I'm not exactly sure how Fiona came to find out that Michael McBride was actually Michael Westen, but it's fun to pretend. This came to me in a dream and was begging to be written, so I had to indulge my muse. Those who are waiting for "Waiting" to be updated, have no fear. It is slowly but surely in the works. I haven't decided if this story should be included in the "Waiting" verse, but I will let you know when I figure it out. Enjoy!
Fiona pulled her gun on him when she saw the first signs of the drug taking effect. His speech had begun to slur and his eyes began to droop, the cup of tea he'd drank from crashing to the ground as he lost control of his fine motor skills. She could tell that he knew something was wrong, the panicked look in his eyes apparent as he slumped to the floor searching for something, anything that could help him. When she brushed the cool barrel of the gun against his temple he stared up at her, betrayal crossing his features.
Betrayal. As if she was the one doing the lying. As if it was she who assimilated herself into his life under an alias in order to gain access to IRA secrets. And now, come to find that he was an American, a spy no less.
He'd been good, though. Believable. He looked the part, fair skin with a smattering of freckles across his nose and eyes that reminded her of the way morning mist shrouded blue skies at daybreak. He'd even had that Irish nonchalance that so many tried to portray and was able to knock back a pint of Guinness and curse up a storm with the rest of them. He'd whispered passionate words to her in Gaelic when they'd made love the first time, something no other man she'd been with had done. This made her heart clench and her anger seethe and before she knew it she was cocking back the hammer on the revolver, positioning the barrel flush against his skull and pressing so hard that it left a mark.
He talked in his sleep, she'd found out. Three, maybe four times a night she'd awake to him thrashing, murmuring mostly incoherent words under his breath except for when he would call out. No matter the words he spoke, it was clear that they were not spoken in Irish dialect. She watched him closely after that to see if he would give himself away, but he was too good. It wasn't until she'd stood outside the door of his apartment and overheard his phone conversation with whom she thought to be his handler that she had become sure of his disloyalty.
Slipping the muscle relaxants into his tea was the only sure way she could take him down quietly and without a fight. He knew too much now, and she knew that if she didn't kill him then someone else would, but it wouldn't be as humane as she was about to make it. They would surely put him through hell first before taking his life and then forgetting he ever existed. Her way was simpler and showed more mercy than even she would have preferred.
His eyes found hers as she'd cocked the hammer, his hand weakly reaching for hers to find comfort within it. As if they were just going for a stroll, and she wasn't about to redecorate her apartment with skull fragments and brain matter. Her finger tightened against the trigger, and she actually felt tears welling up in her eyes, tears for the pathetic and traitorous excuse of a man who pretended to look at her as if she were the only other woman in the world and whispered sweet nothings into her ear as he screwed her on the ratty mattress in his one-room flat. Sympathy for the man who before her should have been fearing for his life and begging for her to spare him, cowering away from the weapon she had trained on him.
Instead, in his eyes she saw only remorse and, perhaps, acceptance.
"Fi." He whispered as he gripped her hand frailly.
Her control waivered, the grip she held on the revolver tightening briefly and pushing it harder into his skin before she released it completely, the metal of the gun making a loud clink on the wooden floor as it slid from her grasp. There was no sigh of relief from him, no thankful gaze, only the quiet but assertive I'm sorry he breathed before succumbing to unconsciousness.
She collapsed against his chest, stubbornly allowing herself to cry as she remembered the gentle way he'd swept her hair out of her eyes while she worked on assembling the trigger switch of their last project, the smoldering stare he would give her even if they were talking about something as mundane as the weather, and the way he'd take her hand before she detonated a bomb like he already knew it was her favorite thing in the world. She wept harder as she remembered that, between the ramblings and the quiet, haunting cries of his nightmares, he spoke of her and he'd never looked more at peace than when she'd soothingly run her hand over his face or through his hair as he slept, calming him back into an easy slumber.
It was in that moment that she knew, regardless of their whole relationship being a lie and whether or not his feelings for her were true, she loved him. And that's what made it all the worse.
