A/N: Thanks again for the reviews, especially re. the tradecraft. All the information on that has come from books or other media. I find spies and secret identities fascinating.

Chapter 4

Michael watches Sam's fingers leave trails in the moisture on the almost full pint of Guinness in front of him. He can tell it is killing Sam to nurse the beer, but he appreciates the effort.

"Look, Mike, this is a good opportunity. These guys have been causing problems for long enough."

Michael takes a sip of his own beer. "I know, Sam."

"Then what's the problem?"

"I don't want to put Fiona in a meeting with the Libyans."

"Fiona? Aw, Mike. Are you getting soft?" Sam leans in and whispers, "I hate to break it to you, brother, but she's IRA. She can handle herself."

Michael silences him with a look. "It's not her I'm worried about. She's a loose cannon. I'd rather keep her for intelligence, not operations."

"Mikey, you haven't told her who she's working for, have you?"

Michael looks uncomfortable. "Not yet. It's delicate."

Sam snorts. "It's always delicate." He takes another swallow of beer. "Still, I can see why you might want to stretch this one out."

Michael goes still. "What are you saying, Sam?" There's a threat in his voice, but Sam always enjoys pushing him.

"Ahhh, man, Mikey. You aren't -? You are, aren't you? Jesus. Unbelievable. You and the ladies." He shakes his head and raises his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"Sam, I need to find out who is really funding them. That's only going to work if they're out of money. Which means-" Michael holds out his hand to Sam.

"—which means they'll need to pay more than they expect." He snaps his fingers. "Like if something happens to the merchandise." Sam fills in the rest of the plan.

Michael nods. "Think you can set something up?"

"Yeah, I guess." Sam shrugs. "Oh, I almost forgot. I got you a new com. You said you had troubles with the last one. This puppy should stay in place a little better." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small box that he slides across the table. Michael removes the earpiece and fits it into place before giving the thumbs up.

Sam raises his glass hopefully. "So, are we done here? You know, you'd think this warm beer thing they've got going over here would be terrible, but it's actually not bad."

Michael smiles and stands up. "Yeah, Sam. We're done."

He makes his way out of the pub, turns the corner, and runs straight into Fiona, just as he's removing the earpiece.

"Michael? What are you doing here?"

He flashes her a welcoming smile as his mind races. He'd thought this pub would be far enough out of the neighbourhood that he wouldn't be recognized, but he'd never expected her to turn up.

"Fi! I was just stopping for a pint on my way home."

She's looking at his ear. "Michael, what is that?" Her hand is up before he can stop her.

"Oh, now, Fi, luv –" he reaches for it, but it's too late. The com unit is in her hand.

"Michael?"

There's a moment that seems suspended in time as she looks from the com to him, and he looks back at her. Then things move fast.

She throws a punch and he catches it, twisting her arm behind her back, moving her into the shadows away from the streetlight and against the wall. "No, no, no," he says, close to her ear, as his other hand clamps over her mouth. "Fi, listen to me." He can feel her jaw working behind his fingers as she tries to bite him. "I'm going to let go, but I need you to listen to me. Okay?"

She nods. He's not sure it's a good idea, but he needs her to trust him. He turns her around to face him and carefully raises his hand off her mouth.

"Who are you?" she asks.

He's surprised at how much it hurts to see the confusion and pain in her eyes. But he's learned to not give up on a cover too easily. He's not sure he's ready to make the change from covert op to recruiting her, yet. He remembers what they told him at the Farm about the four most common motivations for people to become assets: Money, Ideology, Compromise or Ego– or a combination. He knows she joined for revenge after the death of her sister, but he hasn't figured out a good angle to get her out, yet. She is extremely loyal to her friends and family, and won't leave unless he can convince her it won't betray her sister's memory. He has to move carefully, and he has to have the upper hand.

Which he definitely doesn't, at the moment.

"Fi, luv, whatever can you mean? I'm Michael McBride."

"Why do you have a com unit? Who were you going to listen to?"

He knows that sometimes, to get people to believe you, it's best to admit to a lie. "Fi, I wasn't completely honest with you just now. I didn't just stop for a pint. I was meeting a man who could get me this."

She turns away and he grabs her shoulders, moving so his face is still in front of hers. "I thought we could get a bug on one of the Libyans, see what they're up to."

Her forehead wrinkles. "The Libyans? Why?"

"I don't trust the buggers. I don't want Ian getting in too deep with them until we really know them."

"But it's too late – the deal is set for tomorrow night." She's looking at him, hard. "Besides, we've been dealing with the Libyans for eons."

"I know that. But it was over with them eons ago, too. I'm not comfortable with this new group," he explained quickly. "If I can get this on them, we can listen in after they leave us, find out who they are when they're at home, like."

She snorts. "Who they are when they're at home? Michael, they're Libyans. They're scum when they're at home."

He doesn't disagree. "Dangerous scum. We'd do well to know what they're up to."

She narrows her eyes, not convinced. "Well, where's the rest of it?"

He forces himself not to swallow. "The rest of it?"

"Don't you need a bug? This is just the earpiece."

"Of course, of course. But the man, he didn't have it quite ready. I'm to pick it up tomorrow."

His hold on her relaxes and she grabs his hand, bending and twisting the wrist and he gasps in pain at the same moment he feels her gun against his stomach.

"Okay, ow."

"Now, McBride, if that is your name, you had better not be lying to me."

"Fi! Jesus. What are you thinking?" He can't show fear. "If the Libyans are up to something, it's to our advantage to know about it."

She looks into his eyes and he can see the wheels turning.

"Do you love me, Michael?"

Being a spy is 90 per cent lying to other people, and 10 per cent lying to yourself. Or it might be the other way around. Some days it's hard to keep track.

"How could I not?"

She's kissing him and he doesn't even have to wonder what's real and what's pretend for this part. Except for one thing.

"Fi. Fiona," he mumbles.

"Yes, Michael?"

"Could you let go of my wrist, now?"

xxxxx

Fiona slams her favourite Walther PPK onto the counter, and Michael flinches. Fortunately, the safety is on. "What the feck was that?"

"We had no choice, Fiona."

The op has gone badly. Or well, depending on whether you're Fiona or Michael. They'd paid for the weapons and had been loading them into their truck when an annoying American tourist had bumbled onto the scene. Fi had wanted to shoot him, but Michael convinced her to run. By the time they went back to collect the merchandise, it was gone. Fi thought the Libyans had come back for it, but Sam had arranged for it to be picked up by a team from MI-5.

"Those damn Libyans. We didn't even get the bug on them, Michael." She's livid. "I bet the whole thing was a set-up."

"Could have been."

"And now I'm out twenty thousand American dollars."

"Fiona, calm down. We can get more money."

She shakes her head. "There's no way. Ian can't put that kind of cash together easily. And I don't want to ask him, not after Germany."

"What about the Americans?"

"I don't know, Michael. Maybe..."

"Fiona, we could do it. We could approach them, maybe even connect them with the Libyans directly."

"It's possible, but something about this doesn't smell right."

"It will work. Trust me."

xxxxx

As predicted, Ian is livid that the deal fell through, but he's determined to throw a wrench into the peace process. He gives them other jobs to do, but Fiona is quiet for the next few days, reserved. Michael starts to worry that she doesn't trust him. She comes and goes without telling him where. He gets the feeling he's been sidelined, and it makes him nervous.

He's alone in his flat doing push-ups when the door opens and slams, and she stands in the entrance, shoulders heaving.

Michael leaps to his feet, grabbing a small towel from the back of a chair. "Fi, what is it?"

Her arm waves loosely in a hopeless gesture, and he notices that she's still clutching a balaclava. Shit. Something went down and she didn't tell him about it. He can hear the thudding of his pulse in his ears.

"They… they didn't… they were supposed to call in the threat." Her voice breaks and as the tears start flowing he's in front of her, folding her into his chest, breathing the smell of grease and gunpowder on her hair.

"Fi. Fiona."

She looks at him, her eyes full of anguish. "There were children, Michael."

He freezes. "Did they…?" He can't say it. There's a knot of worry in his throat that won't let the words out.

Fiona shakes her head. "I don't think so, no. Sean shouted. They got out in time." In an instant, her tone changes to anger and she breaks out of his embrace.

"That bastard Ian. He was supposed to call it in. I'm sick of it, Michael."

He lets her rant. He's learned that sometimes, all she needs is his presence.

"Sick of it."

All of a sudden, she's crying again. "They didn't tell me. No one warned me the call hadn't gone through. What if -" she turns and presses her forehead against the glass of the window, staring blindly into the open space between the council flats.

He stands behind her, one hand wrapping around her shoulders, the other stroking her hair as he bends and rests his head against the top of hers. "I know."

"I can't kill children, Michael."

"Shhhh. I know, Fi."

"The British might be murdering bastards, but children shouldn't have to grow up wondering when the next mailbox is going to explode." She turns to him again, staring straight into his eyes. "I want it to stop, Michael."

"What are you saying?"

"I want to stop this whole mess. I want – I want the talks to go ahead."

"Fiona…"

"Michael, I think you can help me. Can you help me?"

He knows he should stick to his cover, that this might be some kind of test. But sometimes, the real test isn't the one you're expecting. Sometimes it's the one you're most afraid of. In moments like those, you have a choice between being a spy, and being a human being.

"I can help you," he says softly. The accent is gone. It's the first time he's used his real voice with her.

To his relief, she nods, as if she had known for a long time and was only waiting for him to tell her. "What is your real name? Or can't you tell me that? I suppose it doesn't matter."

"My name is Michael Westen. I am a spy."

xxxxx

"So what happens now, Michael?" Fiona's voice is strained as she uses a screwdriver to pry open the light cover on the car's open trunk. Without looking, she hands him the screwdriver to hold while she fishes out a bundle of wires attached to the tilt switch.

"We take apart a few more trunk lights and replenish our supply of motion detonators." Michael looks around the junkyard. "This should be more than enough to last us, unless you're planning something really huge that I don't know about."

Fiona glares at him as he hands her the wire cutters. "That's not what I mean."

Michael sighs and leans against the bumper. "You mean what happens now that I'm Michael Westen?"

She holds up a small, liquid-filled ampoule and tilts it until a floating ball of mercury touches the two wires at one end. In a car, opening the trunk makes the mercury complete the circuit and triggers a light. In a bomb, the same mechanism becomes a deadly counter-tampering device for anyone who tries to move it. Satisfied, she tucks the switch into her bag before squinting at him. The sun has made a welcome appearance and is shining behind his head, making it hard for her to see him clearly. "Yes."

"I don't know, Fi," he says softly. "My job, I –"

She cuts him off. "You're just going to leave, aren't you?"

"Not for a while." He gathers up the tools and they walk to the next car. He crowbars the trunk open. "The peace process may have a chance this time. They want me to stay until there's a ceasefire, to make sure the American supporters are either on board or shut down. After that," he shrugs. "Yeah. I'll probably go."

"And where does that leave me?"

"I'll make sure you have another handler," he says, handing her the screwdriver.

Too late, he realizes his tactical error.

"Another handler, Michael? Is that how you see yourself? As my handler?" She's so angry, she's practically spitting. Instinctively, he takes a step back.

"Of course not, Fi."

"What, then? How do you see me?" She's waving the screwdriver in a way that makes him nervous, and behind his back, he tightens his grip on the wire cutters.

"Fiona, you know my job makes it impossible –"

"Answer the question, Michael."

"You… are someone I care about a great deal."

She snorts. "That's very sweet." She turns away and attacks the light cover with more force than necessary. It shatters.

"Listen, Fi, what do you want from me? To say I'm sorry? I'm sorry, Fiona. I did what I had to do for the mission, but I'm sorry. I'm sorry I lied to you. I didn't expect it to be real."

Her eyes search his. When she finally speaks, her voice is low. "This is real, then?"

"As real as it can be, for me."

"You said you loved me."

He grimaces slightly. "Well, actually, I think I said, 'How can I not?' which, you know…" His voice trails off. She's not in the mood for joking.

"Why Michael?"

"I can't," he raises his hands in frustration. "Don't you see, Fiona? I can't be close to anyone. If I Iove someone, it puts both of us in danger. Sooner or later, my enemies will get to them and use them against me. I can't give anyone that kind of leverage against me, and I won't do that to anyone I care about."

"I can take care of myself."

"It's not just you I'm worried about. I have a lot of enemies, Fiona, and I make more every day."

"Isn't that the truth," she mutters, wrenching another switch out of its socket.