A/N: Thank for all the reviews for this story. I hope I haven't kept you waiting too long for this chapter. Lover's Eyes is another Mumford & Sons song which does not belong to me. It was suggested by my good friend and Beta, Jedi Skysinger.

BEHIND BLUE EYES

Lover's Eyes

"Together."

The word held the promise of comfort and comfort was something the broken spy was desperately in need of as he buried his head further into his arms.

Instinctively, he leaned into the warmth and safety of his former lover's embrace. The touch of her arm tenderly supporting him opened another faint crack in the fragile shell enclosing his damaged soul.

"Yes… me, you, Sam and Jesse, we'll keep your Mom and Charlie safe while we figure out a way to get you clear of this mess you've made." The sting of her softly spoken words added to the turmoil swirling in his head, reminding him of what he had lost and what he had become.

"Shhh… we're no good at this..." The whispered sentiment floated back to him from long ago.

Taking a deep shuddering breath, the dark haired man uncurled. Shrugging off the shapely arm wrapped about his shoulders, he straightened out his long legs and let his head fall back against the wooden wall of the house... With everything that had happened in the last year, those five words seemed something of an understatement.

Staring out at the scattered forest of live oak trees with their ghostly tendrils of Spanish moss trailing down towards the murky brown-green waters of the Louisiana bayou, he took another deep breath and then let it out slowly and, in that moment, he let go of all his anger at what his friends had done to him.

He had no one to blame but himself. He had told Sonya that his friends had moved on without him. But, in truth, he had left them behind. Maybe not willingly, but nevertheless he had been the one who had disappeared.

"Michael?"

He could hear the concern in her tone, and it was nice. It was nice to know that she still cared enough to be concerned for his well-being. Swallowing thickly, he twisted around slightly so he could look into her eyes when he made his apology.

But words had failed him when he stared into his former lover's eyes. It was like he was looking back into the past. All the hurt his betrayal had caused glistened in her blue-green orbs just as it had all those years ago in Ireland when she had first discovered his name wasn't McBride. He knew for the ex-guerrilla fighter who had been raised to be fiercely loyal to those she loved, this second betrayal was far more despicable than the first.

His earlier deceit had been that of an enemy combatant spying on a foe. Deep down, it was something she had understood and, once the initial anger had passed, she had been able to forgive him, and move on. This time however he had done something much worse; he had lied and turned his back on his family, his friends and on her.

"Fi," he sighed. "I'm sorry."

He tried to smile, although his lips refused to cooperate, as he mistook her soulful look of compassion for one of pity. In the end, he turned away, his hands coming up to scrub away the moisture building in his eyes.

The auburn haired woman at his side reached over to capture one of his hands, entwining their fingers and bringing them down onto her lap. "So, you're finished with all that foolishness?"

"It's not that simp-" He stopped speaking as the tiny Irishwoman's short but very sharp fingernails curved and dug into the back of his hand in a warning.

"James wants us all dead, Michael. I don't think it gets any simpler than that. And unless you intend to stand by and let him do it, you're going to have to work with us."

"I have to-" The spy bit back on his words, swallowed and spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're right... I – I'll do what I can."

"Glad to see you've come to your senses." Her smile lit a small spark in his heart.

If he could make her happy, even for a short while, it was better than the hurt he had been causing her ever since Panama. He had been a naïve fool to think the CIA would have ever allowed him to walk away while they still had a use for him.

"Me too," he agreed as he managed to smile back.

They sat in silence on the old wooden porch, watching the slow moving river and listening to the sounds of the nature around them. The peace and tranquillity of the scene began to lull the operative's highly tuned senses. He had been running on empty for so long and now he had nothing left. He had missed this so much, to be able to sit comfortably with another person and not feel as though he had to be on guard in case he made even the smallest of slip ups.

His mind drifted, letting memories of his old life rise to the surface; memories he had all but extinguished because they interfered with his ability to focus on the mission: long hot sultry nights at the loft, sitting out on the balcony watching storm clouds pass over head, Fiona relaxing back against him, her feather light weight on his chest, her lips playing softly against his as they kissed under the moonlight.

He had wanted to forget those times. He was never going to have that life and thinking about what he had thrown away was just torturing himself, but the memories would not stop: the floral scent of the potpourri placed in small baskets about their home, the feel of eight hundred thread count sheets against his skin, waking up in the morning wrapped in the arms of a woman he loved and who had loved him back.

At some point, he must have fallen asleep, dreaming of those better days when he had seen a future for them together. Because when he next looked around, Fiona was standing by the door talking in muted tones to Sam Axe.

Well, love was kind for a time
Now just aches and it makes me blind

This mirror holds my eyes too bright
I can't see the others in my life

Were we too young? Our heads too strong?
To bear the weight of these lover's eyes?
'Cause I feel numb, beneath your tongue

Beneath the curse of these lover's eyes.

()()()

The three adults inside the house had listened in silence to the angry exchange taking place outside on the porch. It wasn't long before Madeline realized the effect the shouting was having on her grandson as tears filled the little boy's eyes and his bottom lip began to tremble.

"Are ya ready to do the same, Michael? Do we all need to sleep with one eye - No? Really? Tell me, please, what it is like then?"

She'd quickly gathered up her grandson in her arms and headed for the bedroom at the back of the house, hoping that the talk of what fate James might have planned for them all didn't get any louder.

Jesse edged closer to the door, where Sam stood with his head to the side, all the better for listening to the bitter words being exchanged outside.

"Do you think we should get out there before they killed each other?" the younger man murmured softly.

"No, not yet… Let's give Tinkerbell a chance. If anybody can get through to Mikey, I gotta believe she's the one to do it." The older man's body was still complaining after his own 'discussion' with his best friend. Sam was pretty sure the spy wouldn't take it very well if they all ganged up on him and besides the tiny ex-terrorist was perfectly capable of looking after herself.

As if to prove the former SEALs point, Michael's voice, full of anguish, ripped through the small house.

"STOP! J- ju-just STOP!"

Seconds later, there was a thud which sounded suspiciously like a body hitting the floor and then the patter of rapid footsteps moving away.

As Jesse reached for the door, determined to find out what was going on, Sam steadfastly blocked the younger man, holding up a hand in a gesture for him to wait.

"What are ya gonna do, Michael? Will ya stand and watch as he does it, the way you did when he murdered Ben Snyder? Or will you pull the trigger yourself this time? I mean, you hate us enough to risk having us all thrown in jail... You could say it would be a kindness to put us down like dogs."

Both men sighed with relief at the dulcet tones of Ms. Glenanne in full voice.

Jesse pursed his lips, his hand reaching for the door a second time. "I really think we should -"

"Maybe give 'em a while longer, huh, Jess?" Sam replied, as all went silent again.

He remembered that on more than a few occasions, before Michael's final confrontation with Olivia Riley, when his two best friends had still been a couple that blazing arguments had frequently ended up being settled in a more physical manner than was fitting to be seen by friends calling around unexpectedly for a beer and a chat.

The tall shaven headed man paused, clearly torn between wanting to check all was well outside and, having read his older friend's expression, not wanting to interfere in what was possibly a private moment taking place on the porch.

Finally he conceded. "We'll give them a few more minutes."

The creak of the front door opening, some fifteen minutes later, brought both men to where the woman in their thoughts stood framed in the entrance, looking exhausted and emotionally battered.

"Where's Mike?" Sam asked, peering over her shoulder to catch a glimpse of the slumped figure further along the porch. "Please tell me you haven't killed him?"

"He's alive, just…" Fiona sighed. "I think I got through to him."

"You think?" Sam looked over her shoulder again to confirm Michael was indeed still breathing.

"He's fine, Sam. He's sleeping. He's exhausted."

"So, everything is okay now?" Jesse frowned. "Cuz less than an hour ago he seemed damn determined to get away." The young man gently touched the bridge of his very sore nose, wincing at the feel of swollen and bruised skin under his fingertips.

"He doesn't want to be James' pet CIA agent any more, if that's what you mean. But -" She shook her head sadly. "He's so beaten down, I don't think even he knows what he wants any more."

"Fi…?"

At the sound of Michael calling out, the conversation came to an end.

"I'm here, Michael," she called back, turning in time to see the spy slowly climb to his feet.

"We need him on our side, Fi." Sam lowered his voice to make sure his words didn't carry. "I'm pretty sure I covered our tracks. But if James does find us, I'd rather not be dealing with the ghosts in Mikey's head too."

"He just needs a bit of time, that's all... He's Michael. He'll be fine." She turned away from the older man to face the operative at the center of all their thoughts as he walked slowly, and by his expression reluctantly, towards them.

But do not ask the price I paid,
I must live with my quiet rage,
Tame the ghosts in my head,
That run wild and wish me dead.

Should you shake my ash to the wind
Lord, forget all of my sins
Oh let me die where I lie
Neath the curse of my lover's eyes.

'Cause there's no drink or drug I've tried
To rid the curse of these lover's eyes
And I feel numb, beneath your tongue
Your strength just makes me feel less strong

()()()

As soon as he reached Fiona's side, Michael caught sight of the scabbed over gash on his best friend's forehead just below the hair line. He had been in pure survival mode when he had elbowed the man holding him captive. He was going to have to apologize.

He had been unable to see past his goal of taking over the organization, of molding it into his own vision of what was good and righteous, to listen to the words of somebody he perceived was working against him. From the moment he had figured out that the ex-SEAL was lying to him, his best friend had become the enemy and had been treated as such. The dark haired man ducked his head down, unable to meet Sam's steady gaze. He had treated one of the very few people who had stood by him like a hated foe.

The confused mind of the spy tried to justify his actions, prompting him to remember how his friends had conspired to kidnap him. However, that feeling of betrayal disappeared as fast as it had surfaced when another part of his brain pointed out how these people had thrown away their own lives in an effort to save him from himself. Fiona's hand closed about his, steadying him, reminding him he was no longer alone.

He took strength from Fiona's touch and raised his eyes to witness the damage he had done.

"I'm sorry, guys," Michael murmured, all the while wondering why the only two people who hadn't once questioned why he had taken the CIA deal were still standing there after the way he had treated them.

"Nothing to be sorry for, Mike, you were tricked into believing the words of a smooth talking evil genius. It could happen to the best of us."

"I'll think of this as pay back for shooting you... I always thought you held a grudge about that."

The spy smiled, genuinely moved by the words of the two men he had fought with so recently. He took a half step forward and then came to a stop as a large hand landed on his chest. Looking up, he found himself staring into Sam's brown eyes.

"Just tell me you've quit the whole idea of taking over James organization."

Michael nodded slowly. "I've quit, Sam. I'm sorry, I should have never -"

A well of emotion rose up, choking off his words. God, what he would have given for a drink, something strong to take away the guilt, the anger and a whole raft of other negative feelings.

"Well, that's okay then." The older man stood to one side to let him pass.

Back inside the house, Michael took his first proper look around, noting all the signs of neglect and decay. The place didn't look like it had been lived in for quite some time. Taking a seat at the table, the dark haired man pushed away Charlie's coloring book and crayons and rested his elbows on the flat surface.

"How did you come up with this place?"

"It belongs to a buddy," Sam answered, joining him at the table. "A guy I knew in West Germany. His father in law left him this place in his will. I met up with him a few times since I got to Miami. We spent quite a few weekends down here, fishing and hunting... I tell ya the locals make this great gumbo..."

The former SEAL checked himself, it was obvious from his taut features the tightly wound operative wasn't interested in hearing about the local cuisine.

"It's a safe place, Mikey, and unless James has been tailing us for the last three or four years, he can't know about it."

"And your friend, does he know we're here?" Michael knew how the terrorist organization worked. James had people who could find anybody. They would be checking out every single person who might offer them shelter. "And how about our transport? I know we didn't come all the way from Miami on an airboat."

"We brought you here on a seaplane I sorta borrowed from this guy staying at the Chadwick. He was gonna be in a meeting until four and we were long gone before he would have missed it. It's parked about a mile away, hidden outta sight and camouflaged... And my buddy, Ray, well, he's is on vacation somewhere in Eastern Europe, visiting all the places he only got to see on night missions last time he was there. We're safe for the time being."

The operative nodded and then looked at each of his three friends, his highly tuned paranoia screaming out a warning. He was half way out of his chair when he voiced his concerns. "Who's on guard? What –?"

"Hey, hey, take easy, it's all cool." Jesse gestured for the older man to sit back down. "Sammy here has it all in the bag... We hadn't been here more than five minutes before we had a welcoming committee. It was pretty hairy until a couple of the neighbors recognized Sam. If anybody comes around asking questions we'll know about it."

The dark haired spy reluctantly sunk back onto his chair. He had been alone for so long that it was hard to put his safety into the hands of others. But from the relaxed expressions worn by his friends, he had to accept that they trusted the locals to protect them.

With a long drawn out sigh, Michael began to wonder what else his friends had been up to. "So, what's the next step?"

"The plan…" Fiona explained, placing an opened yogurt cup before him along with a spoon and a bottle of water. "…Was to stop you turning into a monster. After that, we hadn't really come up with anything."

"You drag me - you ruin - how -?" Suddenly, he was so angry that he couldn't get the words to come out of his mouth. Taking several deep breaths, the haggard man forced the rage back down. He had driven them to this. He still didn't understand why they had done it; nevertheless it was up to him to fix it. "Tell me what you know. What happened to Sonya?"

"We knew you were out in the Everglades when I called you. So after we grabbed you, I sent Strong a text from your cell, saying you couldn't talk but he needed to get over to a large building seven miles inland from Pearl Bay... It was on the news this morning that the Feds had captured an international terrorist, Sonya Lebedenko, in a joint operation with the CIA... My guess is that Strong is trying to find his missing agent and James is -"

"James will have dropped out of sight. But he'll have his men hunting us down." Taking a mouthful of the creamy blueberry-flavored dessert, Michael tried to come up with a way to keep them all from ending up in jail or dead.

"Mikey, you need to talk to Strong. You can tell him you had to bug out cuz your cover was blown. If you tell him James had figured everything out... With Sonya in custody, won't that be enough to get us out of the CIA doghouse and some protection while they hunt James down?"

Michael dropped the spoon into the half full cup and stared at his best friend. The thought of going back to the CIA made him feel nauseous. He understood he was hated and despised for the killing of Tom Card and ruining the career of one of the most high profile female agents in the CIA. But what made him sick to the stomach was the complete lack of honor the Agency had displayed in using the likes of Simon Escher, the man who had done all the things that had been transferred to his own dossier to ruin his life.

He had done so many bad things throughout his career. He had done them for what he had believed were good reasons, because the Agency he trusted told him it was for the greater good... But if that Agency could free monsters to do their bidding, where was the integrity in that?

"Mike, do you have a problem with that, brother? Cuz it's the only play I can come up with." Sam pushed for answer.

The spy plastered a smile on his face. "Sure, Sam, I'll call Strong. But I'm gonna need a secure line, something James can't track."

"You think he has a line into the CIA?" Jesse asked. "Cuz if he has, we're definitely screwed."

"I don't know, Jesse. I wouldn't be surprised if he had. We can't be too careful... Besides, I don't want Strong to know where we are either, not until I'm sure there's a deal. I was told if I didn't hand over James Kendrick in forty eight hours, we were all going to prison. So I'm not counting on Strong coming through for us."

"Michael, you should speak to your mom. She was pretty upset earlier." Fiona changed the subject.

"My mom, where is she?" He looked around, as if noticing for the first time she wasn't there.

"Along the hall, she's sharing a room with Charlie. It's the last door on the right." The Irishwoman pointed to the door which led to the back of the building and the three bedrooms which made up the rest of the house.

With Michael on his way to check on his mother and nephew, the ex-terrorist joined the former SEAL and the private security consultant.

"So, that went well," Sam commented with a sigh. "I didn't expect Mikey to agree to everything just like that."

Fiona looked up at the older man, her expression showing exactly how foolish she thought his statement was. "You do know he was just telling you what you wanted to hear, right? He's up to something." She folded her arms over her chest and frowned. "I think he is going to try to go after James on his own."

"So, we're gonna have to put a leash on him then," Jesse concluded.

But do not ask the price I paid,
I must live with my quiet rage,
Tame the ghosts in my head,
That run wild and wish me dead.
Should you shake my ash to the wind
Lord, forget all of my sins
Or let me die where I lie
Neath the curse of my lover's eyes.

And I'll walk slow, I'll walk slow
Take my hand, help me on my way.
And I'll walk slow, I'll walk slow
Take my hand, I'll be on my way.

()()()

Michael slowed his pace as he reached the door. With his hand closed about the handle, he paused and closed his eyes. The thought of going back to the CIA filled him with dread; he had barely been able to contain his contempt the last time he had been in a meeting with Agent Strong and the Agency brass.

"'gain, Granma. 'gain,"

Charlie's gleeful shouts for his grandma to repeat whatever it was she had just done brought a bitter sweet smile to the spy's face. He would do it for his nephew. The boy had lost so much in his short life, he owed to Nate to do all he could to keep his son safe.

Stepping into the room, he was greeted by the sight of his Mom sitting on a double bed with Charlie seated right up next to her as she read from a large book with pop-up pictures. The image shocked Michael to the core; it was almost as if he had been transported back to his own childhood. Charlie's resemblance to Nate had been commented on by everybody who had known the younger Westen sibling; however, in the two weeks since he had last since his nephew, the similarity seemed stronger than ever.

"Look who it is, sweetheart…" Madeline's overly cheery tone sounded strained and forced to the only other adult in the room, but not to the little boy who was shuffling his way off the bed.

"Unca Mike!" Charlie yelled happily and jumped down off the bed to wrap his arms around his uncle's legs in a bear hug. "Read me a storwey?"

"Soon… er, I need to speak to your Grandma first, Okay?"

"I wanna go home... can we go?" The young child looked up expectantly.

The spy remembered the phone call Sonya had taken; the family home was gone. Fiona had burnt it to the ground and fire bombed the car belonging to James' surveillance team to stop them from giving chase.

How could he explain to Charlie that they could never go home? How could they run with a three year old, dragging him from place to place, never allowing him to make friends in case he said the wrong thing, waking him from his sleep to move on to a new location at a moments notice, having him grow up in fear of an invisible enemy who may slip into his room in the middle of the night?

He had held a gun to the head of a little girl not much older than Charlie following the orders of James' henchman, Burke. Would he have fired if told to? Would he have killed a child in order to save his friends from a life in prison?

"Do I have to remind you what's at stake? You do remember the deal? You do whatever you have to get the job done." Burke might have ordered him to kill a child, nonetheless in the background there was Strong's voice egging him on to do what was necessary... No wonder the man could free a monster like Simon.

"The men who killed your brother, they thought they were doing good too!" Sam's accusation added to the guilt the spy was feeling.

"Michael?"

The concern in his mother's voice and the tug on his sweat pants from tiny hands trying to encourage him over to the bed distracted his dark thoughts.

"Charlie, honey, why don't you go choose which story you want your uncle to read while we talk for a minute?"

As soon as the little boy was back on the bed struggling with the large book to get it on to his lap. Madeline turned back to her son. "What's going on, Michael? Have you sorted things out with Fiona – and Sam?"

"It's complicated," he answered automatically, using his standard to reply to any question about his relationships.

"Fiona came to the house, she told me – she told me some -"

"I'm fine, Mom, I – Fiona made me see sense. You all got to me in time... I'm gonna make this right, I promise." He reached out tentatively, cupping her shoulders.

"I know, honey. I was there, I heard." She smiled up at him, her hand gently rubbing up and down his arm.

He had expected recriminations, not kindness and understanding and it threw him off balance. "I heard about the house. I'm sorry, Fiona felt the need to… er, well, you know."

All through his childhood and through a good part of his adult life, he had thought he hated that house. A home was supposed to be a place of warmth, comfort and safety, yet for him it had been a war zone. By the time he was eleven, he had learned to cope with beatings, interrogations and some of the most vile food ever to land on a plate. By seventeen, on those first weeks in basic training, he had been one of only a few of the recruits who hadn't suffered any homesickness.

"It's just things, Michael... I'm finally learning that lesson. If I had burned the place down years ago, maybe we wouldn't all be here now." She took his hand and brushed it against her cheek before kissing his knuckles. "I want you to know I'm proud of you…You've always been here for us, you've always put your family first. I've been listening to your friends talk and we all have to take our portion of the blame for what's happened."

He couldn't take this right now. It would have been better if she had screamed at him. That he knew how to deal with. His blue eyes filled with moisture which he scrubbed away.

"It's okay.. I-I'm gonna make it right. I-I'm gonna call the CIA and explain." He half turned, intent on leaving the room before he broke down again, but his mother's hand on his arm stopped him.

"Michael, you need to rest and you promised Charlie a story." She gestured with a nod to where the boy sat, waiting patiently his big brown eyes fixed firmly on his closest male relative. "The CIA will still be there in a couple of hours."

"Mom..." The last thing he wanted to do was sit and read with the three year old.

"Please, Michael, for Charlie? He's been missing you so much. Just read to him while I go and make us all a drink."

The dark haired spy turned his eyes up to the ceiling, as if looking for strength.

"Fine, but I have to make that call today, as soon as possible. We need to know if the CIA is going to help us."

"One story and I'll be back before you know it... Maybe we can come with you when you make the call. It would do Charlie good to get some fresh air."

"Mom, it's not going to be - a school outing." The door shut behind the older woman before he had finished speaking. With a sigh, he turned to the dark haired child with the big brown eyes. "So, a story?"

Charlie shifted on the bed to make room for his uncle and pushed the book into his hands. "This one."

Michael looked down at the large printed script and the colorful pictures of an old king surrounded by laughing courtiers holding violins.

"It's not much of a story." He went to turn the pages, but a little hand stopped him from checking out the other nursery rhymes in the book.

"Cole."

" 'kay, I get the message, Cole it is."

Charlie clambered onto his lap and rested his head on his chest.

"So you ready now?... Old King Cole was a merry old soul. and a merry old soul was he. He called for his pipe and he called for his bowl. And he called for his fiddlers three. Every fiddler had a fine fiddle and a very fine fiddle had he; twiddle dum, twiddle dee, went the fiddlers three. Twiddle dum, dee dum twiddle dee. Twiddle dum, twiddle dee, went the fiddlers three."

Reaching the end, a demanding finger pointed to the picture of the king with his fiddler's three.

" 'gain, Unca Mike, 'gain."

Outside in the hallway, Madeline leaned back against the bedroom door, listening to her son recite the children's poem over and over again to his nephew. Tears welled up in the older woman's blue eyes as she thought about the childhood her own children were robbed of by their father and her own selfish actions.

Well, not any more…

She had been given a fresh chance with Charlie and she was determined to extend that chance to her remaining son.

And I'll walk slow, I'll walk slow
Take my hand, help me on my way.
And I'll walk slow, I'll walk slow
Take my hand, I'll be on my way.

()()()

A/N: You can go to Youtube and if you type in Jeffrey Donovan reciting Old King Cole, you can get to listen to him reading this nursery rhyme and imagine Michael Westen reading to Charlie.