A/N: I know I said there was little chance I'd write this story, but as I've done more than once, I'm eating my words. This is Auggie's Italian mission, as set up in "Shaken Not Stirred", the story that comes right before this. I tried and couldn't allow myself to leave the story hanging like that. Under normal circumstances, I would never post this kind of story so early, especially before it's finished, but this is not normal circumstances. I leave in a little less than six weeks, so I can't afford to wait and finish my normal, rather obsessive, routine of planing, re-reading, and editing. It's rather rough, but I hope it is satisfying. I have a pretty good idea where it's going, even if I don't have the clearest picture of how to get there, but never fear, I will finish this before I leave, even if I'm writing the night before I leave. That being said, a few things to take into account: you might want to read "SNS" BEFORE this fic - it's not essential, I've tried to give you a run-down in this first chapter, but it would probably help; because I've not been able to do my routine, there might be more mistakes than you normally see in my stories, so please forgive me in advance; lastly, this is the first mission I've ever really written, so please give me a little leeway, and if you have any advice, don't hesitate to send a review, or if you want a reply (I'm terrible at replying to reviews, even if I plan to), a PM.

Now, without further ado, I present:

When in Rome

Chapter One: Reality Check

August Anderson paced the plane again. He'd long ago memorized his fellow travelers and classified them into levels of threats. Top on his list was the toddler and her mother sitting three rows behind him. Three hours into the five-hour flight and she had yet to make a scene, but one could never get too comfortable.

As he neared the back of the plane, his thoughts drifted to his present mission. After nearly five months of preparations, it was almost time. In a little less than two hours now, he'd be on his way to finishing what he and his mentor, Philip Mace, had started. The weapons pipeline to al-Qaeda with its source in the two most influential mob-families in Italy was going down. Auggie was going to make sure of it.

The first two stages of the operation had already been set in motion. Late last year, CIA living legend, Mace, under the alias of Henry Callan, had successfully negotiated a shipping alliance between the Monteleone and De Luca families. A little less than a month after the contract had come into effect, the families had started to have a string of bad luck with their trades, courtesy of the CIA.

Now it was Auggie's turn. The former special-ops lieutenant was going to finish what he—as Callan's personal attaché, Augusto Aspesi—and Mace had started.

Auggie had never allowed himself to expect he'd be the sleeper who would deal the final blow. While he'd been a member of the Agency's elite group of soldiers, one of a squad of four tied to the US Army for almost three years, when he'd been transferred to the Department of European Affairs, he'd been considered a rookie. Though he had received training at Camp Peary (AKA The Farm, where civilians became agents) straight out of college, and then SERE training at Fort Bragg, his superiors had made it clear that they did not see him as a viable field agent. And looking back at his early months, Auggie had to admit they'd had a point. He'd been a soldier then, still raw from the horrors he'd seen and done. But he'd adapted, absorbed what he could. Not that that had made much of a difference until one day, Auggie made a mistake: he saved Don Alfonso Monteleone's life.

A week into the negotiations, Mace had made the call to assassinate Alfonso so that his decidedly less apt heir, Primo, would be forced to take over. Auggie, being the inferior agent whose only real job was to make Callan look more official, hadn't been in on the plan, and so when he'd seen the sniper, he'd acted. His instinct to protect should have killed his career, but Philip Mace was not a legend for nothing. He'd changed the plan, and ensured August Anderson was the spy for the job.

Since then, Auggie's life had revolved around two things: developing the two-dimensional Augusto Aspesi into a living, breathing persona, and learning everything he could from the old spy.

Fourty-two hours ago, the powers-that-be had declared the stage set. Auggie had said goodbye to his mentor, and dare he say it, friend, turned his apartment key into the Agency so that they could use it as a safe house while he was gone, and left for Scotland, the reported location of the internationally recognized negotiator's, Henry Callan's, home base. From there, Augusto Aspesi had boarded a plane destined for Rome, Italy.

Auggie was so absorbed in his pacing, he almost didn't feel the gentle tug on his pants. He glanced to his left and instantly located the culprit. The toddler had finally woken. Instead of crying, as Auggie would have expected a three year-old child to do, she'd seemed distracted by the corner of his—well, Augusto's—rich burgundy-colored, Italian passport, which was sticking out of his pants pocket. Her mother was still asleep; her arm perched protectively around her baby's shoulders.

The toddler seemed entranced by the color, her big blue eyes glued to the recycled leather. She tried to reach for it again, and this time her movement knocked her mother's arm off her shoulder, waking the woman instantly.

"Muriel!" the woman cried, yanking her head off the window to check her baby.

Muriel, or so Auggie assumed her name was, pointed at Auggie's pocket. "Pretty, Mummy, look!"

Her mother followed her daughter's finger, before looking up into Auggie's face. She blushed faintly, her fair skin tinged with red. She had a splotch on her forehead from where it had been resting on the glass, and her eyes were still fogged with sleep, her bronze hair slightly matted. Auggie noticed what looked to be a grape juice stain on her skirt, and her nice shirt was wrinkled and sporting a wet spot where Muriel had drooled in her sleep. There was no mistaking her exhaustion. Auggie instantly felt a little sorry for her.

"She loves red," she explained in a sturdy, classic Scottish accent as she caught her daughter before she could grab again. "I'm so sorry, sir."

Auggie was surprised to realize how much he welcomed the distraction from his thoughts. "I do not blame her," he replied in Augusto's strong Italian accent. He pulled the passport from his pocket—amused by the way Muriel's eyes grew even wider as she took in the gold emblazoned on the cover. Auggie had to admit it was a beautiful look.

"She is not loud," Auggie commented. He hesitated, but decided it would do no harm, and so gave the girl the passport. She took it and immediately hugged it to her. It would be difficult to get it back, but Auggie wanted to see her happy. It felt good to make someone happy for a change.

"She has had a cold for a while, so I gave her some medicine. It puts her to sleep. It must have worn off."

The two adults watched Muriel in silence for a second, before Auggie had to move out of the way for another passenger in need of the facilities. "I must return to my seat. I will get my passport when she again sleeps, yes?"

Auggie didn't like the idea of leaving his passport, but he couldn't bring himself to take it away. He was already regretting giving it to her in the first place.

"Thank you so much. I don't know what I would have done." Muriel's mother laughed without amusement. Auggie nodded, knowing what she meant.

He made his way back to his seat. When he reached it, he looked back at the little family. The woman nodded at him to show she knew where he sat, and Auggie allowed himself to sit down. He pulled out his iPod and tried to focus on the music.

Auggie had almost managed to forget everything in the wake of the smooth jazz playing in his ear, when the plane started its descent and he had to turn off his music. He'd just returned his iPod to his carry-on when a flight attendant tapped him on the shoulder.

"The lady in row fifteen said this belongs to you?" she said in Italian, holding out the passport.

"Sì, grazie." Auggie took the document, and glanced behind his seat to see Muriel and her mother. Muriel's face was contorted in grief, but she wasn't crying. She looked more shell-shocked, like she'd had a terrible epiphany. The sight constricted Auggie's chest. He turned away, gluing his eyes to the front.

Muriel's face still clouded Auggie's thoughts when the plane taxied to a stop. Then it hit him: it was show time. Like the toddler, he'd have to face reality. For a single moment, Muriel and Auggie shared the same thought: If only I could hold the pretty colors one more time.