A/N:Thank you for your reviews of AU 4.01 "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling." We have to admit that one is one of our favorites too. We appreciate everyone's continued enthusiasm for our reposting these as one continuous story.
We're working on the next chapter of "Be Brave Little Angel," but first will be the next installment of the current 2.01 AU story for "Reconnecting" and an update to "True Believer" in time for the fourth anniversary of the end of Burn Notice.
This is a REPOST of Chapters 13-16 of Puppies, Kittens & Gun Toting Babies and Chapters 5, 8 & 20 of Reconnecting. After all the intense action of the 4.01 and 5.01 reboots, this story was our attempt at more angst and romance.
Our story opens immediately following the events of 2.11 Hot Spot; however, when Michael returns with breakfast and finds Fiona gone, it's not because she left without a word (wonder where she learned that from!) and everything changes…
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3.01 – The Enemy of My Enemy
An alternate for Season Three and beyond following on from 2.11 – Hot Spot
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Miami 2009
She'd been aware enough to know he'd said something to her and far too comfortable to do anything more than hum an affirmative, though she had no idea what she'd just agreed to, and go back to sleep.
She was a notorious light sleeper and, after being awakened repeatedly last night, she was actually tired and happy to have the bed to herself for a moment to snuggle down and get some real rest. He was puttering around the kitchen area in his pajama bottoms when she closed her eyes and let herself go.
She hadn't shared a bed with Michael regularly since Dublin and sleeping with him in the more literal meaning of the phrase was something she couldn't adjust to immediately. Sure, she had slept with him in the colloquial sense since she'd been in Miami, but that had been sadly few and far between enough that there had been only one occasion that had ended up with them back to back like in their Belfast days and a pistol under each pillow… until Jason Bly had interrupted their not so comfortable slumber.
So when she'd woken up to the sound of an unfamiliar car engine and, worse yet, that oh so particular sound machine pistols make when they're being made ready, Fiona had grabbed the pajama top laying conveniently on the ugly green chair next to the bed and thrown it on as she rushed to the window.
But instead of an annoying CSS agent, Michael's new handler and a couple of her heavily armed minions had made their way out of the long, black stretch limo that was now backing out of the parking area below the loft. After dispatching her security force in opposite directions, Carla began to ascend the metal stairs.
Ms Glenanne took a moment too long trying to decide between picking a hiding place and simply blowing Carla's head off the minute she walked through the door. She spent another minute too long trying to decide on a hiding place such that she'd left herself no time to retrieve anything but her handbag as she fled up the staircase, onto the upper railing and out through the skylight, setting the covering back in place not a second too soon as she heard the heavy door squeaking all the way up there.
She did a quick perimeter check of the grounds from atop the roof and located Carla's body guards on the opposite corners of the building. Fiona debated going over the far corner and down the escape ladder she had thoughtfully provided for Michael's use. She really was better at tactical analysis than he was…
He might have been bred to it, with all his military and spy craft training, but she was born to it.
But knowing what she did about the people who had burned Mr Westen, Carla was probably just here to deliver a message wrapped in a few not so subtle threats and then she'd be on her way. The unknown was where the hell Michael had gone and how long it would take him to get back. While the Irishwoman had zero desire to climb down the side of the decrepit warehouse and the surrounding environs barefoot, wearing just his PJ top and frown, she had even less desire to spend hours up on the roof waiting for the ex-spy to put in an appearance, though she highly doubted Ms. Thing would wait that long either.
She reached for her cell phone to call him when she remembered how this had all happened in the first place. Dammit! Her frustration with the situation mounted as she realized that, while she could probably make the shot and kill the one lookout, the gunfire might draw the other into a position where she wouldn't be able to get a clean shot and they had far more bullets than she had. She ground her teeth as Michael's voice and, worse yet, the voice of Sam Axe echoed in her head counseling patience and observation.
She moved back to the skylight in time to discern that Carla was headed for the bathroom, whether to avail herself of the facilities or just be a nosy bitch, it didn't matter. She was going to find Fiona's formerly wet shirt hanging on the shower curtain rod alongside with Michael's T-shirt, their jeans laid side by side on the rim of the tub and the mere thought of where her thong was…. Fiona locked her teeth together and breathed out through her nostrils harshly to keep from capping Carla and consequences be damned.
Tis abou' time someone taught these bastids who thar fecking with!
Her intended target came back into view immediately below the skylight opening at the foot of the interior staircase and pulled out the cell phone she had apparently had concealed under her flowing top.
"Stay alert," the blonde ordered. "Fiona Glenanne could show up at any time or they could be together."
Momentarily mollified that her reputation had been properly respected, the lithe woman crouched low and eased the skylight open a bit more so she could hear better what was going on inside.
"Are you positive she's not with him?"
The roar of the Charger's engine confirmed what Carla had just unwittingly told her: Michael had returned.
Fiona debated another moment if she should try to warn Mr Westen of what awaited him inside, but decided that the tactical advantage of not potentially revealing her position outweighed any benefit of tipping him off. He'd find out soon enough that his handler was there and what the hell she wanted.
Fiona wanted Michael to appreciate the full outrage that Carla had committed by letting herself in.
She peered through the thick, dirty glass and she could see by the set of the woman's shoulders and general body language that Michael was not telling her what she wanted to hear. Their voices were too low for the former guerilla to tell what they were saying exactly, but her lip reading was pretty good, as was her ability to read her former lover.
That thought stopped her… former lover… that was what he had been yesterday, but that was not what it had felt like last night… or again early this morning when their resting close together, as it was not actually sleeping for her, had sparked some friction between his manhood and her backside that resulted in them doing more than spooning as they had laid side by side, his hands attending those parts that weren't pressed up against his body. She shook her head forcefully, dislodging the distraction.
As she looked on from the roof to the room below, she saw the blonde turn and sweep out of the loft, frustration and anger clear on her face. Good! That would teach his handler not to show up where she was unwanted and unwelcome. It was a habit that might prove fatal for Carla if Fiona had anything to say.
()()()()()()()()
"Give me the list, Michael. It's time you focused on helping yourself or you're not going to be around to help anybody else."
Michael stared at her retreating back. That Carla had bosses, he knew. That Carla was afraid of them, he had guessed, and she had now confirmed his suspicions. But there was a woman more important on his mind, the woman he'd left sleeping in his bed, the woman he'd gone out and got breakfast for.
As the woman he wasn't interested in closed the loft door behind her, Mr Westen pulled out his cell phone, as his eyes drifted to the empty bed and the empty chair beside it, and dialed her number.
"This is Fi, leave a message."
Of course… what had made him think she would have replaced that cell phone already?
So where was she? Had Carla done something to her? Or had she decided that last night was a mistake?
Before Michael could go too far down the path of paranoia, a loud noise directed his attention upwards.
"Give us hand, will ya?" Fiona called down through the open skylight.
He couldn't help the smile that spread over his face at the sight of her: not dead, not gone, not hurt or in trouble and wearing the top to the pajama set his mother had gotten him for Christmas. He had hoped when he'd laid it on the chair after slipping into the bottom half of the set that she might be persuaded to make use of the top.
Michael put down the cell and jogged up the stairs just in time to position himself next to couch, enjoying the view as it were, when she swung her legs one at a time over the edge of the corroded metal that made up the framework for the skylight. Another forceful reminder of what he'd been missing….
Fiona flashed him once more as she hung by her hands momentarily, sending a shiver of desire through him, before dropping towards the sofa and landing in his lap as her momentum knocked them both down.
"I'm warning you, Michael, the next time someone breaks in while I'm sleeping here, I'm going to just shoot first and bury the evidence later!" she declared, sitting up and attempting to untangle their limbs.
He grinned back at her, "Maybe I'll let you… next time you're sleeping here."
She blinked at him as he let the statement hang in the air between them before he dropped his head slightly to kiss her on the forehead tenderly and give her a gentle squeeze of a hug.
"Did you hit your head when I fell on you?"
He shook his head and chuckled lightly. "Come on," he urged. "Your breakfast is getting cold."
"You brought me breakfast?" She blinked again and shinnied off his lap, giving him another view of what she was not wearing underneath the pajama top.
"I wanted to surprise you…" Michael said mildly, pushing himself off the couch, meeting her wide eyed stare with a subtle smile.
There was another pregnant pause as they gazed at one another, each trying to read the others' mind while thoughts of him pinning her to the couch and adding another memory, was apparently in both their heads, Then the petite woman turned and began to descend the interior metal stairs.
"I'm surprised," she agreed as she walked past the rumpled bed with a shiver of her own running down her spine toward the bar where the enticing scent of something good made her stomach rumble low.
Their 'morning after' meals had been a thing of the past ever since he'd been forcibly resettled in South Florida, primarily because they weren't together anymore. But even during that brief period they had been reconnecting right before he ran off to face down Philip Cowan, he hadn't cooked for her unless he wanted something; Michael was so cash poor so often since coming to Miami that she often paid the tab.
"Spanish omelet?" she guessed as she liberated the Styrofoam carton from the plastic takeout bag.
"Egg white only," he confirmed and the look on his face said he remembered all those morning after breakfasts back in Dublin as well as she did, where breakfast in bed had led to more time spent there.
They had come together a number of times over the years since he'd left her Dublin; sometimes it had ended quite badly and other times glorious, but they always parted again, The only reason he'd brought her this, her favorite breakfast, after their first night together in Miami- after he'd blown her off and then followed her to Benny's Place to apologize, that is- was because he had thought she wouldn't be staying at the time. He'd been quite surprised to find her waiting for him at the loft, Sam Axe even more so…
"Hmmmm," she purred as she sipped the tea in the cardboard cup. The food looked as wonderful as it smelled and the drink was Irish Breakfast blend, a recent favorite in the US. She couldn't help but answer his smile as she noticed he was eating a whole egg version of her omelet instead of a cup of yogurt.
It made Fiona want to demand to know who he was and what had he done with Michael Westen.
"Nice color on you," he remarked with a smirk. "I thought maybe you could get a little use out of it."
The top was a garish shade of green that Michael would not have worn on pain of death, but he had succeeded changing the color of the bottoms enough through repeated washing with his "stealth suits," as Fiona liked to call the military issue clothing he used for night operations, that they were acceptable.
"I was wondering how Carla knew you'd spent the night. I'm guessing you didn't give her a guided tour."
"She was making herself at home… even used the bathroom apparently…" Fiona informed him between bites. "Seriously, Michael, I don't know why you don't just shoot her and be done with it."
"Well, for one, I'm even less enthusiastic about her potential replacement," he replied after taking a long sip of his drink. "And I really don't want to give them the idea that just shooting is a good problem sol –"
"It's always worked well for me," she interrupted him. "Having a reputation can be very useful."
"It hasn't worked out so well for me lately," the ex-spy countered quietly and then became very interested in sectioning his eggs into precise little squares. Finally, as blue eyes met blue green ones, he seemed to be struggling with a decision. It was so unlike Michael, it made her observe him even more carefully.
"You know, Fi, if… ah…if you want to talk about what happened the last night…"
Well, thot wa' tha last thing I expected ta hear. The Irishwoman watched him warily before answering.
"Are you sure you want to talk about what happened last night?"
He reached out towards the fingers that were not holding her fork, his larger hand covering hers completely. His touch felt like fire to Fiona and irony was not lost on her. "What's wrong, Michael?"
"I- I thought I lost you..."
"I came back," she replied, echoing their conversation from months ago when she had let him know that she wasn't going to be second best in his life anymore. They would work together, but they couldn't be together anymore. She had tired of having him hurt her heart and soul, but being with someone else had been met with limited success for reasons that mostly had to do with the man seated across from her.
"Yes, yes you did." His head dropped and his lips disappeared as he chewed on them for a moment while he composed himself. Then he spoke slowly, staring at his food and refusing to meet her gaze.
"I just wanted to say I …shouldn't have dismissed your… concerns the way I did that day, I'm sorry."
When he finally looked up at her, that expression on his face that said everything is okay regardless of the circumstances was firmly back in place again.
Fiona for her part was staring and speechless. She finally licked her suddenly dry lips and reached for her tea cup. "Thank you for saying so, Michael."
He smiled and nodded, apparently considering the matter closed. "Shall we go look for our bomber?"
"You promised me that he was going to suffer…" She gave him that mischievous grin that usually meant trouble for him and everyone involved.
"Not too much, Fi. I need to know what this guy knows."
She huffed, annoyed now. "You know, Michael, if we looked for everyone who tried to kill you, we'd do nothing else. You're working for the people that burned you, for heaven's sake, for the people that show up unannounced, rummage through your home and meddle in your private—"
She stopped herself with no small amount of effort and then let out a long sigh. Yes, it reminded her all too much of the liberties the British Army had taken during her childhood. She decided she should be more sympathetic to his plight. He hadn't asked for this either.
"Well, if there's anyone who can track down a bomber, it's our old friend Seymour," she suggested.
"Hope he's still not mad about the face full of gun powder from the last time we dropped by."
"Well…" she drew the word out to several long syllables. "He was pretty enchanted with you once upon a time." She stood up, having finished her food, and deposited the carton into the waste bin under the sink. Fiona paused a moment and ran her hand over the top of the cabinet door, remembering helping him replace them after he had almost gotten garroted… when he had gotten her a Soviet pistol …
"Pretty enchanted with me…?" Michael continued, oblivious to her reverie as she was standing behind him at the moment, "Yea, he showed it when he attacked me with a baseball bat."
When she had seduced him on the floor where she was standing right now…. Fiona forcibly refocused.
"Well, if we're going back to Seymour's, I need to change and then go home so I can change again," she announced. The petite woman wrapped her arms around his waist from behind and hugged him tightly, laying a kiss on the back of his neck. "Thank you for breakfast…."
"You're welcome." He stood up as she released him and stepped back, but Michael invaded her personal space again almost immediately and raised one calloused hand to cup her cheek.
"We should get you a new cell phone while we're out."
He leaned in slowly, clearly telegraphing his intentions, waiting for her to object. She had told him it was over, she had tried to move on with life, although he had made it abundantly clear that he agreed to it.
Their lips met and he kept the kiss light but sweet before pulling back to kiss her on the forehead again.
"You get changed," he told her. "I'll go bring your car up front. You left it in the usual place, right?"
Fiona nodded numbly as the dark haired man smiled brightly and fished the keys to the Saab out of her purse and then disappeared out the door.
()()()()()()()()()()
There was a weird energy every time he and Fiona were in the same room. That's what Sam had called it. They had all noticed, but Mr Axe was the one who was truly made uncomfortable by it. As they were driving away from Seymour's house, and the unfortunate Mr. Poole who would shortly be on his way to Suriname that same charged atmosphere was filling the Charger and Michael was grateful to be driving.
Seymour had not only noticed it, but he had commented on it…frequently.
Michael was truly grateful they hadn't seen much of his mother while working on this current case. No doubt Madeline Westen's maternal radar would have gone into overdrive and that was something he just couldn't cope with right now. He was having enough trouble dealing Sam, Seymour and…Fiona.
He glanced over at the petite woman who'd dominated his dreams for over a decade, as she sat in the passenger seat, turning over the throwing dagger Seymour had made for them and repeated running her thumb over the engraved symbol on the handle that was supposed to mean 'destiny.'
As a young man, Michael had considered being an Army Ranger his destiny and pursued it with relentless drive. As a spy, he had been successful in avoiding what Larry Sizemore had considered to be his destiny, albeit with some help. Destinies could be pursued or cheated, depending on whether it was good or bad. He'd accomplished what he'd set out to do, he'd overcome what Larry had tried to do. Michael had been pretty confident he could handle whatever destiny sent in his chosen life as a spy.
Until Fiona Glenanne had shattered all the barriers between personal and professional relationships, that is. He'd told her over and over by his words and his actions that there was no future for them together and yet here she was by his side, helping him against her often expressed better judgment.
He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye now, wondering why she stuck by him like she did.
She had arranged for Seymour's help. She had gotten him the gig that was going to pay for the cash that he needed to spread around to get the intel on the man who'd tried to blow him up, though she informed him she expected a commission. She had even agreed to help him with the job itself without an additional fee once she learned that the man who had tried to hire her for a corporate espionage job had actually murdered the receptionist's father. It would be her pleasure to help Chandler take a fall.
But they had also "helped" each other out of their clothes and into their bathing suits before they had gone to Seymour's. He was actually thankful when she'd put the sarong over her hips, regardless of how overdressed she felt with it on, because it was way less distracting that just her bikini had been.
When Sam had made a crack about them grabbing dinner, the retired Navy man had implied that that they would be grabbing more than dinner. Michael had played it cool because there was no way he was going to admit that Mr Axe was right on target with his assessment. Both times they had been together since that first night after the fire, Michael had played it cool with Fiona as well.
He was extremely aware that while she had been the one to tell him it was over this time, he had been the one to abandon her in Dublin, mislead her in Berlin and reject her assistance and support when he'd gone off to pursue the people that had burned him. All of this, which he'd compartmentalized into manageable boxes, had come spilling out when he'd gotten a brutal reminder of what it felt like to think someone you… cared about very deeply had been ripped out of your life.
While he was completely bad and admittedly so at processing these feelings into meaningful action, he was a master spy and he knew how to act as though the other party was in charge while letting them know that he was interested and acting on that interest. He just hadn't realized how much he'd been doing it around Fiona until they had both called him on it.
"As stimulating as all this is, I still don't see why you called me over here, Michael."
She'd been rolling around his bed wearing a beige mini dress than left nearly nothing to the imagination.
Mike had shrugged and smiled. His tone said it all apparently. "It always helps to bounce ideas, Fi."
Suddenly Sam couldn't wait to leave the room. "Uh…. I'm gonna grab another beer," which he had. "And … uh… drink it on the balcony," the ex-SEAL had beat a retreat in double time.
"Is there something you want to say to me, Michael? Is this about the 'debriefing' the other night?
"Is it so strange that I would want your opinion on a job?"
"Look me in the eye and tell that's all this is," she had challenged with a sparkle in those blue green eyes and a smirk on her lips.
"I have to go see Chandler," he had decided suddenly, lest something else happen.
Oh, yeah… they were driving Sam crazy and it hadn't take Mr Axe long to put the pieces together as Michael had been lining his friend up to help him with the next phase of the operation to see that the murdering, thieving art dealer got what he deserved. They needed to plant a bug on Orr's cell phone, who was Chandlers wet work guy. But he couldn't let himself be seen, so Mr Westen needed his team.
"Hey, uh, speaking of Fi, what was that whole business at the loft? You know, with the weird energy?"
He had shrugged and sipped his iced tea. There had been no way he was going to answer or look at Sam.
"Oh, no, Mike, tell me you didn't!" Sam never was thrilled about him getting back with Fiona the first time, as much as he'd tried to keep that under wraps. "You did, didn't you? You did!"
Okay, let's go with wasn't-paying-attention-what-did-you-say….
"What? No, I don't know what you're talking about," and now feigned innocence. "What?"
Mr Axe wasn't buying it. They'd served together and Sam'd known him too long and too well to sell that.
"How many times do you have to touch the flame until you figure out that it burns?"
Uh….flames….bad analogy, Sam, really bad analogy…
"You gonna help with the job or not?" Michael had pretended to study the papers before him.
"Of course, but I object to the fact that you wanted me to work with her without telling me that you were doing a little booty call!"
That was all it took.
"Check!"
"So what are you thinking about so hard? How to turn Poole's account number into a name?" Fiona queried, her voice shattering the silence and disrupting his reminiscing.
He looked at her, startled as he realized that is what he would have been thinking about any other time.
"Just something Sam said… you know, good ol' Sam…"
That brought a sly smile to her lips. "Yea, good ol' Sam…" Fiona had gotten an earful from Mr Axe about them renewing their relationship in the biblical sense while they were staking out the hotel bar and keeping tabs of Mr. Orr before she'd had the less than pleasant task of trying to seduce him.
"Planting a bug in a cell phone? You think I can't get a guy to go up to his room?"
"No, I'd say you have a gift for getting men to make bad choices," Sam had snarked with just a touch of self-righteousness.
"Michael told you..." That had really pissed her off. It was none of Sam's damned business. On the other hand, she had been more curious about what Michael had said about it until Sam had shot her down.
"He didn't have to."
"Well, don't look at me. He started it."
She looked at the blade in her hand again… well balanced, incredibly sharp and personally engraved. Mr Talbot's opinion had been the complete opposite of Mr Axe's as far as them pursuing a relationship…
They had been sitting in the Charger, the South Florida based gunrunner in the back seat and the Irish one in the driver's seat, while Michael went to do his spy stuff.
"That guy, it's like he sees around corners… so what's up with you two? Not together anymore…?"
Were they together? It had been a very good question and it cut to the heart … her heart actually…but also to the heart of the matter. Just because they had been sleeping together in all senses of that word, did it mean they were together, that they were a 'couple?' She had made the mistake of assuming that they were multiple times in their relationship, only to be crushed repeatedly as Michael focused his attention on his responsibilities to his country and the Company and then used that same laser like precision to try to get back in with the same bastards that had thrown him out into the cold.
So, as much as she enjoyed Michael pursuing her, two things stuck out clearly in her mind. He could change his mind at any time, as the shock of what had happened faded into the past for one. For another, until he succeeded in his quest to get out from under the people who burned him, they weren't really free to pursue any kind of permanent relationship. Of course, even if he did get free of them, there was no guarantee that he would want to be with her instead of trying to get his old job back again.
"We're in different spaces, Seymour."
"Different spaces? Gimme a break. As a practitioner of Tai Chi, lemme tell ya something, missy, go with the flow of the universe, alright? It's destiny, you two… forces bigger than us. Don't argue with destiny. It will kick your ass. Believe me."
"I'll keep that in mind, Seymour"
She looked at Michael's profile, as he had suddenly gotten really interested in his driving, and remembered when they'd been driving that BMW back from the junkyard and the impromptu fireworks display he'd put on for her and the stars she'd made him see whilst he was driving with just her mouth.
Tempting… but she was going to let him lead this time and see where it led….
She stroked her thumb over the engraving again. The Irish Catholic part of her believed in destiny, in things bigger than herself. The practical gunrunner part of her believed that your fate was what you made it with a well-chosen weapon and a block of C-4. The woman's heart that she frequently denied she possessed wanted to believe there was a happy ending for them; however, she'd been hurt by him and by life enough times that she was afraid to believe it, but moving on had not worked well for her thus far.
"We're here," he announced as he put the Charger into park on the street in front of her condo.
"So we are…" she agreed. "That was fun."
He flashed his teeth in the darkness. "You have interesting ideas about what's fun."
"I have interesting ideas about a lot of things," she purred. "Care to come in? Unless you need to go do something else, maybe take care of something and then go to bed?"
It took him a minute, but then the words echoed in his head. He'd told her violence was foreplay for her and not for him right before he'd blown her off. It had been a damned lie, but he'd taken the first excuse he could think of to push her away. As he sat there with her, their black clothing standing out on the white leather seats, he wondered now what he had been so afraid of then….
"Maybe we can take care of something and then go to bed?" Michael smiled softly as he spoke.
"I don' know, I told ya I'd have to shoot the next person that wakes me up in the morning."
Michael reached out, tangling his fingers in her long auburn locks as he pulled her in for a long, soft kiss.
"Then I'll make sure I don't wake you up until you're ready for breakfast," he offered as their lips parted.
"Until Carla decides to show up," she pouted.
"If Carla shows up at your place, I'll shoot her for you."
"That's a deal," she sighed as she leaned in for another sweet slow kiss.
And no one woke them up in the morning and no one was shot.
Much to Fiona's disappointment…