A/N: This is the second part of the 3.01 premiere AU that was originally posted as Chapter 14 in "Puppies, Kittens and Gun Toting Babies."

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3.01 – The Enemy of My Enemy – Part 2

An alternate for Season Three and beyond following on from 2.11 – Hot Spot

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Miami 2009

The beginning of the week had started well enough. He'd had an account number and, as soon as breakfast was over, Barry would be tasked with turning it into a name for him. He'd woken up wrapped up in Fiona's prized Hungarian goose down duvet and the woman herself. Almost magically, there had been no phone calls, no interruptions and no reason to get out of bed since the spiky haired money launderer was never up much before the crack of noon. The air conditioning, something he hadn't experienced much of while sleeping since he'd been unceremoniously dumped in Miami, along with the thick covers and the warm body snuggled against his, had made it easy to lie still on his back and pretend he was McBride again, wondering when thoughts of then had started to come back so often.

He'd felt her stir and resisted the temptation to lean in and press kisses onto her hair. He'd learned the hard way a long time ago back in Ireland what happened when Fiona Glenanne was startled awake.

"Hey…" she'd said, her voice made soft by her sleepiness.

"Hey yourself," he'd returned with a smile, turning his head to lay a light touch of his lips to her forehead before returning his gaze to the ceiling. He'd been with her in this bed once before this, but never had he spent the night and awakened in her apartment. "Are you ready for breakfast?"

"Maybe…" her voice had drifted up to his ears and then she'd begun to peppering kisses along his jawline, "But I may be too sleepy wake up properly…" Fiona had paused and then had yawned hugely. "I might have ta shoot ya if ya try ta get outta me bed…"

"Well, we wouldn't want that," he'd agreed, rolling onto his side and gathering her into his arms, kissing her forehead once more before moving on to that sweet spot where her neck met her shoulder. Morning after sex had always followed one rule: no mouth to mouth contact until teeth met toothbrush.

It still left a lot of room for fun things to do.

He'd eventually made it out of her bed, out of her bathroom, out of her kitchen and finally out of her place altogether as he had headed off to see Barry. Several days had gone by after that, during which he'd had another couple of meals, one of which had actually involved food, and another encounter at her luxury abode on the Intracoastal, and then he'd finally received the phone call from Mr. Burkowski.

As Fiona's tolerance for money launderers' in general and Barry in particular was low, there had been no fireworks when he had called Sam to accompany him instead to the meeting at the Chadwick.

There had almost been fireworks of an entirely different sort after the meeting had gone south and a certain counter intelligence agent had shown up offering to do some counter blackmailing in order to obtain the file Michael had been holding over his head since last year.

"So, pull the trigger." Fiona had tendered her preferred solution to life's little problems as she'd snatched the pile of singles from him while he'd been taking too long in calculating the tip. "There's enough in that file to reduce Bly's career to a smoldering crater," she'd concluded as she'd put the proper amount of money down on the table for their meal at Carlito's, lunch at the hotel eatery having gone very badly.

"He can link me to Barry and Barry's broken a law library's worth of financial regulations looking into this account number. If Bly goes after me with that, I can throw the rest of my life into that crater too."

But the CSS agent had gone after him with more than that and, as lunchtime had turned into later-that-afternoon, things had gone decidedly downhill when they'd arrived back at the loft to find people shredding his favorite chair and scouring his living space for non-existent toxic mold.

"I'm sorry… for your own safety," the government hack in the face mask and medical gloves had said right before making the mistake of trying to touch Fiona.

"Don't touch me—for your own safety," had been her rejoinder and Michael remembered thinking at the time for just a brief moment how nice it had been that he'd been allowed to touch her again… frequently.

But that pleasantry had fled this brain the instant the real reason for his current problem had shown up.

"According to the Board of Health, this loft is unfit for human habitation and here I thought it was just a dump. Fiona Glenanne..." Jason Bly had looked her up and down and smirked prior to adding, "You're wearing more clothes than usual."

Looking back about it now, Mr Westen knew he would have enjoyed seeing Fiona knock the smartass on his ass. But he had stopped her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and hugging her close to his body, and while his mind had been focused on what the CSS agent had been threatening him with, another part of him had been thoroughly enjoying the feel of the petite redhead pressed against him.

And the juxtaposition of those ideas alone had been reason enough to go to his mother's house instead of Fiona's. That and the consideration of the chaos that would ensue should Bly be stupid enough to try to redecorate the Irishwoman's apartment as opposed to having another go at his childhood home.

So as he had walked towards the rendezvous with Barry, Sam and Fiona in that order, he'd still been a little stiff from the night spent on his mom's couch. Well, actually, he couldn't blame it all on the couch. He'd had a long day saving Jason Bly and a dozen or so hostages from a bank heist the afternoon before.

A meal of Cuban takeout (not his favorite thing, but he'd already made his mom happy for a change by agreeing to stay for dinner, so why argue at that point?) along with the exertion of the day had left him passed out in his mother's living room. The sense of déjà vu that'd washed over him when Michael had awakened to her beaming smile as she'd offered him almost burnt toast and black coffee, the traditional breakfast in the Westen household once he'd gotten into high school, had actually not been unpleasant.

Too bad he couldn't have said the same for his time trying to referee between Sam and Fiona at lunch.

"Oh, Mike, back me up," his buddy had requested as soon as he'd sat down. "I think it's pretty clear my tactical maneuverings pretty much saved the day here." Sam had been extremely pleased with himself.

"You feeling underappreciated?" Mr Westen had concluded.

"Oh, no, he appreciates himself plenty," Fiona had announced, chomping the celery from her Bloody Mary. "He's been insufferable ever since you called him first yesterday," and there had been a hint of betrayal in her eyes… or perhaps it had been only his imagination. However, once Sam had compared the tiny but dangerous woman to a very intelligent monkey, Michael had felt compelled to interrupt.

"Sam, for your information, I called Fi first," he'd advised the ex-SEAL. Then, turning to the former guerilla, he'd let her know what had happened, "You didn't pick up, which is why I called Sam."

They'd stared at each other then, that weird energy crackling between them and suddenly pervading the surrounding environs, so much so it had sent Sam in search of another place to drink his beer. After he'd excused himself to go flirt with the nearest waitress, Fiona's pique had turned into something else.

"So, you're going to go give Bly his life back?" she had asked, dipping the celery stalk and then slowly sucking the vodka infused tomato juice off of it, a hint of a smirk in her 'sweet and innocent' look.

"He's been feeling more cooperative lately. I think the name of the banker in exchange for a career ending blackmail file seemed fair."

"Well, then, I'll leave you to it," she had declared. "Won't do much for all this goodwill you two have with one another now if I shoot him in his other arm," Fiona had sighed and then added, "I would have liked to have seen that." Her smile was seductive. "Maybe later, when he's gone, you can tell me all about it?"

"Maybe we can discuss it after dinner later?"

And they had done more than discuss the particulars of what had transpired with Jason Bly and Michael's mom in the last forty eight hours… far more… The fact that he'd brought a change of clothes with him when he'd gone to pick her up to go out hadn't resonated with him until she'd said something.

"Oh, planning on spending the night?" she'd purred as he'd hung the button down shirt and slacks in her front hall closet. "You think just because you're buying me dinner you can get into me knickers?"

"Just a precaution in case this meeting doesn't go well…" he lied smoothly. It had been then he'd informed her he would be meeting a cut out in the restroom of the restaurant to collect the cash. Barry was still out of town recovering from his encounter with the man from counter surveillance services.

She'd pouted, but then grinned broadly as she'd rubbed her body up against his and whispered low in his ear, "Well, maybe I won't wear me underwear to dinner then, if that's all you're about, Mr. Westen."

Remembering that brought a silly smile to her lover's face as the dark haired man watched her drop the fluffy white towel onto the bed. The body hugging midnight blue dress she had been wearing last night had left little to the imagination. He took a moment to openly admire the tan skin covering her well–toned limbs before she shinnied into a form fitting pair of denim shorts and loose tank top. He took another moment to decide that he still, for various reasons, preferred making love to her in the old porcelain tub back at the loft instead of her shower enclosure. Her bed, on the other hand, truly had its advantages.

Waking up at her place, in air conditioned comfort, surrounded by soft bedding, the warmth of her body reminding his of the prior night's coital bliss, was getting to be a habit he was fast becoming addicted to and that thought sent a pang of guilt to his heart and a shiver of fear up his spine while he rolled up the sleeves of his white pin stripe shirt.

Fiona deserved better than the small moments of his time he gave her in between trying to get out from under the people who burned him. But that was all he had to give to right now and his lover had seemed willing to be content with what they had, whatever it was… for the moment….

They had always worked well professionally and now that they seemed to be working well personally, a small part of his brain wondered where this was leading once he'd found out who'd tried to kill him. He pushed the musing back into its box and chuckled softly as the petite Irishwoman reached up, taking the blow dryer and a soft brush to his wet hair as she'd done so many times back in the day in Dublin after she had finished drying her own auburn locks and securing them in a ponytail.

Fiona's contentment had not survived the stroll on the board walk towards the rendezvous with his mysterious banker. Something about him walking unarmed into the unknown perturbed her it seemed.

"I still can't believe you're giving all this money to some sleazy bank manager," she protested as she snatched the cash from his hand and began to count it out.

"I went— we went to a lot of trouble to find this guy," he amended. "I don't have a lot of options here."

"Michael, he hid money for a man who tried to assassinate you. "

"Which makes him a good person to know if I'm trying to find that assassin," Mr Westen reasoned.

"And you're going to this meeting unarmed with no information and I'm staying behind because…?"

The ex-spy shrugged and continued his brisk pace towards his destination. "It's a tactical risk, Fi. I was warned not to meet you the first time." His toothy grin was warm and sincere despite the situation.

"Yeah!" Finally, he was getting it. Though they had been dating at the time, him wooing his mate Sean's sister, the first time Michael McBride wannabe RIRA member had come in contact with Fiona Glenanne, PIRA undercover operative, he'd nearly been crippled. "I almost blew off your hand with a block of C-4."

"And I made a friend," he replied, putting special emphasis on the word. Michael smiled broader and then shocked Fiona by giving her shoulder a quick squeeze. Mr Westen did not do public displays of affection, especially if he had spy business on the brain. "Maybe I'll make another one."

"Aye and mabbe he'll make a corpse outta ya instead," she groused under her breath, though not out of his exceptional hearing range.

"Watch my back," the dark haired man called over his shoulder as he jogged away.

()()()()()

Patrick Glenanne's eldest daughter had been helping to stitch up her older brothers' and her own wounds since she had been old enough to sew. She'd seen it all, gunshot wounds, flash powder burns, broken bones, dislocated limbs, missing body parts and injuries that could be cause by all forms of knives, glass, metals and shrapnel.

So she'd been hard pressed to come up with a explanation exactly why Michael running across the street towards her Saab clutching his bleeding arm had set her off so badly.

But it had.

"Michael, what happened?"

"He didn't want to make friends."

For some reason, his usual glib comeback to his injury had made her see red, redder than the blood that he was trying to keep from running down his left arm and onto her upholstery. She had fled the scene, sirens warbling in the background spurring her onward. Fiona had put the Saab through its paces and ended up back at the loft in record time.

Ms Glenanne had been fairly certain the bleeding man had known that she was upset. He'd been a spy after all; it was his damned job to read people. But she had been equally certain that he had no clue why she was so angry. Fair enough for once, as she'd been having a hard time putting a finger on it herself.

Instead the ex-guerilla had put her fingers to his lacerated arm, stitched the slice shut and advised him to spend some quality time re-learning how to defend himself against a blade before exiting the loft.

When he didn't call later, she hadn't been surprised. Giving them both some space had probably been a really good idea at that particular time, though she'd had to admit she'd been missing having him next to her when she'd gotten into bed that night, the pillows still holding a trace of his scent.

As she'd stared at the ceiling of her luxury flat in the darkness, Fiona had felt the answer come over her like a cold wintery wind, the kind she remembered seeping through the cracks of the old window frames and stealing her breath away in the icy blackness of her childhood nights on the farm, when the fire would go out before its time.

She'd become accustomed to having him around again. Anything that threatened to separate them, be it his bullheaded persistence in putting himself in danger without proper back-up or his own stubborn insistence on finding out who burned him and getting back in the good graces of the CIA, it all ripped at that nearly never quite healed enough hole he had blasted in her heart when he had abandoned her in Dublin without so much as a note, a word, an apology…nothing…

The high pitched buzz of the alert tone had jarred her out of her sleep. Slowly, Fiona had realized that she'd finally drifted off into a fitful slumber and that it had in fact become daylight. She'd reached for the device and read the missed text that had popped up on the screen, inviting her to lunch.

She'd sighed heavily, wiped the grime from her eyes and sent "yes." First Campbell and now Michael with the cell phone invitations… Was she really that hard to talk to?

Sometimes reputations were earned, she'd supposed. Hers certainly was. She hardly had reason to complain about it when it didn't suit her inasmuch as she traded on the fear she struck into people.

Don' ask tha question if ya don' wanna know tha answer, lass… her Da's voice had echoed in her head.

As it had turned out, Michael ended up cancelling on her for lunch due to a series of events that included Madeline, a Haitian man seeking justice for his murdered daughter and Sam twisting Michael's arm to help, which was fine with her really because she had some gun trading to do that day and the opportunity to vent her frustrations on a deal gone bad had almost been more anticipated than the successful completion of the transaction. Plus, she had to persuade some of her gun runner contacts to put her in touch with some people smugglers and that had been no small task either.

Michael loved to get self-righteous about what she did for a living, but he never seemed to have any problems using her criminal contacts when it suited his purposes… Like he wa' so fecking noble.

But the deal had gone well and some therapy shopping at some very high scale boutiques had been in order. At first, she had been perturbed by her retail pursuits. The Irishwoman admittedly had never been ample when it came to cup size, but it seemed there was some sort of conspiracy amongst all the designers this season to squeeze what she had upfront and out the top of the dresses. She had been favoring looser clothing since she'd been spending more time horizontal with her dark haired lover. It felt like all the extra attention her breasts were getting lately had made them very sensitive indeed.

So it'd been a very happy coincidence that Michael had called to invite her to a party that required a designer dress while she'd been standing in front of a full length mirror in tight, black little number that fit right everywhere. She'd been pleased to know she looked like the small fortune she had just paid for the garment when she had politely informed the sales clerk she would be wearing it out of the store.

As Claire Honore had stood around, shouting her indignation en François and making her moves on Luc Renard, who had really been a privileged Haitian sociopath named Jean Pierre Dumont, the voice of another extremely rich, powerful and decidedly French man had come to mind. It had been Armand Andreani who had taught her a high class accent and a designer dress could be far more effective and far less bloody than an assault rifle. She had bluffed her way into an invitation only polo match and the presence of a hard to reach Bulgarian wearing less than she had on now and sporting a British accent.

Once inside Renard's Star Island mansion, she had sent him off with the promise of filling the biggest bathtub in Miami with him and some of his closest friends. The office hadn't contained much, as she had informed the ex-spy while she was nosing around looking for a place to plant a bug. His concern for her safety had been touching, but it'd turned out they had bigger worries. Claude Laurent had stood on his car with a megaphone outside the mansion, announcing Monsieur Duman's crimes, and allowing her to slip out of the office and out through the assembled guests undetected in the chaos.

Michael had saved Claude's life and she had found herself home alone again that night as well, lying on her back and thinking about the past, current and future status of her relationship with Mr Westen.

"You'll always answer when he calls."

How many nights over the years had she lain awake staring at a ceiling, just as she had that first night back home at her Mammy's house? How many nights over the years had she tried to anesthetize herself to the feelings she had for him? She had gone back to Armand's bed for a very brief time before returning to her gunrunner life and the equally brief company of various men. Dating Campbell had been her latest attempt in a string of many to put Michael Westen behind her and move on.

"I'm just the guy you borrow ambulances from."

Had it really been any coincidence that the paramedic had exited from her life just prior to her wayward lover entering it again? Had it really been such a surprise that she'd allowed him to make love to her as it was blatantly clear that Michael still had a hold of her heart, as much as she wished it were not so because he apparently wished it were not so?

"I'm not your boyfriend, he is."

How many times would she allow him into her heart and her bed… only to lose him again…?

They had grown closer in these last few weeks than they had been since their time in Ireland, closer than they had had a chance to get during those few months following her birthday before….

Before he'd run off to confront Phillip Cowan without back up… before he'd run off to meet the people that had burned him all alone… and once he'd gotten himself out from under Carla's organization…?

The potential answer had left her feeling rather queasy and then in a really snarky mood when she'd met up with Mr Axe and Mr Westen at their usual table the next morning for breakfast.

"So I asked around about who might have brought your knife wielding fake banker into the country. It was rough," she'd advised them both, spearing the melon and chewing with gusto. She had gone from nauseous to ravenous that morning. "I mean, the Miami gun smugglers and the Miami people smugglers, they don't along. And I've always been more of a gun person. "

"Sure as hell not a people person," Sam had interjected.

"You wanna take over, Sam? Oh wait, that's right. I forgot. All your friends wear uniforms, which makes you useless." Fiona hadn't been in the mood for his smart ass remarks.

"Hey, who found out about his guy in the first place? Huh?"

As usual, the man in middle had intervened, cutting them off with a slash of his hand.

"Sam, Fi, just keep looking…."

"I intend to," she had advised before flouncing off.

Another day of intimidating information out of people had led to another night alone. Claude Laurent would be staying at the loft until the boys finished sorting out Luc Renard's identity problems while she had been tasked with finding the man who had tried to kill Michael. She would have been fine with hunting the man down for reasons of revenge, but the fact that the ex-spy was intent on forging alliances with whomever had tried to end his life because of a wrongly perceived connection to Carla was ridiculous in her opinion. If someone was intent on killing the woman's operatives, let them!

But she had gotten a call in the early morning hours and she had been feeling particularly… she couldn't really put a name to the feeling… but the opportunity to intimidate someone while looking like a fashion model, instead of the former IRA terrorist the English government thought she was, had really appealed to her. So, one see-through, off the shoulder orange mini dress and wedges later, she'd been sitting in her Saab in the early morning light, watching Gary the human smuggler empty out this SUV and his boat.

"It seems my people skills are improving, Michael," she'd purred into the phone, happy after he'd just informed her that Sam had gone to stash Claude somewhere safe and then scout the grounds of the Renard estate to look for a place to park later in preparation for their operation.

"You found the guy who smuggled in our fake banker from the Cayman Islands?"

"I found where he keeps his boat and he just arrived. I'm sure he'll be in a chatty mood when I'm done introducing myself."

Michael's light laughter through the phone line had suddenly set her on fire. "You go easy on him, Fi…"

"You're breaking up…" She had closed the cell phone and tossed it into the back seat.

She'd enjoyed the fact that her reputation had preceded her with the smuggler; he knew all about her shooting up Paco's boat and setting fire to that guy's place up in Boca. Before she'd left, Fiona'd made sure that he also knew what she'd done to the mercenary bastard up in Lake Worth who had kidnapped Jojo Delaney's oldest son and what would happen to Gary if he warned anyone about them conversing.

When she'd gotten back to the car, there had been three missed calls and a message from Michael asking her to come by the loft once she'd completed her task and that he would be waiting for her. She had grinned broadly, throwing the bag that contained the change of clothes she'd brought in case there had been some sneaking around required on the front seat and putting the black sports car in gear.

Michael had been almost all the way out of his clothes and getting ready to take a shower when she'd arrived at the loft. Taking a quick look around to make sure they were truly alone, Fiona had followed him in the bathroom.

"How's your arm?" she'd queried, running her fingers over the water proof bandage, before passing him by to perch on the toilet and remove her shoes.

"Better," he'd responded as he'd started fiddling with the taps, trying to get some warm enough water out of them. "Fi…I'm….sorry if I upset you…" he had offered without turning to face her while he spoke.

Fiona had come up behind him, pressing her now naked body into his almost undressed form as she wrapped her arms around him and began stroking his stomach, lightly scratching over the taut muscles with her nails, before sweeping higher to caress the broad planes of his chest and the second most sensitive points on his well appointed anatomy.

"I've missed you," she'd told him frankly. Although she'd spent the past few nights worrying about getting too close to him, now suddenly she couldn't have gotten close enough to him fast enough.

He'd turned in her arms and leaned in for a long lingering kiss that had gotten progressively more demanding as she had slid her lithe limbs up his back, pressing their hips more firmly together.

"I need to get cleaned up," he'd informed her as he'd broken their lip lock. "I have to be at—"

"Let me help you," she'd cut him off, putting her thumbs in the waist band of his boxers.

And helped him she had, right out of his remaining clothing and into the shower. She didn't have to ask why they'd spent more time making love in the tiny bathroom at the back of the loft than in his bed. It was the only room with a door that locked, which meant it was the only place with a modicum of guaranteed privacy in his living space, since virtually everyone walked into the loft like they owned it, whether friend like Sam and Madeline, or foe like Bly and Carla, herself included.

It had been slow and sweet, what passed between them, as they washed one another before finding their way to the bottom of the tub, entwining their bodies and their hearts before cleaning up again.

He'd left her in there with another parting kiss and a glowing expression that was probably as happy as the one on her face if she'd had to guess so that she could dry off and dress whilst he went into the larger room to do the same. She'd been finishing off a yogurt and reading through the brochure she'd picked up while he was making his final preparations to go. The angst she'd felt the past few nights had been gone.

"You should think about moving into one of these storage units. Some of them have air conditioning… it would be a step up," she'd told him, waving the brochure like a little fan.

"I'll keep that in mind," he'd returned, holding his chin out as a hint that he needed help with his necktie.

Fiona had smiled softly. He knew perfectly well how to adjust the thing. It was another way of sharing a moment with her, one that he had used many times in the past and it had pleased her greatly just then.

"Call the storage unit and make some inquiries; let them know Gustavo passed away and that you're coming by after hours to check on that unit."

"I think I can handle that." She'd finished adjusting his tie. "And you can say hello to Mr Duman for me."

Fiona had taken a trip up the warehouse, had lunch, had her lunch come back up on her as she had broken out in a nasty sweat, taken another shower, changed and gone back to the loft, all the while it had taken the three of them to return from the Dumon estate with the news that things had gone badly.

She'd lain on the bed painting her nails while the boys had formed a new plan and then had excused herself afterwards once the paint had dried. She hadn't liked the way she'd felt all afternoon and a nap seemed to be in order. The Irish woman knew she needed to be fresh for her performance again as the French woman later that day. Whoever he was, their Haitian target was large and heavily muscled. It would take some work to hold him down while the sedative was taking effect.

Michael hadn't been surprised when she'd told him she had things to do to get ready because he had to go outfit the truck Sam was getting for the kidnapping. But he had surprised her greatly by giving her a smile and a squeeze of her hand that was resting on the window frame after he'd walked her to the car.

By the time they had finished their job and Sam had gone off to clean up and have a visit with his FBI buddies, Fiona had risen from her bed, feeling much more refreshed and in the game. Showering for the third time that day and slipping into an outfit guaranteed to attract her mark, she had headed off to coax Monsieur Luc Renard to accompany her back to her hotel room.

Afterwards, as Jean Pierre Dumon was sleeping like an evil sedated baby on his way back to the loft to keep a date with her Saab's trunk, Michael had dropped Fiona off at her doorstep. It was a testament to how drained she had felt that she'd allowed Sam to drive her car and Michael to drive her home and the ex-spy knew it. He'd come in the door and wrapped her arms around her, thanking her for helping bring Veronique's killer to justice. He'd promised that he and Sam would drop her baby off later that night.

They had kissed long and lingering and then he'd asked if she was up for a little night surveillance the following eve. Fiona had agreed and then had sent him home on the excuse that she was sleeping poorly of late and needed to rest up for the job. It had barely registered when later on that night Michael had slipped inside her apartment, kissed her on the cheek and deposited her keys back in her bag on the night stand. He'd whispered something to her, but she had been just too tired to care.

The next day, while the eldest Westen boy was visiting with his mother and Mr Axe was meeting with his old friends, Agents Lane and Harris, Ms Glenanne decided to set an appointment. Her upbringing had taught her that a trip to a hospital or doctor was more likely to end in a trip to jail, so she had always tended her own wounds when possible. Dating a paramedic had been a strange but educational experience.

But waking up alone by choice that morning, sweating and nauseous, before flying to the bathroom barely in time had left her with a problem to puzzle out; the way she was feeling reminded her all too much of the start of a bout of Dengue Fever she'd had back in the day. She didn't think any of Dumon's security people would travel back and forth to Haiti, but support staff and party guests might have.

As she thought back in it, several of the guards at Dumon's party were coughing at the back of the house near the kitchen and one man in particular had spilled a tray of drinks and had said he wasn't feeling well as he'd laid hands upon her after stumbling into her. He had served her a drink earlier in the night.

Having made the appointment with someone legitimate enough to do blood work, but circumspect enough that she needn't work about the results getting around, Fiona sat on her bed, feeling miserable and concluding that she needed to sleep it off as much as possible. They were going to stake out the warehouse tonight and she'd be damned if she was going to let Sam go in her place as back-up.

The next thing she knew, her phone was going off. It was time to go? The redhead sat up and ran a hand through her hair. Shaking her head as she shut off the alarm on her cell, she moved off the bed and headed towards the shower, attempting to wash the malaise away. Another nap after lunch and double something or other Cuban-made drinks with shots of espresso would be in order before this evening.

Of all the luck to take a case that would expose her to something tropical right before Michael needed her to bring her A-game. No matter, she was Fiona Glenanne and she would make it work regardless.

()()()()()()

When his back-up arrived at the loft that night, dressed all in black and toting the heavy hardware he had requested, the woman in question had looked a bit flushed at first. The admittedly heavy leather bags seemed to be giving her some trouble as she tried to maneuver them up the narrow metal stairs that led to his home. As Michael took the larger load from her, he was forcibly reminded that Fiona was in fact a head shorter than he was and was half his weight. She was always so strong and independent that he often forgot how small the package was in which the little dynamo kept all that energy.

But whatever concerns he'd momentarily had were pushed to the back of his mind as the munitions and supplies were laid out on his bed, selecting those items he thought necessary from the options she'd provided him while the former guerilla assembled a weapon with plenty of power and range.

"You called the storage place?" the dark haired man in the stealth suit asked as he loaded his go-bag.

"Manager knows we're coming," she answered. "For the record, Michael, I don't like this plan. "

"What plan?" He barely glanced at her. He knew what was coming next.

"You using yourself as bait." She wouldn't look at him either. Fiona kept her eyes focused on checking her rifle. "To see if whoever sent Gustavo after you takes another crack," she concluded.

"That's what I would do," he told her honestly, looking at her and wondering what was going on with her now. She'd been off the last couple of days. He noticed, but not knowing what to do about it, he'd let it go. Claude Laurent had kept him busy and now he was one step closer to getting the man who had tried to kill him. She had seemed to bounce back just fine when they reconnected again the other day.

She finally returned his stare and her expression unsettled him. The lithe woman heaved a sigh and then hefted the weapon, sighting down the scope and ensuring that the alignment was correct.

"You gonna let me back you up for real this time?"

"Fi.." he admonished as he put the clip in his SIG, chambered the weapon and then stuffed it in his waistband. There was an odd flavor to her concern, an overprotectiveness he didn't understand.

"If you're right, there's a good chance he's waiting on a roof with a rifle to take a shot at you," Fiona told him as she continued to look through the telescopic lens, before peering slyly at him over the stock and whispering, "That's what I would do."

"I need him alive," he told her directly as he hoisted the bag onto his shoulders, considering the matter closed. He started to turn to head out to the Charger.

His companion lowered her weapon so quickly that she almost buried the barrel into the bedding.

"And I need you alive, Michael!"

Fiona drew a sharp breath, as though she'd surprised herself as much as him with her outburst.

"And so does Sam and so does your mom! We've all gotten used to having you around and none of us wants to go back to living with what it feels like to not have you around!" She slung the firearm back up onto her shoulder. "So you just think about that while you're risking your life gathering your intel!"

And she stormed out of the loft.

Michael stood there, stunned and speechless, for a moment.

Not knowing what to say or do about that, he did what his training told him to do and refocused on the mission. It made for a very charged, but silent, ride to the warehouse. But she was a professional in her own right and, once they were on site, they followed the plans they had laid out earlier with precision.

If you suspect you're walking into an ambush, searching for where the bad guys are hidden is probably going to get you killed.

He crouched down now, in front of the door of the Unit 2410 in Building 23 where Gustavo's employer had his warehouse. "See anything, Fi?"

Unless you get lucky and find them in the first place you look, you are dead.

"Not yet…" Her voice sounded in his earpiece. "Maybe it's time we announced our arrival."

If you can manage it, the best move is to make it impossible to hide.

Michael loaded the flare into the gun quickly, then raised his arm straight up, firing it such the lighting drifted over the roof, while he pressed as tightly into the roll up door as possible.

"He's right above you," Fiona informed him. "He's on the move, Michael."

Despite their best laid plans, his quarry had flown over the roof tops of the buildings while Michael had pursued on the ground. His ridiculously fleet and fortunate target had managed to leap over a twelve foot razor wire fence into the bed of a pickup and off to his car. Yeah, it turned out they'd met before.

Victor… Victor tried to kill me… Victor tried to kill me not because Carla told him to… Victor had tried to kill me because I was working for Carla…. The enemy of my enemy could be my only friend in this….

The ride back to the loft was as silent as the drive to the warehouse had been, but with a completely different vibe. His thoughts were completely wrapped up in trying to plan, what this meant, how he could turn this new revelation to his advantage, imaging the possibilities of what could happen and then strategizing each outcome, what were the attendant risks and how to deploy resources, the need to get the non-combatants out of harms' ways… doing his Michael Westen, covert operative supreme routine…

He only really noticed Fiona hadn't said a word, even after they had parked the large black muscle car in the space below the loft stairs behind her smaller black sports car, when she'd begun to silently empty one trunk into the other.

"You don't have to do that tonight," he told her, laying ahold of the deck lid and closing it.

She just looked at him. Even in the low lights, it was possible to see how fatigued she was.

How had he not noticed that before?

"Come upstairs," he urged. "It can wait for tomorrow."

"No, ya don' wanna go around looking like a gunrunner if yer get stopped," she slurred, a bit of Irish coming out. She tried to push past him and go back towards the Saab, but he caught her arm and held her in place. Then he used his superior statistics to back her into the side of the Charger and pin her.

Michael lifted a calloused hand to cradle her jawline and tilted her head up. "Please, Fi?"

She shook her head slightly, as much as she could while he stroked her cheek with his thumb now. "I think I picked up something at Mr Dumon's besides him," she gibed. "I need to get some sleep."

He stared into her eyes under the minimal light. Yes, she did look tired… wiped out actually… but he couldn't put his finger on what else was there. "Then let me drive you home and tuck you in."

Ms Glenanne surprised him by agreeing without much of an argument. She shook her head more forcefully when he leaned forward to kiss her. "Have ya not heard me? I'm not—"

"I've got a pretty sturdy immune system, I'll take my chances." Michael surrounded her face with both his hands and drew her in for a kiss, though he kept it shorter than usual. Releasing her, he opened the passenger door and eased her into the seat. "I'll be right back."

He was back in the Charger in no time, her things and his bag in hand, but she was already dozing off when he got there. Mr Westen watched her from the corner of his eye most of the way back to her apartment. She looked wane and he compared it to her earlier appearance. She had been a bit off.

The ex-spy unloaded the back of the black muscle car while she excused herself to make a cup of tea.

The tiny Irishwoman was sitting on her bed, the unattended mug on the nightstand, staring at nothing, when he came back inside the apartment. Mr Westen then excused himself to take a shower, half expecting that she would have joined him. But when he returned to the bedroom, toweling through his wet hair and wearing the pajama bottoms he'd brought with him, the weary woman was already asleep on top of her comforter still dressed in her black clothes and her boots, her beverage cold and abandoned.

That stopped him short. Fiona would never have allowed anyone else to do that. He stood looking at her for a moment, feeling another smile spread over his countenance for no good reason he could think of. She was so beautiful. Even exhausted, she captivated him as she had since that day back in Belfast.

Sitting on the end of the soft, queen sized mattress, he doffed her footwear and then loomed over her, removing her cargo pants. She barely stirred, other than to give him a bleary, one-eyed stare that confirmed his identity before she went back to sleep. He felt her forehead, which was warm but not alarmingly so. The dark haired man did a quick check of her pulse points and then scooped her limp form off the bed long enough to pull back the covers. The redhead was dead weight in his arms…

Michael wondered what sort of bug Fiona could have picked up as he scooted into her bed and spooned up against her. The feel of her frame against his was soothing as he tried not to worry about how sick she might turn out to be. Her outburst from earlier echoed in his brain as well. No, he didn't think about how other people felt about him not being around, he hadn't for decades. The concept that someone would miss him for reasons other than needing his services was completely foreign to him.

As he cuddled her close and pressed tiny kisses into her hair, he remembered what it had felt like to think her lost to him forever. Trying to wrap his mind around how he had felt and then applying it to Fiona's feelings was an exercise that was painful at the least. Michael pushed that back into its box and let her heat permeate his whole body. He'd missed sleeping with her, that he could admit, and he had a lot of planning and executing to do over the next couple of days. So the ex-spy let himself dream of happy days in Dublin and get some much needed rest and, though he was loath to admit it, comfort.

()()()()()

When the sound of her phone buzzing startled them both awake, neither could believe they had slept that heavily or this late. Fiona in particular felt totally disoriented when he had reached over the top of her to snatch up the cell and then hand it to her a second or two too late to take the call. The Irish woman was less concerned about who it had been on the phone than with how she had ended up wearing half her combat gear and snuggled up against the well-muscled frame of one Michael Westen.

"Hey…" His smile was dazzling as she looked back up into his beautiful blue eyes. His super spy mask hadn't fallen into place yet and it made her heart skip a beat. "Aren't you going to see who called?"

"I've got more important questions to think about," she told him with a grin of her own.

"And what would that be?"

"What are you making me for breakfast? I missed me dinner…"

He kissed her cheek, pleased that she seemed to be more herself this morning. "What do you want?"

"Maybe an omelet, if your cooking skills are up to the challenge..."

"Convincing me to get out of bed right now is too much of a challenge," he whispered in her ear, squeezing her tightly before pulling away and turning her onto her back.

"Honestly, Michael, I'm starving," she pleaded.

"So am I," he agreed, raising up on one elbow before his head disappeared under the covers and her clothing did as well shortly thereafter. She felt like she would pass out from all the attention her body was being given in all the right places and felt a indescribably sweet warmth spread throughout her entire being as they joined together in intimacy, the feel of him against her almost making her weep.

Eventually, Fiona got her breakfast and her shower, but the glow lingered as she sat on the end of the bed smiling at his back while he dressed for their meeting with his handler. Maybe she would get to shoot Carla today, she thought happily before remembering the phone message.

But regardless of how contented she had been the moment before, something in the tone of the woman on the phone had made her blood ran cold when she heard the words of her medical provider replayed.

"Ms Glenanne, ya needing to come and see me about yar test results as soon as possible."