A/N: This is the sixth part of the 5.01 premiere AU that was originally posted as Chapter 15 in "Reconnecting."
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5.01 AU – High Risk, High Reward – Part 6
An alternate for Season Five and beyond following on from 4.18 – Last Stand
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Davie, Florida, September 1, 2013
iro·ny
noun \ˈī-rə-nē also ˈī(-ə)r-nē\
: the use of words that mean the opposite of what you really think especially in order to be funny
: a situation that is strange or funny because things happen in a way that seems to be the opposite of what you expected
She had sworn from the time she was a little girl that she was not going to worry. She used to tease Michael for being so cautious, chiding him for refusing to have what in her opinion was fun. She was all for high risk, high reward whenever the odds looked to be in her favor or her back was against the wall.
There had been no such thing as safe in her world, only varying degrees of dangerous as she navigated growing up in a Republican family in Northern Ireland, joining the ranks of the paramilitary soldiers at a young age and a woman to boot, becoming a career criminal specializing in explosive armed robberies and finally arms dealing, first with her family and then on her own with a stop in between as second in command in her lover's weapons of war empire. She never sweated the small stuff or any stuff really.
She watched as her boys trotted, then cantered about the corral, Patrick sitting in front of Michael, his almost two year old fists gripping the pommel tightly while his father guided the black mare with one hand and held onto his offspring with the other. Fiona told herself firmly there was nothing to worry about and she wasn't going to do it if there was. Her husband had taken the tests, feeling ridiculous and vulnerable in the hospital gown, two things he hated more than anything. He'd rather be in pain, he'd said. Pain, at least, he knew how to deal with; it was almost an old, if often unwelcome, friend of sorts.
The MRIs were not radically different than the ones they'd taken as he'd been released from the hospital many moons ago. They'd showed not much degradation or any improvement. It is what it is, he'd said with a shrug. He'd learn to adjust and compensate for it and that was the end of it. There were no treatments to be had to do anything for the headaches, light sensitivity, noise sensitivity, dizziness, the fogginess that sometimes impacted his cognitive function or the persistent ringing in his ears.
He'd done what she asked and the Irishwoman decided that she was not going to watch her husband die a little each day by trying to keep him safe from dying all at once, even if it was killing her to do that.
"Time's up, fellas, we need to get to the docks or Sam is going to leave without us." She trotted over with her hands outstretched to relieve Michael of the child perched in front of him on the saddle.
"Ready to go catch some bugs?" his father asked.
"Bwgs…?" their little one repeated, his face screwing up in confusion.
"Not the ones you were trying to eat in the barn," Mr. Westen clarified. "This kind swim in the water and taste good after you cook them."
A shudder ran through Fiona has she remembered catching her son attempting to stuff a cockroach, even though Michael insisted it was a palmetto bug and not a roach, into his mouth that Pat had found in the hay. It wasn't about the insect so much as she'd very nearly lost her temper over the incident.
"Only you could make lobster sound so unappealing," His wife teased. He'd already explained to her that was what the natives called the spiny Florida lobsters that were legal to catch and cook after August 6th. He'd spent many a late summer snorkeling and scuba diving in his youth to capture the tasty treats.
Her husband shrugged and then swung down off the horse, taking a moment to surreptitiously or so he thought regain his balance, before taking the reins and walking around the front of the animal to stroke her forehead. His other lady love stood back a pace, having learned that Black Beauty could be jealous.
"I'm going to get Pat cleaned up. Take your girlfriend to the barn and cool her off. Then meet me upstairs." She was grateful he had chosen to walk the mare out instead of jumping her over the rail.
The dark haired man beamed that heart stopping, joint melting smile of his and waved to the toddler before heading towards the gate to the corral, the large black Friesian in tow. Fiona sighed deeply as she headed towards the house. She had her tactical plan for the day in order and she was sticking to it.
Heaven help whoever messed that up. That brought her up short for a moment. When had she become so regimented? When the answer to her question called for her attention by pulling on her red gold tresses and grinning about it, she smiled back. Who knew she could turn into a wet rag nursemaid?
"Down!" her offspring demanded and he was off like a rocket towards the house from the moment his little feet hit the ground, leaving his mother in the dust temporarily until she took off after him laughing.
Back in the main house of the twenty five acre hobby horse farm, Patrick Michael Samuel Westen seemed determined to live up to all his DNA simultaneously. Michael's mini me had shed his clothing in preparation to leave. Except now he was a naked black haired little blur, zooming around his room, attempting to stuff all his toys into one bag and refusing to put on his bathing suit and cover shirt.
A child with the merry disposition of his dearly departed Grandfather Glenanne and the same penchant for trouble as well as his uncle's easy peasy attitude and fondness for libations of all sorts, their son could also be intense and serious like his father, especially when disassembling things, and quick tempered like his mother, particularly when the things he'd taken apart refused to go back together.
Fiona knew that her joy over Patrick's learning to walk had been a little longer than ten point two seconds. But finding herself forever chasing down the boy who had apparently decided to skip walking and move straight onto running, she had begun to doubt if that was the case. Patrick almost literally got into everything. While baby proofing in their house had run more towards making sure all the guns and explosives were out of reach, the list of more mundane things that could hurt him was long indeed.
"Are you planning on going skinny dipping your first time in the ocean, son?"
Mr. Westen walked into the room just in time to snatch the little streaker up and carried the bundle of giggling, squirming arms and legs into the bathroom with him, volunteering to wash up himself and the toddler at the same time. Fiona shook her head, only a little miffed that she was very quickly being replaced as Patrick's favorite person on the planet. Grandma or Uncle Nate was no match for his Da.
Her cell phone rang and she spent a few minutes trading barbs with the other person who rocked young Mr. Westen's world, assuring Mr. Axe that they would not delay the commencement of the lobster hunting and Pat's ocean immersion initiation celebration as part of what the older man had planned for his favorite nephew's early birthday present and Labor Day weekend festivities. The fact that Sam's new lady had a string of luxury hotels, big boats and bigger assets was not surprising; that he loved her for more than that was. Saying goodbye, she sank down into the rocking chair. Why was she so worn out?
If she were being honest, she'd have acknowledged keeping on an eye on both Michael and Patrick at the same time was exhausting. Not normally a patient person except when cooking up batches of C-4, Fiona found herself feeling a great deal of sympathy for, as well as guilt over, the time she had shouted at the former spy for hovering over her and their child as though he was on embassy body guard duty.
Now she was the one trying to perform covert surveillance, albeit PIRA-style as opposed to anything that would have been Agency approved. As such, she was happiest when the two of them were together. His wife hoped that her husband took it as her desire for him to bond with their son, which was certainly there of course, as much as it was just easier to furtively watching over the pair of them together.
Michael had already dialed it back by taking on the hobby horse farm thing instead of the spy life. Now that all his enemies are dead or disappeared, he was finally okay with that. But being who he was, her lover would throw himself into whatever whole heartedly, regardless if he was truly healthy enough.
And she did appreciate the fact that the former covert operative had become more considerate of his limits with their son around, which was another reason she preferred to have the two of them together, and she was determined to be support of anything that helped Michael continue to be… well, Michael.
He couldn't shoot a firearm without doubling up the ear protection, he wasn't supposed to be around the fumes in any event and explosives were out on both counts. Even though the horse breeding business was pretty competitive and riding and racing their steads was fun, it was almost as dangerous for someone with dizzy spells as tearing through the streets of Miami in a muscle car. He had lost enough already. There were some things she was just going to have to bite her lip and deal with.
As she slipped into her swimming suit, two sizes larger than before much to her disgust, the Irishwoman noted another thing which didn't thrill her. However, since she couldn't shoot them, she was just going to have to live with her wider hips and bigger boobs. At least since that day in the barn, they seem to have overcome their intimate issues and things had gradually improved in the relationship department. Although Michael still seemed more interested in cuddling and comfort, things had picked up nicely and, despite her earlier fears to the contrary, her lover seem to enjoy her more ample proportions.
That was good thing, as Michael now spent more time showering with their son than her these days. She didn't realize how much she missed making love with him in that massive old claw-footed tub while the stream got cold. Soon she was going to need a cold shower if she didn't get her mind back on the task of getting ready to go, the redhead reminded herself as she heard the water cut off in the next room.
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Biscayne Bay, September 1, 2013
Sam's booming laughter sounded across the water and the figure of Madeline Westen waved back from her place on the picnic tables near the boat slips on Elliot Key in Biscayne State Park. Nate and his date de jour were tending to the fire, which at the moment was being used to make burgers and dogs, to keep the coals hot for cooking the crustaceans his older brother and companions had pulled out of the water. Watching Patrick's reaction to his first face full of salty Atlantic foam had the former SEAL laughing out loud at the toddler's startled and then delighted squeals as they bobbed in the waves.
Standing at the back of his girlfriend's Boston Whaler 345 Conquest measuring their catch to ensure that nothing was too small to take and keeping the quartet of spiny lobsters in their bag, Mr. Axe had paused in his task long enough to see his favorite nephew get splashed by the wake of another boat, as the divers went past to head into deeper water quicker than was necessary in Ms. Dearborn's opinion. Elsa's comments from behind the wheel made him smile too. Big Mama took seaside safety very seriously and was completely put out with people buzzing by a boat which clearly had a dive flag on display beside it.
They could take two more before they had their limit for the day. But once the lobsters were cut in half, slathered in butter and laying on the grill, no amount was going to be enough. They would have a more conventional party for a two year old on Patrick's birthday in a couple of days. This was Sam and Elsa's present to the little boy, which was really more of a present to his best friends. Sam knew Mike missed diving, which he could no longer do, but snorkeling was still on the list as long as his buddy was careful.
"We'll make an old salt outta ya yet, Big Guy," the Navy man called out while the toddler shrieked and slapped the water and his mother averted her face from all the splashing. Far from being afraid of the rolling clear blue waves, Patrick was as fascinated with this water, despite the saline content, as he was the hotel pool, his pool at home, the large pond the horses drank from, the creek at the back of the property, the Jacuzzi on the back porch, his mother's garden tub and his own bathtub. There was a reason the young man took showers whenever they wanted to get somewhere in less than two hours.
Enthralled with watching her son delight in playing in the ocean, Fiona didn't notice immediately that Michael hadn't returned to the surface from his last foray into the lobster loaded reefs and mud holes lining the bottom of the ocean. Glazing quickly around the relatively shallow azure depths, she couldn't see him anywhere on her side of the boat. Swallowing down her panic and telling herself he was just on the opposite side, Fiona forced her voice to remain calm so as not to startle her baby boy.
"Sam, do you see Michael?"
The ex-SEAL did a quick scan on her side of the vessel before disappearing to the other side of the craft.
"Sonuvabitch!"
Sam's swearing was followed by a loud splash as the man dove into the drink. Fiona swam as quickly as she could, holding Patrick above the waves, around the back of the boat. A blonde teenager was on the surface, gasping for air. But as she looked straight down from the girl's location, she saw Michael's apparently insensate form floating just above the bottom, the naval combat diver stroking towards him.
"Elsa, take the baby!" she demanded, handing her boy to the brunette who had come to port part of the boat once her boyfriend had gone overboard. Sensing his mother's distress, the toddler cried out.
But the Irishwoman was already under the water, using her muscles and her adrenaline to propel her towards her unconscious mate. She met the other man near the surface and helped him bring Michael up into the boat. While Sam practically leapt up onto the vessel, she begged her husband to answer her, terrified by his blue tinged face, slapping his cheek lightly, afraid of what other injuries he might have.
The older man took the ex-Ranger under the arms and hauled him into the aft of the craft as the former terrorist scampered aboard, deliberately deaf to the sniffling sobs of her son, who was more frightened by the fear radiating off the assembled adults than by the sight of his father lying prone on the deck.
"Call the Coast Guard!" Sam ordered as he checked for injuries before turning the inert man onto his side, assuming his buddy had swallowed more than seawater than was healthy. A small amount leaked out before he moved the limp form onto his back once again. His wife immediately clamped her fingers over her husband's nose and her mouth over his and began rescue breathing. The navy medic checked for a pulse and listened in on his best friends lungs. Fiona's focus narrowed to four breaths, pause, four breaths, pause, four breaths, pause… over and over again until she was almost dizzy herself.
"Look out, Fi!" he ordered, flipping Michael on his side again as the injured man vomited and then coughed violently. Gasping for air, he began to struggle until the ex-SEAL pulled him up into a position to breathe easier. "Get this tub moving, lady," Sam said, giving her a steely-eyed look that brooked no contradiction. "The Coast Guard's too far out. We're gonna have to take Mikey in. I've got him, GO!"
The tactical part of her brain took over and she jumped up from the deck and into the cabin. Sam was a Navy medic and she was a gun runner with years of experience moving volatile cargo across the water at high speeds without damaging it. As much as she wanted to stay by Michael's side, her friend was far better suited to caring for her man and she was better off behind the wheel in the cabin, where at least Patrick could see and touch her. As expected, her baby boy latched onto her back as Elsa stood behind, supporting him and directing his mother while she called for an ambulance to meet them at the marina.
Having put the powerboat through its paces, she changed places with Ms. Dearborn, allowing the owner of the vessel to dock it while she returned with her somewhat settled down son to the semi-conscious form of his father. Carefully avoiding the mess on the bottom of the boat, she came to Sam's side. Fiona didn't have to ask, her long-time associate already knew what she wanted to know.
"It was touch and go, but I think we got him outta there in time, sister. But he's going straight to the hospital, no arguments from—"
"Just get our room ready," she requested tersely.
With a nod of his head, Mr. Axe looked from the determined woman back to the pale flaccid form between them. With the normally exuberant Patrick clinging to her like his very life depended on it, Fiona reached out a hand to stroke the white wet cheek of the man whose life she depended on too.
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Miami, September 1, 2013
Michael's coughing and gasping followed by lying lifeless had been scary enough, but the convergence of the Coast Guard finally catching up to them and the myriad of emergency personnel on the dock had threatened to set Fiona Glenanne's fiery temper alight spectacularly when they all started arguing where they were transporting him and who was required to stay behind and answer questions, as they tried to bar her from entering the ambulance carrying her child dug into her side like a terrified tick.
In the end, it had been the combined efforts of Sam Axe and Elsa Dearborn and a surprise appearance by her former boyfriend, Jon Campbell, who had sorted things out such that Michael was soon being given oxygen in the back of the latter's emergency vehicle while she sat up front introducing the ex-spy's offspring to the man she had once tried to use to make his father jealous as much move on with.
When they had started to sedate and intubate her beloved, it took all of Campbell's patient persuasion to convince the redhead that this was what was best for the former covert operative based on the brief medical history she'd give him while dashing alongside the gurney from the powerboat towards the rescue vehicle and that his fellow paramedic was very good at his job and not to be concerned.
The older man who was running various tubes into and monitors onto the man she loved continued on, informing her that they might need to perform continuous positive airway pressure or intubation with mechanical ventilation with high positive end expiratory pressure or even extracorporeal membrane oxygenation for severe pulmonary oedema. Campbell could see Fiona's blue green eyes had a familiarly dangerous glint, a cross between addled, apprehensive and angry, and he tried to draw her attention.
Unfortunately, not before words like myocardial infarction, pulmonary oedema, pneumonia, cerebral hypoxia, septicaemia, cerebral oedema, renal failure, haemolysis, hyperkalaemia and acidosis could attempt to enter her vocabulary. The Irishwoman was grateful to her former beau for distracting her with inquiries about Michael's symptoms and causes of injury and future prognosis, which allowed her to make it to Mount Sinai without committing a possibly justified homicide in front of the tense toddler.
Elsa was somehow able to ease Patrick, who was now almost exhausted from the emotional overload, from Fiona's arms so she could follow along behind her husband as they rushed him into the hospital.
It took a little more than patient persuasion to stop her from following Michael into the Emergency Room. Jon was prepared for the beating of his lifetime, when suddenly she sagged against him and he was so startled that the paramedic almost allowed her to sink to the ground. Whatever had overcome her, it had to be serious. Because the Fiona Glenanne he knew had always been in control of herself.
After staining his uniform shirt with salt water for a few moments, Fiona apologized profusely for her lapse, embarrassed that she had lost control at all, never mind in front of a former flame. She detested the powerlessness she felt almost as much as the fear. Saving him from drowning she could do; preventing the follow-up conditions was another matter. Worse yet, once he recovered, it would just add another layer to the injuries he had already suffered. Biting down on her lip until it bled, she fought to bring herself back to the practical paramilitary she had once been and could barely just accomplish it.
Campbell smiled with that kind expression which had once enamored her as he gave her a quick hug.
"Mike's a really lucky guy … Never had a chance, did I?" he joked, hoping to lighten the mood.
"No," she mumbled, still embarrassed by her behavior. "You called me out on it ages ago."
"Come on," he offered. "I'll take you back. But tell me more about what's been going on with Mike."
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It happened so fast… one minute he was watching the sunshine filter through the water… he could see Fiona and Patrick on the other side of the boat… her lithe limbs treading in the ocean, his chubby legs kicking, his little hands slapping the surface… he looked back down for a moment, reorienting on his prey… two bugs trying unsuccessfully to hide in the rocks and the sentiment at the bottom on the sea…
Then he sees it off to his right in the distance. Nothing wrong with his vision yet, although it had started to get blurry when the headaches came… He can tell now by her body language that the gangly girl is stuck. The blonde had dug her hand in somewhere, looking for lobsters same as he is, and now she can't get free. He had been a combat diver too. He can read the panic in her posture.
Reacting as he had been trained, reacting on his well-honed instincts and experience, reacting based on who he was without a thought for his current limitations… He dives hard and fast, knowing how much air he has left, not knowing how long the kid has been down there, determined to make it a quick rescue.
There's nothing wrong with his muscles… he can do this…except the pressure in his head is now mounting exponentially and the amount of oxygen he thought he had to work with is not adequate. He digs around her hand and with one last hard tug on her arm, she's free. He pushes the teenager towards the surface…At least he thought he did… He needs to get back to them… to his family… Which way is up?
His lungs are burning and the pain in his chest explodes, only exceeded by the white hot searing that sets his brain on fire…Why is it so dark if he's on fire? The water has to be boiling, he's so hot inside…and then he's not…now it's dark… so dark now… so cold…so numb…so black…so…so…sooo…
Excruciating…the agony fills his starving lungs… no, it's air… the air he needs to live… to get back to them… Something else is coming… he's swallowed the sea water… and now it's coming out… right now…he retches and coughs and wants to hurl some more… at least it's not in his lungs… or much of it…
Patrick's wailing… Fiona's there somewhere, he can feel her presence just the same as he can feel Sam's strong hands gripping his biceps, turning him back over… He's so damned tired and it hurts so much…
He can sleep for a minute… just a minute… get away for just a minute… they won't let anything happen…
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All the excitement was over. Michael was in the room, hooked up to all the monitors and tubing, things to watch him, things to make him better. They still have him on a breathing tube and it was killing her to see him like that, to listen to the mechanical hiss and click. Reminds her so much of the only damned movies he likes to watch, something from his childhood…But at least it's making sure he's breathing…
He was pale as the sheets he was lying on and his head was still damp. The flurry of activity was over and the vigil had begun. Fiona's fingers carded through his hair, shaking slightly as her slender digits tried to restore some order to the black strands, remembering another time when she had stood over his bed like this. Patrick was a month away from being born and she could barely walk, her lower limbs so bloated and tender. He was much worse then. His face then was a mass of bruises- purples, greens, yellows- swollen, scraped, singed and slashed, little tiny cuts and large lacerations. He had still smelled of the acrid fumes that had engulfed the warehouse that night and had threatened to choke them both.
But she couldn't kiss his mouth now either and once again she settled for his forehead. At least this time she could bend down without her little one in the way…and again a tear dropped down to splash there.
"Hey, Fi, how's he doing?"
The smell of Old Spice and gun powder had arrived in the room along with Sam's greeting. She hadn't turn away from staring at her lover, willing him to live. How do you get blown up three times and still live through it every time? Had their luck finally run out? But she hadn't given voice to those thoughts; she'd refused to vocalize such a thing. Their baby was not going to grow up never knowing his father!
Taking one of his battered and scorched hands between her own two puffy palms, Fiona had been afraid to make a move out of concern for disturbing him and for ruining her own precarious balance.
"He's going to live," she had whispered, trying to convince herself as much as stating a fact.
"Damn straight, skippy," the older man had agreed with more force than necessary. "Mikey's too tough to go and you'd kick his ass if he tried."
Fiona remembered trying to laugh, but it had come out trembling and reedy. When Sam had wrapped one of his large arms around her thin shoulders, she had leaned into the comfort a little too far and had almost fallen. The look on the naval commander's face was shock, followed by sheer determination.
After depositing her in a chair that he had moved to the bedside with an order to stay put, he had left. When Mr. Axe had returned two hours later with a brigade of orderlies and nurses in tow, Ms. Glenanne had found herself in lying in a hospital bed conjoined with the one in which Michael had been recovering.
"You're on bed rest, missy," he had informed her sternly, but with a twinkle in his merry brown eyes nonetheless. "I went to a lot of trouble to get these sleeping arrangements, so don't let 'em go to waste."
The Irishwoman looked past the pale figure before her to the bed pushed up against his, just as it had been back then when they had rescued Michael from the rubble of a CIA secret prison in the guise of an airport hangar and from the clutches of Larry Sizemore. Sam had finally gotten to do what Michael never had been able to: put a bullet between his mentor's eyes. It had made the older man smile, really smile.
"How's he doing, Fi?"
"Better, I hope…" It was hard to tell. He was so still. As she felt the naval commander embrace her just as he had then, she let her weight shift yet again. Only this time she wasn't shattered and pregnant.
No, she was just utterly fatigued and completely drained with a million responsibilities on her shoulders.
"Better, huh…? Seems to me someone else could use a little nap, too." They both were looking at the bed on the other side of the slumbering ex-spy. "Remember, I still had to go to a lot of trouble to get these sleeping arrangements again, so don't let 'em go to waste, missy."
"I need to—"
He didn't let her finish her sentence. "You need to be here, with Mikey. Elsa's made arrangements for everyone to come back to the hotel. Maddie's got the Big Guy all settled down now. Reminded him of the time he got the flu a couple a months ago and now it was Daddy's turn. He'll be good for now."
Fiona remembered that too well. It was not a happy memory for her either. "But, the horses and the—"
"You guys have good hands on the farm, right? Let 'em do their jobs. Jesse and Dani will stay out there and keep an eye on things just in case, okay? You need to worry about you two."
She smiled wearily. The last time Sam had said that, it had been need to worry about you three.
"Alright," she agreed on a huff. There wasn't a chance she was going to be able to sleep with Patrick off somewhere, admittedly in good company, her horses and her house unattended, except for the two government agents, and her husband hurt, albeit lying right next to her in a top flight medical facility.
No, she wasn't going to be able to sleep at…. were her last thoughts before exhaustion took her.
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Miami, September 3, 2013
Michael awoke slowly. The first thing that occurred to him was his throat felt as if he'd been gargling glass shards in acid and the center of his chest felt heavy. The ex-spy was pretty sure the sandpaper sensation in his airways was due to a ventilator, which had mercifully been removed. At least his headache was no longer blinding, so that was a vast improvement. He made a concerted effort to remain still and breathe steadily, wondering again about the weighty sensation in the center of his sternum. But he was alive if not well, which was definitely progress from his last set of circumstances.
He drifted in and out of consciousness of a moment, wondering about the heavy sensation that also ran down the ribs on his right hand side. Cracking an eyelid, the light caught something and then he realized it was the small silver charm bracelet he had given to Fiona when Patrick was born, a picture of him holding their newborn son inside a silver heart-shaped locket that hung from the little sturdy chain.
Opening both his blood shot eyes a little wider, he realized that the weight he had felt was his wife's hand laying on him. Shifting his head gradually, Michael caught sight of her long auburn locks partially covering her face as she slept next to him on the adjacent hospital bed, not quite touching him save for her fingers and forearm. Knowing his beloved was a light sleeper, he tried not to move much more.
She looked so tired and care worn and he knew he was the cause once again. Maybe it was his guilt, or maybe it was really there, but Michael thought saw tear stains on her nose and cheeks. He wanted to take her into his arms and hold her close, to kiss away her concerns. However, his limbs were too heavy and too attached to too many monitors with alarms and he knew she would wake. She needed the sleep, he decided. A slight smile spread over his face as he watched her fitful slumber, knowing that Sam had once again arranged that they be allowed to recuperate together. Had she been hurt too somehow?
It didn't seem likely as she was wearing, as near as he could tell, a soft cotton T-shirt and loose fleece pants instead of the dreaded hospital gown. The combat diver let out a long breath slowly and realized his lungs ached as well as his airway. Bits and pieces of what had happened came back to him then and he tried his best to push the memories away, reliving the pain and the panic would do him no good now.
Turning his attention once again to the woman he loved, he remembered the first time he'd awoken in their unusual sleeping accommodations at Mount Sinai Hospital. He'd flirted with consciousness a number of times before actually awakening enough to really get a good look at the Irishwoman who'd stolen his heart. Then his own heart had jolted hard when he'd realized she was massively pregnant.
Time stood still and then skipped around his brain while he'd tried to put the pieces together, a timeline of 'where' and 'when' because the 'what' was pressed up against his forearm, the little person inside her belly delighting in dancing about apparently while the worn out woman next to him was trying to get some rest. Her features and her hand draped over her rippling midsection looked swollen and pale.
Anxiety for her condition battled with his own angst over his new reality that was pushing against his languid limb. Why hadn't she said anything? But the question had answered itself before it was asked. She knew what he was up against and she knew he could have never completed his mission to hunt down everyone in the organization that had burned him if he had known then what he suddenly knew now.
Michael could barely swallow the lump in his throat. Nate had lost his family and Fiona had guarded over not only his first family, but their new one as well while he had been off and gone chasing his hidden and no so hidden enemies. She had been so opposed to everything he had done from the day he landed in Miami and yet she had his back every inch of the way. She'd helped him with his thing while she'd tried to move on and they'd both tried to leave each other behind, but there was just no denying destiny.
Those weary blue green eyes had opened and stared into his, a hesitant smile forming on her face as she waited for some reaction on his part to her unspoken albeit self-evident news. What else could he say?
"I love you, Fiona," he whispered, his voice rough from disuse, watching happy tears well up in her eyes as he said those three words out loud that he'd only ever said with his expressions and his actions before.
"I love you, Fiona," he repeated in the present, laying his large paw over her small hand pressed over his heart, before going back to sleep so quickly that he never knew that she'd heard him.
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When he woke up again, the redhead who had haunted his dreams was nowhere to be found. But his mother and his little one were there, sitting in the chair beside the bed and reading a picture book.
"Hey, Champ," he croaked, hoping he wasn't scaring his son. "Hi, mom," he added, grateful for her help. He raised the bed up into a sitting position at a leisurely pace, not wanting to startle them or jar himself.
"Well, look who's awake now?" Madeline said in a sing-song voice, putting the book back into her enormous woven purse. "See, I told you Daddy was getting better and he'll be coming home real soon."
"Da!" Patrick called out and then stood up in his grandmother's lap, reaching for his father.
"No, sweetheart, you can't get too close. Your Daddy's still a little bit sick. You don't want the flu again."
"No!" the toddler agreed, dropping back down and covering his mouth and nose with his hands dramatically. Michael couldn't help but laugh, even if it hurt, and he tried to make the grin reassuringly.
"Your Daddy will be coming home soon," Fiona reiterated as she finished coming through the door. "You can see him after lunch, okay? Go with Grandma and get some lunch now."
Patrick was clearly torn between wanting to stay with his father now that the man was awake and going with the older woman who usually let him have the sugary treats he normally wouldn't be eating. But the call of cake was too strong at the moment, the taste of it still on the toddler's tongue from earlier today at his birthday party, and he jumped to the floor and barreled into his mom's legs. Fiona held him fast, lest he get away from his grandmother and go tearing through the hospital corridors like a cheetah.
Mrs. Westen stood up, going to the door and grabbing her grandson firmly by the hand before the black haired boy could change his mind. "You stay with Grandma and we'll go see what we can find," she promised, nodding to the other Mrs. Westen as she was dragged into the corridor by the Big Guy.
His wife sat down heavily in the chair at his bedside, closing her eyes and drawing a deep breath. As she looked back up at him, Michael reached across the bed railing to cup her cheek in his rough palm and Fiona leaned into his touch for a moment before sitting back in the chair. It was obvious from her appearance that the redhead was working hard to keep her tone level and her expression neutral.
"Well, I've had a word with the doctors and it seems you haven't done much more damage to your lungs. There's no sign of pneumonia or pulmonary oedema, so the antibiotics must have done their job. How's your head? Cuz they'll be taking another MRI of it tomorrow just to make sure it's on straight, my opinion notwithstanding. They'll know then if there're any side effects from your little diving trip."
Michael bit his lower lip and looked properly abashed. "I'm sorry, Fi."
"For what exactly…?" The woman he loved asked after the silence had grown uncomfortably charged. She now had that look on her face the former operative had learned meant an impeding explosion.
"Excuse me?" the man countered, buying time to shore up his defenses ahead of the gathering tempest.
"What are you sorry for, Michael? For trying to give me a heart attack? For terrifying your son or just for missing his second birthday while you were unconscious in a hospital?" She crossed her arms tightly over her chest and tried to rein in her temper. "What were you thinking? What happened out there?"
"The kid had her hand stuck in a hole and couldn't it get out. I was—"
"So you swam to the rescue without thinking about the fact that there was a reason you were snorkeling instead of diving, right? And it never once occurred to you to flag down the Navy SEAL up on deck?"
"She was in trouble, Fiona. I didn't know how much air she had left. She was panicking." Michael was feeling even more defensive the way his lover was questioning him. Was he supposed to let her die?
"Because you drowning instead of her would have been better, is that about right? You just said it yourself, you didn't know. Sam could have saved her, I could have saved her. We were right there, but-"
"Yes, you're right," he assented, trying to assuage her growing displeasure. "I didn't know. I made a judgment call based on my experience. I did what I had to do to save her life. I said I was sorry, Fi."
The words hung in the air while the infuriated Irishwoman locked her jaw, drawing a harsh breathe in through her nose before unclenching her teeth. Michael realized belatedly that he'd screwed up then. He'd justified far too many of his actions one too many times with that phrase and that attitude.
"You didn't hear anything I just said, did you? Do you have any idea of what I've had to do these last few days?" she fumed, her voice low and dangerous. "You missed your son's birthday and thank God he's too young to remember that. Either one of us could have saved that girl. D'ya know what we can't do? What Sam can't do? What I can't do? We can't be Patrick's Da. Only. You. You think about that, about you being there for your son, Michael, because I can't be Patrick's mother and his father!"
She stood up, leaning over the bed rail with fire and sorrow burning in her eyes. "You want to know what else I can't do anymore? I can't stand here again, watching you in a hospital bed, wondering if you're going to live or die, wondering how the hell I'm going to protect our child before it's ever born not knowing if you're even going to be around to see them born. I can't do it anymore. I just can't!"
"oh, Fi…" He reached for her, trying to take her hands, but she stepped back.
"I love you, Michael, I know who you are, I love who you are. But you have to think who you are to the people you're important to. You were a soldier, you were a spy. You did your duty to your country. Now Patrick needs you, we need you, we all do, more than the rest of the world does. You think about that!"
Fiona spun on her heel, her long auburn locks flying in her wake as she stormed out of the hospital room. Luckily for the door, it had a keeper which prevented it from flying off its hinges. Then he heard the voice of his mother out in the hallway, asking her favorite daughter-in-law what the problem was.
Michael couldn't really make out what was being said. But experience had taught him that, whatever it was, his mother would be discussing it with him shortly and it would be his fault, regardless of reality. He wanted to lower the bed. His headache was back with a vengeance and he felt totally drained.
However, he had no desire to take on the Mama Bear that his mother could turn into when anyone, himself included, messed with Fiona while lying down. So he sat there awaiting the fireworks. Several moments later, the door eased open and the spiky blonde hair appeared followed by oversized earrings.
"Hi, honey…" Madeline slipped inside. "Forgot my purse," she added with an almost nervous chuckle.
Michael turned his head and took in the huge straw bag still sitting beside the chair. His mother slipped into that same piece of furniture she had abandoned earlier and scooted it closer to the bedside.
"How are you feeling?" the older woman asked, a strange sympathy in her bright blue eyes.
"Fine," he lied.
"Oh, don't be like that, Michael," she chided gently.
"Okay, fine, I feel like hell. Where's Pat?"
"Fiona said she was going to take him home for a little while." His mother laughed. "That boy of yours sure is a handful. He would have run rings around you and Nate when you were little. You two boys-"
"Ma…" He tried to stop himself from groaning. "I'm sure you're not here to take a trip down memory lane." The ex-spy took a long deep breath and tried not to wince. "It's not going to be helpful anyway."
"Oh, I don't know about that. I think there are a few things you could still learn from the past."
Like What? Never trust anybody? Never let a drunk asshole near your kids? He bit back his bitter retorts.
"Will it teach me how to not be who I am? Will it teach me how to set aside thirty years of training and experience and be someone I'm not? Will it teach me how to not keep hurting Fiona?" His string of frustrated questions was as close to a tirade as Madeline had heard from her son in a number of years.
She stood up and stepped next to the bed. When her hand rose towards his cheek, Michael almost flinched, expecting a blow. His mother smiled sadly before laying a gentle hand to his face and then a tender kiss to his forehead, which was crinkled in confusion. He was anticipating a lecture, not comfort.
"You were a good soldier and you were a good … whatever you were… You always tried to help people." She shrugged her shoulders. "Maybe not in a way people always understood. But now you just need to remember that who you are is Patrick's father and Fiona's husband and you're good at that too, honey."
"Apparently not good enough," he groused, trying to mask his hurting heart behind an ill temper. He couldn't just stand by and watch someone die, especially a kid, if he could help them.
She patted his cheek again, but inside his memory it was a resounding slap. How many times had Fiona been furious and hit him for doing just that? Standing back and letting bad things happen to good people because that was the mission, because the bigger picture was more important than the little guy?
Another memory flared up: her in the loft, an open landed smack stinging his jaw, rocking his head and a litany of things that she couldn't stand anymore, lying to a friend, ruining his career, and being okay with that because of danger to other people, ones he didn't know and would never know all over the globe.
I can't stand what you're turning into.
Which is what?
Someone who only cares about the idea of people who doesn't give a damn about the ones who have his back every single day!
"Mom," he said softly, trying to choke back the conflicting emotions. "I know how important being a good father is…but I-
"But sometimes you just want it both ways?" She made that little ironic sound, somewhere between a titter and a chortle that she often did. "I always wanted us to be together as a family, but I didn't want you boys to have to grow up like that either. It was tough sometimes, trying to decide what to do."
"How did you deal with it?" Now that he was a parent too, he could see a little more of her side of it.
"I made a choice and I lived with the consequences. We all did." She kissed his brow and stepped back.
"I don't think I can do that," he mumbled, staring down at his hands studded with IV and monitors.
"I know you can't. Your father couldn't do it either. Once he saw something he wanted both ways, he'd do whatever he had to do to have it both ways. Usually it was the rest of us who paid the price. But he was a genius at it. You got that from him, honey. You'll figure something out."
The blonde reached down and picked up her bag. "You get some rest. I'm gonna go help Fiona."
Michael closed his eyes. He might sleep, but he wasn't going to rest until he figured this out.
()()()()()()()
His wife didn't come back the rest of the day.
As much as Michael didn't like it, her absence gave him a lot of time and space to think about what she had said. Caught between who he had been, who he thought he was and who he just might turn out to be, Michael struggled to come to grips with what his injuries over the years had done to his capabilities and reorganizing his priorities really meant. He thought about Paul Anderson, the Ghost of Christmas Future as Sam had called him. In the end, all you really have are your stories, the man had said.
What would he have right now, if it wasn't for Sam, or Jesse, or his mom, and of course Fiona and Pat?
The former covert operative had drifted off into a light slumber when he felt a slight tremor in the joined bed frames and then her presence filled his senses. His heart sped up as he waited to see what her mood was. Fiona slid onto the bed and slowly across the mattress. He knew that she knew he was awake now, but she was giving him the option of pretending to sleep if he wasn't ready to talk.
"Fi," the dark haired man who held her heart breathed her name as he reached for her. But Michael was soon hindered by all the leads and tubing. A frustrated groan issued from his suddenly dry lips until she shuffled closer, pushing her man onto his back again as she settled into his side without putting any real weight on his recovering ribs. Fiona laid a palm lightly along his jaw line, saying his name with adoration.
"I'm sorry," they both began simultaneously and then stopped, started again together and then laughed.
"Go ahead," he spoke softly, taking her hand in his and laying over his heart. The redhead swallowed thickly and blinked rapidly before composing herself. Even in the dim light, he could the unshed tears shining in her beautiful blue green eyes.
"I'm sorry for shouting at you. I shouldn't have said what I did while you're flat on your back in hospital. But that doesn't mean I'm apologizing for what I said. I meant every word of it," she reiterated, lest he think he was suddenly off the hook for nearly getting himself killed. "I'm sorry for the way I treated you. I was just so-" Fiona's bit her lip, gulping down the fear that she refused to set free again.
"I'm sorry I hurt you," Michael stated sincerely, getting straight the heart of the matter and skipping sentences that involved words like worried, scared and frightened. "I didn't mean for that to happen. I didn't think that I—"
"You didn't think, period," the Irishwoman interrupted. "You just acted. That's supposed to my M.O."
That brought that sly smile to his face. "So you're saying the Jimmy Choo's are on the other foot now?"
"Well, I've always been better than you at tactical analysis, but you're supposed to be the one with all the self control," she grinned back. "How could you forget what your primary mission objective was?"
"I don't know," her husband murmured, suddenly serious, and he pulled her hand up to kiss her fingers. "It's… it's hard for me to…. I mean, I know I… I just want things to be like they were, but they aren't."
"I know who you are, Michael, and you're still the man I love in here," Fiona laid their hands back over the center of his chest. "I know it's hard to let go of things sometimes, we both do. There have been a lot of changes in our lives since you finished off the people that burned you. Some have been bad, but most of them have been good." She leaned in and kissed him tenderly. "You need to remember that."
"You and Patrick, you're everything to me. I don't want to lose you."
"And we don't want to lose you, Michael. Please promise me you'll be more careful. It doesn't mean you're not Michael Westen anymore. It means you're going to be around to be Patrick's Da."
"I'll—" And the word try almost left his lips, but the pleading in her eyes stopped it cold. "I promise."
"Thank you," she whispered before kissing him again. "Thank you for both of us."
()()()()()()()
Miami, September 10, 2013
"There you are," she sang out as she stepped into the hospital room where he had been kept captive for nine days. The dark blue sundress swirled around her knees and something was wrong with the way the top fit. Her red brown hair was pulled back into a loose plait at the back of her slender exposed neck.
Michael was more than ready to go home. He had been taken down for one final series of tests and the anticipation of being able to get back into his street clothes and head to the house was almost more than he could contain. He finally felt human again. The ex-spy smiled brightly at his wife and she came over to perch on the edge of the bed. She'd been gone when he'd awoken this morning, which had set off a momentary panic. However, he had reassured himself that she was merely home washing up and fetching clean clothes for him. After almost two weeks, he was more than ready to dress and depart.
"You were gone when I got here. I thought maybe you had decided to escape without me," Fiona said with a mock pout. "I talked to your doctors while you were having all those pictures taken of your insides." She ran a palm over his chest, her thumb scraping lightly over his right nipple and he fought down a shudder. Taking his beloved home and giving her a proper apology was high on his to-do list.
"They gave me a clean bill of health?" He had felt well enough to go home after the first week. But because of his medical history, the doctors had been overly cautious in his opinion, but not hers.
"As clean as you're going to get, with qualifications," she answered. "And I talked to Campbell about it."
"Talked to Campbell?" he questioned. "About what?"
"Why, Michael Westen, are you jealous of my old beau?"
He made his don't-be-ridiculous face that Fiona found adorable.
"He helped save your life. You should be a little more grateful."
"As long as that's all he did," Michael muttered lowly.
"Actually, no, he took me to lunch while we were waiting for you."
"And?"
"And he had some very interesting suggestions, which I will share with you all in good time."
Fiona got up off the side of the mattress and sashayed around to the other side. Crawling across the bed on her knees, she laid down next to him, snuggling into his side and draping an arm and a leg across his body. Putting her head on his shoulder, she sniffed deeply, inhaling his scent. He had showered and shaved and would most assuredly have put anything on besides a loose fitting garment if he could have.
She picked up one of his hands, rubbing her thumb across the back and pouting again. "Nasty little needles. Are you ready to not come back here for a very long time, Mr. Westen? Have you learned your lesson? Are you feeling better, Michael?" The last query was solely concerned for his health, not sassy.
"Yeah, Fi," he agreed quietly. She was so beautiful. She looked relieved, but still not rested. He would have to see what he could do to take care of that situation as soon as they were back on the ranch.
"So, now that you're detached from all that equipment and all cleaned, are you ready to go out and behave yourself this time?" she asked as she started pressing little butterfly kisses to his neck and ear.
"Actually I was thinking of not behaving myself a little later," the former operative announced. His large hand closed over her left breast, gently squeezing the pliable flesh. Then he realized what he been wrong with the top of the blue garment. Her bosom had been hanging lower and looking larger.
"You're not wearing a bra," he wondered. Having taken to wearing a nursing bra right before Patrick was born, his beloved had continued to utilize the support even after they had finally weaned their son.
"I'm not wearing any underwear," the redhead informed him in a seductive voice and then moaned low when he pinched her nipple through the light cotton fabric. She gave him a nip on the ear and then returned the favor, stroking her own thumb over the hardened nubs on his chest.
"Let's go home already," Michael's voice was husky and sent shivers down her spine.
"Actually, there's something we need to talk about first."
Whether he groaned because of what she had said or because her fingers had shifted from teasing him above the covers to slipping below them and caressing his abdomen was uncertain at first. When her hand moved lower still to rub delicately over his manhood and the thin cloth barrier between them, Fiona was pretty sure that she had his full attention, in one way in any event.
"We need to find a way to indulge your reckless nature that I approve of. Something that won't land you back into a hospital bed…" Things began to stir under the sheets as her expert ministrations moved muscles that had been dormant for a couple of weeks. She purred into his neck and felt him shudder.
"I'm not going to be able to get out of this hospital bed and put my clothes on if you don't stop now."
"Who says I want you to get out of this bed and get dressed right now?" The hand that had been massaging her breast dropped down and clamped over her wrist, trying to still her movements.
"Come on, Fi, seriously, someone could walk in on us any time."
"Exactly…" She sat up and slipped her other free hand underneath everything, encircling the semi-flaccid center of his universe with a warm firm grip. "You could be discovered at any minute. Rather perilous, isn't it, Michael? Not knowing when you might be exposed? Pretty reckless behavior in my book…"
"Fi, stop…I mean it…"
"So do I…" Her Cheshire Cat grin was from ear to ear. "This is just the kind of danger I approve of."
She gave him a squeeze then that loosened his grip on her other hand and before he could stop her, Fiona had pulled everything out of her way. Her hair was tickling his stomach and his thighs while her soft moist mouth descended on his hardening length. Swirling her tongue around and lightly sucking on the delicate flesh turned a feeble protest into a shaky groan, as Michael tried to pull the sheet over her.
"They're still going to know what I'm doing," she said from under the make shift tent and to prove her point, she began to move sedately up and down, exaggerating the movements and sucking hard on the head. His breathing quickened and he gave up on stopping her, cupping her breast that he could reach.
She hummed with desire and he almost lost his mind as the vibrations sent shockwaves of pleasure through his recently recovered body. "Fi… Fiona… Fi, stop, please!" he begged, now panting hard.
The Irish temptress threw the cover back, merry mischief in her eyes. "Do you want to watch, Michael?"
Using her saliva, she started stroking very lightly again, with a barely there touch. Her husband's wide blue eyes kept flicking from the door to what her hands were doing and back as he reached for her again. But she was too fast for him this time and pinned his arms to either side of his head before using her body weight, slight though it was, to hold him in place while Fiona leaned down and capture his mouth in a hungry kiss that soon demanded more. Her tongue slid across his teeth, ordering entry.
He moaned again, but it was a cross between lust and distress and his flame haired wife pulled back, settling on his stomach and releasing his hands. "I'm sorry, Michael, was I too rough on you?"
The ex-agency man practiced breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth for several seconds. Who knew those techniques they'd taught him on the Farm would come in so damned handy?
"It's okay, just give me a second…" he gasped.
Now Fiona was truly looking contrite. "Michael…"
"It's okay, Fi," he repeated. "Just go slow, okay?"
Taking her cue, the petite but not quite lithe woman spread her skirt around her, covering her lover's exposed stomach and thighs, before reaching underneath it to ease herself onto to his eager length. Once fully sheathed, she paused and gazed into his bright blue eyes. "Okay, now?" she asked.
His smile was a little shaky, but his eyes contained only adoration. "Okay, take your time. I'm sure Sam can get us out of whatever trouble we get in so long as I don't have a heart attack lying here."
"I can think of worse ways to go," she countered as she squeezed him with muscles only he knew she had. "But we wouldn't want to embarrass Elsa with that kind of publicity."
Smiling sweetly, Fiona began to move in a measured pace, the sweet friction making both their hearts beat faster, pumping blood and swelling with love for one another. Michael's large paws were covering her breasts, palming and rubbing with more insistence until she was biting her bottom lip.
Grinning wolfishly, her husband slipped his hand under her hem and found her most sensitive spot, teasing and stroking as she moved against his engorged manhood, causing her to be the one to shudder and moan. The heat of their intimate connection began to spread through her body, spurred on by his persistent touch. Her chest heaving, her head thrown back, her mouth slack, every nerve ending singing with pleasure, Fiona lost herself in bliss. The visual was more than enough to finish throwing Michael over the edge and he joined her there in a place of ecstasy and intimacy.
His Irish lover kept from collapsing on him, holding herself over him on shaky arms, her hair fanning out around them while they gazed into one another eyes. However, looks of contentment quickly turned to looks of concern as the voices of Madeline Westen and Sam Axe sounded in the hallway, calling after the rapid footsteps which could only have belonged to their blue streak of a boy.
"Mammy! Da!" their son bellowed as he barreled into the door. Fortunately for both their dignities, Fiona was able to sweep off of Michael, flicking the sheets back over him as the toddler struggled to push the heavy wooden barrier out of his way. A quick glance over her shoulder told her that the dark haired man had managed to lift the head of the bed and cover himself sufficiently to erase the evidence of their intimate afternoon activities.
"Feeling better, Mikey?" Sam asked as he stopped halfway in, his special ops trained senses picking up on the weird energy in the hospital room.
"The best," he responded, unable to keep the satisfied smile off of his face.
"So, Fiona tells me they're letting you go home today?" his mother made her way to the bedside beaming a smile at her son and grandson. The little boy was trying unsuccessfully to scale the bed rails.
"As he gets showered off, we can all go home," she grinned back at her husband. "Michael's had enough of living dangerously, haven't you?" His only response was a suppressed chuckle.
"Come on, Big Guy," Sam said, picking up his favorite nephew and throwing him up on his shoulders. "Let's go say goodbye to Auntie Elsa while your mom's helping your dad get washed up."
"Maybe we can find something special for you to eat," his Grandma added, happy for once that she hadn't received scowls from Patrick's parents.
The ex-SEAL gave them both a look that clearly said he knew how they had been utilizing the hospitality of their special sleeping arrangements before he closed the door behind him. A few seconds later, Michael and Fiona burst out laughing, the tension evaporating and leaving them with a first class case of the giggles that they couldn't get rid of even as they gathered his new outfit and headed towards the tiny bathroom that was even smaller than the one back at the loft.
"Ready to see who can catch us out in the shower?" she chuckled.
"No, not here, anyway," he countered. "I have a feeling that close call with Patrick won't be the last."
"Well, then you'll have plenty of opportunity to take risks, won't you?" She leaned in and pulled his bottom lip between her teeth, nipping lightly before releasing him. "There's forty five hundred square feet of house and twenty five acres of ground we might get caught on by more than one person."
"Here's to risky business," he agreed, drawing her in for one last passionate kiss before going home.