for their targets. But Samantha's thoughts were not on the job. Her attention had been firmly on where one of his hands was heating the exposed skin provided by her backless formal gown and where the other clasped her jewelry encrusted hand. She couldn't have picked a more romantic setting if she'd tried.

"Focus, Samantha," he murmured, but his mouth curved up into a small smile. "We have a job to do."

"You're not helping," she replied with a Cheshire grin of her own, lightly brushing her lips across his.

"They're going out onto the Terrace now," he advised, his smile disappearing. She knew he would only allow himself just so much distraction before the job was complete.

She turned her attention to the doors at the rear of the ballroom that led out to the adjoining rooms at the top of the hotel which overlooked the Moscow skyline as he spun her around for a better look.

"Let's wrap this up," she requested. "We have other business."

Michael cocked an eyebrow in response and then turned his attention to the far end of the dance floor.

The doorways were narrow and filled with people going back forth between the ballroom and the terrace area where tables laden with food and drink awaited the revelers. It was an easy matter to slip a tracker into the purse in such a crowded room; it took a little more finesse to keep her husband talking while Samantha not only stole his wallet, but also returned it with a little parting gift, courtesy of the US government. Their mission accomplished, they returned to the dance floor away from their targets.

"You didn't tell me you had a commission," he accused softly, as they maneuvered their way to the furthest wooden exit door on the other end of the ballroom.

Michael had made it very clear that Samantha's activities were not to coincide with or compromise his CIA work in any way and, in fact, he'd let her know in no uncertain terms that he didn't even want to know anything about what she did when she wasn't working with him for the Agency.

Since they both were equally accomplished liars, what she had actually been up was only ever woven into her tales in bit and pieces, which he could have put together if he chose to, though he never did. It was a source of endlessly amusing pillow talk between the two of them to spin yarns about what they had been doing while they were apart. He never questioned her profession or her whereabouts and she only assisted in his when it suited his needs to include her. It made it easy for them to be together.

"I don't," she responded. "I said, 'we' have other business."

Michael's eyebrows bunched together in confusion. "Other than getting out clean?" he questioned.

"I have a proposal." Samantha smiled, knowing by the curiosity raging in his eyes that she had executed the first part of her plan successfully. Though she would have preferred to ask him here, she knew that he would never consider what she had to say until the mission was accomplished and paperwork done.

Approaching him while he was feeling relaxed and in control at the completion of a successful mission was the key to getting through his defenses. A bit of mystery to pique his interest was just the bait and she hadn't gotten to be the premiere acquisition specialist in Western Russia by being impatient.

"Been waiting long?" her fence asked as he appeared abruptly in her field of vision, interrupting her reverie. The man's accent as well as his visage betrayed his origins from the southern portion of the former Soviet Union. His reach was equally as long as the trip back to his birthplace would have been.

"Yes, actually, where have you been?"

His smile was charming as he slid between her and the man to her right, wedging himself against the bar. However, though his teeth practically glowed in the darkness of the bar, "Charlie" had nothing on the man she had been day dreaming about moments before when it came to winning smiles.

"Arranging a little something extra special for my favorite girl," he said smoothly as he laid the rubles on the bar to pay for her drink. "Would you like to come back to my place and see it, Tatiana? I will make worth your time, as I always do." For some reason, the way he'd said it, it didn't seem like a cover story.

The pair was soon sitting in the smuggler's car while Samantha put the meager contents of her bag into an identical one, except the false bottom in this bag contained enough rubles for spending money at home and the deposit information for a Swiss bank account, and "Charlie" drove back towards her car.

"I have another commission for you that will start middle of next week if you're free." Abishuly Nazarbayev, code nameCharlie, wasn't the only one she worked for, but he sent her the most work.

"I should be." She had enough connections to know that Michael was back in Russia, just not enough to know any more. After what had happened In St. Petersburg two years ago, her agency contact would have flagged her if he'd been severely injured again or killed. Michael would contact her when he could.

"Still waiting around for that haramzade to show up, Tatiana?" he snorted derisively.

"Charlie," Samantha warned. Her long-time associate had not only been taking way too much interest in her other business dealings, but he had begun to aggressively express an interest in her personally.

The smuggler pulled up into the parking lot near her GAZ-3102 Volga. She could afford better, but she drew enough attention to herself owning a car at all. Still, the faux blonde wasn't going to risk carrying such high dollar merchandise on public transportation.

"You think you know who this man is, but you do not. He will not be the one to save you, Tatiana."

()()()()

Samantha wandered around her luxury flat, checking and re-checking her security, sipping from an ice cold glass of her native drink. Although it was an understandable statement for him to have made as he believed her cover as a high priced call girl running goods for an unknown partner, what Charlie said had completely unnerved her for some reason. Perhaps it was time to go back to Chicago and pay an extended visit her immigrant parents and siblings.

As she lay down on the bed, her hand drifted to "his" side and she sighed. No, she'd waited this long, she could wait a little longer. They were engaged after all. It wouldn't do at all if she lost contact with him before they could make the wedding arrangements regardless of how surreptitious they would be.

She missed him, one man who had really understood her, who got that she enjoyed the covers that she slipped in and out of, who enjoyed the thrill of the job as much as she did, who didn't mind if she practiced her skills, both in and out of bed, on him. She closed her eyes and let a picture of him form in her mind's eye. He was handsome, charming, intelligent, witty, secretive, capable, sexy and smoldering.

Samantha knew her chosen lifestyle made a long term relationship nearly impossible and finding someone like Michael was rarity more valuable than any of the other things she'd ever acquired. The pale brunette chuckled softly; she had no intention of letting him slip past her security,

It was not yet midnight when they had returned to their room at the Grand European. There was vodka on ice and chilled caviar awaiting them to celebrate the New Year. They made a great show of acting out their covers for the evening in both the ballroom and the bedroom, the international man of mystery wooing the minor Belgium nobility, demurring to her "Highness" until it had been time to demonstrate the sexual prowess that made him a playboy of the western world.

Afterwards they lay on their backs, breathless and staring at the ornate ceiling of their luxury accommodations so thoughtfully provided to them by the CIA to maintain their cover. Then she turned onto her side, draping herself over his chest and wrapping her legs over his lower limbs. Samantha knew Michael would be out of bed any minute to wash up and slip into his pajamas, so she pinned him down.

"You had something to propose?" he queried.

"Yes, I'm proposing," she agreed, waiting to see when or if what she was saying would sink in.

As brown eyes met blue, she waited patiently for the look of understanding that slowly began to register.

"Marry me, Michael.

And there it was, that smile that formed across his features every time something shocked, dismayed or displeased him and he was stalling for time trying to figure out how to deal with the situation. It made his partner in crime, and espionage, want to laugh. But at least she was prepared for that reaction.

"Think about it," Samantha urged. "We each have our own lives. You have your work, I have mine. Sometimes I help you when you want me to and I never ask you to help me. We have our own money. We live in hotels and luxury apartments. We don't keep tabs on each other. We don't question what happened on the others' job. We've never asked, never told and covers are what they are.

The dark haired man looked startled for a second and then that I'm-waiting-until-you –finish-before-I-say-a-word- look was firmly back in place, so she pressed on.

"Michael," she whispered close to his ear, running her free hand slowly up and down the center of his torso. "We'll never fight over a mortgage or kids or who takes out the garbage. We can have all the good things in our lives, none of the bad things other people deal with."

She leaned up, kissing him softly on the cheek and then soundly on the mouth.

"And we'll have each other, too," she concluded.

While considering her words, his expression changed to one of bemusement.

"Well, when you put it that way," he responded at length, pushing her over onto her back before returning her kiss. "Why not?" He rolled off of her, out of the bed and headed towards the bathroom.

A small part of Ms, Keyes' mind did process the fact that Michael had gone on an assignment that left them separated for months within weeks of her proposal. They had seen each other infrequently in the following months, meeting in various hotels throughout western Russia as he was working a job there, a job that hadn't included her this time. He hadn't even bothered to lie about what he was doing when they were together and spent most of his time asleep instead of engaging with her other than sexually.

Then he had disappeared for months. When she'd finally gotten a call from her CIA contact, it was to let her know that the merchandise was damaged and they didn't know if they could return it. Several more months passed and then, at long last, she had heard from him personally, albeit a static-filled phone call.

He had sounded terrible, his voice raspy and hoarse, but she didn't dare ask what had happened. Michael had told her that he'd been injured during his last event, but that he was recovering and training for an upcoming race, but it could be a very long preparation and an even longer marathon. She wished him luck and prepared herself to wait. And wait she did. It was going on two years since she'd seen him last. Settling into sleep, she wondered as she did every night, if tomorrow he would be…

()()()

Sounds, a click, then a scrap or two, followed by a tiny clink, woke her up just after three AM. The noise was something the ordinary person might have missed, but Samantha Keyes had exceptional hearing. It was one of the things that made her an extraordinary thief. She slipped an automatic out of the holster that hung from the brass bed post of the headboard and slipped silently from beneath the covers.

Whoever was in the bathroom hadn't noticed yet, so she circled around the bedroom wide and came up on the doorway at an angle. She was reaching for the light, preparing to strike whoever was in there….

A hand shot out of the dark and closed around her wrist. The next thing she knew, the gun was pulled from her grasp and she was spun around, her back crushed against the chest of whoever had been going through her medicine cabinet. A leather clad arm snaked around her waist and pinned her in place.

She knew her bare feet would not make much impact on their feet, but the knee was always a vulnerable spot. But then the wave of fear that had washed through her turned into something else the instant she realized who the intruder was that had her restrained against his body.

"Michael," she whispered joyously, as relief coursed ahead of happiness. He was back! Why he was skulking around in her bathroom in the dead of night was completely irrelevant at the moment. He had returned at last, she was in his arms and that was all that mattered. That he was still held her hands immobile with one of his, that he was standing behind her as unmoving as the arm that circled her waist, was a puzzle, but one she would delight in solving.

"You can have whatever you want," Samantha said seductively, thinking it a cover he was playing at. "There's no need for violence here." At the word 'violence,' he stiffened and released her. The pale brunette was momentarily confused and then turned about, throwing her arms around his neck, kissing him with a fervor that was unusual for her, but it had been such a long time since she'd seen him last.

His fiancé was mystified by his lack of response. What? Was something wrong? She pushed her tongue against his teeth as she released his neck and shoved his jacket off his shoulders. This normally didn't happen until later in their love making, but she had missed him so much. Slowly building to a climax, as it were, engaging in a game of seduction was their normal mode. If this was the different game he wanted to play, then she would accommodate her man and it suited her current mood in any event.

Samantha's face dropped to his neck, nuzzling and nipping lightly, completely out of character for her in their relationship, but she'd had approach other men this way to get a job done. She just wouldn't be bashing Michael over the head with something heavy or injecting him before they were finished.

As she started to undo his shirt, he clasped his hands over hers. "Samantha, no, wait…" he stuttered.

Since when did Michael Westen hesitate? Had he changed his mind about this? She tried pulling away her hands, but the weight of his hands on hers caused the petite thief to sending buttons flying in every direction as she rent the garment open. She hear his sharp intake of breath and even though it was almost pitch black in her flat, she could feel the weight of his stare on her.

What was wrong with him? Had she misunderstood what he wanted? Ms. Keyes found herself at a loss, not knowing what had transpired in the last two years. So she went back to basics. Their relationship had developed myriad of little rituals, almost like the signals they used in their own work. She would steal his wallet before he'd depart, likewise he would hide her keys and their love making was equally scripted. She had changed things because that's what she thought he'd wanted. Now she was unsure.

"Samantha, I—" Just like their first professional and sexual encounter, things always started with her palming him and, just like that first time, she didn't intend to give him an option to refuse her offer. So, despite the fact his hands were still clutching her wrists, she made short work of his belt, fly and boxers.

"I can care of this if you can keep quiet about it," she teased softly, so close to his ear that he shivered, as she expertly began to stroke his length. "Do you think you can do that, Michael? "

He dropped his grip on her hands abruptly and shifted it to her shoulders. "Can ya do thot?" he echoed, seemingly stunned by her words. Samantha now gazed at him quizzically as his breathing accelerated.

She'd repeated that line to him before. Why was it a problem now? Or maybe it wasn't a question, maybe it was an instruction. The pale woman dropped to her knees and took him into her mouth quickly, hoping that this would settle whatever misgivings he was having about them being together.

Michael had subtly implied on more than one occasion that she needed work in this area and she'd had a few recent business opportunities with Charlie to work on her technique. The groan that issued from his lips and his rapidly stiffening member seemed to imply that she had made some improvements.

Suddenly, Samantha found herself on her back, her night shirt pushed up and her panties shredded just like his shirt. He was on her, in her in an instant, thrusting and grunting like never before. He dropped his head to the crook of her neck and she let out a squeal of surprise as his teeth sank in. He put his hand over her mouth and increased the pace, pounding into her faster and harder than he ever had.

The rapidity and strength of her own orgasm stunned her. One moment he was sweating and panting above her and the next she was being carried back to her bed. She lay back on the goose down mattress, her head spinning as she reached for the sheets. Only the light from the bathroom and the sounds of him showering let her know it hadn't been some glorious wet dream as she drifted off.

()()()

Ms. Keyes was aware of two things besides the early morning Moscow sun that filtered through the curtains. She was deliciously sore, but unhappily in possession of a rather nasty case of rug burn on her buttocks and lower back. The smell of black tea wafted into the room from the kitchen and urged her to rise. She looked over to the other side of the bed, but it was empty as usual. Frowning, she pulled the dressing gown from the bedpost. Samantha stood and slipped into it, noting that her gun was back in its holster. As she passed the bathroom, various misplaced items that she'd thought lost sat innocuously on the countertop, causing her to pause. Is that was he was doing in the bathroom last night?

The most talented thief of Western Russia chose to slowly scout her rooms before walking into the kitchen. Last night had taken on a weird, dreamlike quality and she began to wonder if she hadn't had too much vodka last night. But her body was very clear on the fact that she hadn't imagined it.

Michael was there, sipping a cup of dark tea and staring out the window as the sun rose over the city of her birth. He was fully dressed again, including the leather jacket though he wore a different shirt underneath, with a leather bag by his heavily booted foot. It occurred to her then that all the little buttons had been meticulously picked up from the carpet and the tile before she had passed by this AM.

"Michael?" she queried, unsure where to start. He looked like she remembered and yet nothing like she had seen before. His visage was haggard, as though he hadn't slept for weeks, and the spark of mischief and life that normally flashed from his cobalt blue eyes was gone. His shoulders were hunched as he leaned forward, now giving all his attention to his tea cup. Real fear started to course through her.

"Michael, what's wrong?" she asked as she slipped into the chair on the opposite side of the table, knowing she wasn't supposed to pry and not caring anymore. He looked like someone had died.

"I brought back your things…" the dark haired man began. "Some things you'd left in St. Petersburg."

So that's what he was doing in the bathroom. So what's in that bag now? Even as she thought it, she was afraid that she already knew the answer. He was wearing one of the few shirts he'd left there.

"What happened to you, Michael?" Another question out of bounds and again she didn't care. It was completely obvious that he'd been hurt deeply, but by what and for how long?

He stood up then and swallowed reflexively, finally looking her in the face and picking up the bag as he rose. His expression was devoid of emotion, but she thought she saw regret flicker through his eyes briefly before vanishing entirely. "It's over," he declared in a flat voice.

His fiancé sat there flabbergasted. She knew her mouth was hanging open, but she couldn't focus on that. Over? What the hell did he mean over? Our engagement? Our working relationship? What's over?

"I'm sorry, Samantha," the spy said softly as he laid the key to her penthouse apartment on the table.

Without another word, he turned and walked out of the kitchen, through the foyer and out the front door. It wasn't until the door clicked into place and she heard the sound of his footsteps echoing in the hallway that Samantha Keyes understood what exactly was over between her and Michael Westen.

Everything.