Show: The Agency
Title: The American Family – Chapter 22
Disclaimer: See Chapter 1
A/N: Two words: writer's block. I'll add three more: Please forgive me. How about
another four? I hope you enjoy!
Stiles' Apartment, Virginia
"How're you feeling?"
Terri looked up to see Stiles as he quietly posed the question, leaning against the
doorjamb of Alex's room.
"Fine," she replied, wiping her face, feeling a touch embarrassed now in hindsight.
Stiles nodded. "Good… I picked up Alex and dinner should be ready in about twenty
minutes…." He bit off his words now as he wondered if she noticed how domesticated
their situation was. Without another word, he spun on his heel and beat a hasty retreat.
Terri roughly expelled a breath she hadn't even realized she'd been holding and flopped
back onto the bed, pulling her son's Batman sheets over her head. After practically
throwing herself at and kissing him, in broad daylight in a public park no less, how was
she supposed to sit across from him and act normal after what could have transpired this
afternoon?
Flashback
Stiles fairly froze as Terri's lips covered his. For a few long seconds, he seemed to have
taken leave of his senses, before his instincts had kicked in and he'd taken control of the
kiss.
He'd almost forgotten what she tasted like – sweet and warm and a touch sinful – and his
fingers tangled in her hair and brought her closer. Stiles' tongue probed at the seam of
her mouth and it fell open for it to sweep in and take control, turning her knees to jelly –
it was a good thing she was sitting.
Instead of escalating, however, the kiss gentled and Stiles' lips almost reverently traced
hers before he pulled away and lay his forehead flush against Terri's. "God, Terri…" he
whispered huskily.
She'd wanted him. Damn, but she'd admit it.
But he'd pulled away, like he was afraid to touch her, his blue eyes swirling with desire.
"Come," he'd extended his hand and, without hesitation, she'd taken it.
What had followed she certainly hadn't been expecting. He'd walked in silence with her
back to his condo. He'd drawn the water and filled his tub and closed the door behind
him. Fifteen minutes later, he'd knocked again, averting his eyes as if he'd had some care
for a degree of her modesty and handed her a cup of chamomile tea. Forty-five minutes
after that, he'd knocked again and hung a robe on a hook behind the door. He'd not
disturbed her after that.
Terri had been shocked to say the least.
She was not used to this type of treatment from anyone, far less Stiles, who, she knew,
was prone to want to forget hard things with hard things, if you catch my drift.
Present:
Now Terri sighed, and swung her feet over the side of the small bed. Amazingly enough,
she felt far more rested than she'd expected. She ran her hands over the soft cotton of her
T-shirt – grey and nearly threadbare; yet another relic from Stiles' Marine days. Her
sweats belonged to him, too. His scent surrounded her and had lulled her to sleep; she
didn't even have to lift her arm to know that it had permeated her skin.
Deciding that it didn't make much sense to change, Terri simply opened the door and
padded downstairs into the kitchen. Stiles was at the stove and A.B.2 was next to him at
the counter on a stool separating lettuce leaves for a salad. A half-smile on her face at the
two dark-haired males side-by-side preparing a meal, Terri decided to make her presence
known.
"Need some help?" she asked, stepping fully into the room and heading towards her son.
Seeing she looked a helluva lot better than she had when he'd first brought her there that
afternoon, Stiles nodded and pointed to a tomato. "Can you cut that for the salad?"
Working quickly together, the three quickly had dinner on the table in the twenty minutes
that Stiles had promised. Afterwards, Stiles efficiently cleared the table whilst Terri
whisked their son up the stairs and into a bath before, much to his protest of course,
settling him into bed.
Stiles was setting the final plate into the dish-drainer, thinking that he definitely needed
to invest in a dishwasher, when he heard Terri padding down the stairs again. He went to
the refrigerator and grabbed a beer. "You want one?" he asked, knowing she could hear
him even if she wasn't in the kitchen.
"No thanks," Terri answered, settling herself on his couch and waiting for him to join her.
Stiles popped the cap and took a deep swig as he headed into the living room. By this
time, Terri had pulled her knees to her chest and had laid her head on her arms. Her hair
was once again pulled back into a hasty knot and, after reacquainting himself with what it
felt like, his fingers ached to reach out and touch it. Inwardly, he grit his teeth and took
another deep sip of the alcoholic beverage.
For a while, neither said anything, although there was so much that needed to be said.
With Alex present, it was easy for Terri to look past the embarrassment of that afternoon
but, since he was more than likely a resident of Dreamland now, it was staring them full
in the face.
Stiles, too, was thinking of that afternoon. He still relished in the taste of her lips on his
but he was also fraught with worry about the bigger situation. As a field agent, Terri
could be an excellent actress; he hoped she wasn't acting in either situation. He decided
to bite the bullet and speak first.
"Are you truly alright?" he asked Terri, fixing her with his blue-eyed stare.
Terri's eyes flashed up to meet his. Was she truly alright; she wondered. "Physically, I
feel better than I have since this whole catastrophe. As for my mental state, well, ask me
that question again at the end of next week and I'll have an answer for you then," she
replied truthfully.
Stiles grit his teeth and nodded. The famous two week deadline…. He wondered if he'd
ever be truly alright after that. But his hands were tied. Maybe this was the Fates' way of
retribution for all his past wrongdoings.
Terri couldn't believe she'd consented to aid him in what was obviously a crime but she
set – she would do anything to protect her family. She needed to be sure, though.
Everything she knew about Archer prodded her to seek another explanation. Why would
the Cell want him dead? Aye, he'd made his desire that the Northern Ireland PM be a
Protestant, but those were just words, right? Should a man be marked for death simply
for his words?
It's happened before – Martin Luther King Jr., Mandela…. Somehow, she couldn't
picture Archer as a martyr. "You've worked with him," she began. "Tell me; what sort of
man is Martin Archer?"
Stiles' eyes narrowed and he remained silent for a while, carefully sorting his words out.
"No one seems to know. The political arena and the wider world believe one thing; the
darker side – like the world of the Sumac Cell – believes another. I know from my
experience that Martin Archer is a vile sonofabitch, but he's still a human being; he
doesn't deserve to die…." He trailed off, his mind back on what Jonathan had told him of
the man. "Still, I want to give John-boy the benefit of the doubt."
Terri's eyes widened. "Are you kidding me?" she asked incredulously. Stiles' silence was
all the answer she needed. "You're not," she stated, throwing up her hands in disbelief.
"What is this hold that Jonathan O'Brien has over you, Stiles? How can this man nearly
destroy this family and you still want to give him the 'benefit of the doubt'?"
"I don't trust John-boy, but I sure as hell don't trust Martin Archer, either. I know his
kind, Terri; we both do. The kind of man who hides behind good intentions but is really a
wolf in sheep's clothing. That's the kind of man Martin Archer is."
Confusion furrowed Terri's brow. "Who told you this? John-boy?" she asked
sarcastically. "I wouldn't trust that sonofabitch any more than I could throw him."
"I've never trusted Archer, and I sure as hell don't like him. What John-boy told me just
reinforces my opinion of him."
"And just what did John-boy tell you, huh?" Terri asked, crossing her arms over her chest
and glaring at him mutinously.
Stiles took a deep breath, wondering if she would believe him when he didn't quite
believe it either, and launched into what his former friend had made known about the
man. By the end of his account he watched carefully for Terri's reaction.
"We don't have any proof. Quite frankly, it's the word of a renowned terrorist's over a
United States diplomat, Stiles. It's a no-brainer who anybody would believe."
"John-boy knows I won't take it as that. We have to find the proof."
"To do what, Stiles?" Terri asked frustrated. "Don't you think if there was any proof – if
what he's saying is the truth – that someone in the intelligence community wouldn't have
known about it?"
"They know," Stiles pointed out.
"Someone credible, Stiles! Someone I can believe beyond a shadow of a doubt."
Stiles set his teeth. "The only person who you can believe beyond a shadow of a doubt is
yourself, Terri. If you don't believe me, then the only recourse we have is for me to
dispose of Archer myself."
Terri narrowed her eyes. "As opposed to what?"
Stiles' eyes narrowed. "As opposed to getting someone else to do it for us."
Northern Ireland, Prime Minister's office
Gavin Thompson watched John-boy take leave of him and sighed heavily as he sat down
in his chair, wondering how the lad had gotten so cold.
You know, a niggling voice in his head censored.
Aye, he did.
They were not memories that he relished and he partially blamed himself for the man
Jonathan O'Brien had become.
Which was exactly why the occurrences of the next fortnight were so important.
He'd be damned if he let that bastard Archer win again!
Bangor, Northern Ireland
She was humming. A mournful Gaelic tune of love gained and lost.
He swallowed as he paused on the threshold. He hoped the same wouldn't hold true for
them. He'd taken leave of the Prime Minister two hours ago in Belfast and had driven
like a bat out of hell to Bangor, the little town at the edge of the Northeast coast of the
Emerald Isle by the North Channel.
John-boy watched her silently.
She wore a cream satin nightgown that molded each generous curve and she stood before
a full-length mirror as she dragged a brush through her inky tresses.
Och! but she was beautiful, he thought not for the first time. And she was. She descended
from the Rom (insultingly known as Tinkers today)… successive generations of
Bohemian blood coupled with Celtic hummed beneath her veins. She was his gypsy girl
with her ink black tresses and flashing dark eyes, golden skin and red lips, she was….
Her song stuttered and trailed off as she caught sight of him in her mirror.
She was Kit.
Knowing he'd been caught, John-boy fully entered the room, drawing nearer to her, not
even having to glance down at the small cot at the foot of the bed to know that his children lay sleeping soundly.
Even though so much about his appearance had changed, one thing always remained the
same – the startling ice-blue of his eyes. Sometimes frosty, or filled with contempt and
rage, now filled with sadness and weariness. She would recognize them anywhere.
Compassion and love and a hint of anger filled Kit's as she turned to face the man.
John-boy drew a deep breath before gathering her fiercely into his arms. "Och, lass! I
need t'be absolved."
Stiles' Apartment, Virginia
Terri pinched between her brows, feeling a headache threatening to come one; those few
hours of rest she'd gotten now seemed to have been in vain. "I'm not hearing this," Terri
covered her ears in a move that vaguely reminded Stiles of Alex and leapt off the couch
away from him. "It's bad enough that we were even thinking of going through with this
but, just when I thought you'd discovered one thread of common sense in that thick skull
of yours, you go and completely ruin in by saying something like that. A-a-and just what
is that supposed to mean? It better not be what I think it means. Tell me, Stiles. Tell me
you mean you're going to tell someone else about this and let justice take its course."
"Damn it, Terri, do you hear yourself? You're talking like a civvie instead of a CIA
Agent! There is no such thing as justice! Unless you count a bullet and a gun. You seem
prone to point it out to me countless times, so let me return the favour – Archer is a
freakin' diplomat! No one credible," he spat, "is going to believe us! Who in their right
mind would? Oh, that's right, no one! We don't have the luxury of hoping someone does
because we'll be dead if we so much as hesitate to take a piss!" he continued crassly. He
was tempted to break something, so he did, hurling his beer bottle at the wall, brown
glass and ice cold lager spraying all over the place, splashing on his hardwood floors, the
rug and on his clothes and even in Terri's hair.
Terri flinched. It was the tiniest move that had the biggest impact on Stiles. "Jesus,
Terri," he said softly, swallowing a lump of emotion the size of a duck egg that suddenly
found its way into his throat. "I'm sorry."
Terri took a deep breath, her brown eyes finding his. "No, I'm sorry." She picked her way
carefully through the bits of broken glass to stand before him. "You're right. I'm acting
like a mother –"
"You are a mother, Terri," Stiles pointed out.
"That's not quite what I meant. We can't afford to let our emotions hinder us, Stiles. We
can't." In a move that would still shock Stiles in many years to come, Terri stepped
closer and wrapped her arms about his waist and hugged him to her. He released a breath
he didn't even realize he'd been holding and his fingers got their wish and tangled in her
wavy chestnut hair.
They stayed that way for a few precious seconds before Terri stepped back. "I trust you,
Stiles," she said softly. "Tell me your plan."
TBC…
A/N: I know, short, especially after keeping you waiting for so long, but hopefully you'll
think of it as quality over quantity. I hope you enjoyed. Don't forget to drop me a line or
two just to let me know what you thought.
Title: The American Family – Chapter 22
Disclaimer: See Chapter 1
A/N: Two words: writer's block. I'll add three more: Please forgive me. How about
another four? I hope you enjoy!
Stiles' Apartment, Virginia
"How're you feeling?"
Terri looked up to see Stiles as he quietly posed the question, leaning against the
doorjamb of Alex's room.
"Fine," she replied, wiping her face, feeling a touch embarrassed now in hindsight.
Stiles nodded. "Good… I picked up Alex and dinner should be ready in about twenty
minutes…." He bit off his words now as he wondered if she noticed how domesticated
their situation was. Without another word, he spun on his heel and beat a hasty retreat.
Terri roughly expelled a breath she hadn't even realized she'd been holding and flopped
back onto the bed, pulling her son's Batman sheets over her head. After practically
throwing herself at and kissing him, in broad daylight in a public park no less, how was
she supposed to sit across from him and act normal after what could have transpired this
afternoon?
Flashback
Stiles fairly froze as Terri's lips covered his. For a few long seconds, he seemed to have
taken leave of his senses, before his instincts had kicked in and he'd taken control of the
kiss.
He'd almost forgotten what she tasted like – sweet and warm and a touch sinful – and his
fingers tangled in her hair and brought her closer. Stiles' tongue probed at the seam of
her mouth and it fell open for it to sweep in and take control, turning her knees to jelly –
it was a good thing she was sitting.
Instead of escalating, however, the kiss gentled and Stiles' lips almost reverently traced
hers before he pulled away and lay his forehead flush against Terri's. "God, Terri…" he
whispered huskily.
She'd wanted him. Damn, but she'd admit it.
But he'd pulled away, like he was afraid to touch her, his blue eyes swirling with desire.
"Come," he'd extended his hand and, without hesitation, she'd taken it.
What had followed she certainly hadn't been expecting. He'd walked in silence with her
back to his condo. He'd drawn the water and filled his tub and closed the door behind
him. Fifteen minutes later, he'd knocked again, averting his eyes as if he'd had some care
for a degree of her modesty and handed her a cup of chamomile tea. Forty-five minutes
after that, he'd knocked again and hung a robe on a hook behind the door. He'd not
disturbed her after that.
Terri had been shocked to say the least.
She was not used to this type of treatment from anyone, far less Stiles, who, she knew,
was prone to want to forget hard things with hard things, if you catch my drift.
Present:
Now Terri sighed, and swung her feet over the side of the small bed. Amazingly enough,
she felt far more rested than she'd expected. She ran her hands over the soft cotton of her
T-shirt – grey and nearly threadbare; yet another relic from Stiles' Marine days. Her
sweats belonged to him, too. His scent surrounded her and had lulled her to sleep; she
didn't even have to lift her arm to know that it had permeated her skin.
Deciding that it didn't make much sense to change, Terri simply opened the door and
padded downstairs into the kitchen. Stiles was at the stove and A.B.2 was next to him at
the counter on a stool separating lettuce leaves for a salad. A half-smile on her face at the
two dark-haired males side-by-side preparing a meal, Terri decided to make her presence
known.
"Need some help?" she asked, stepping fully into the room and heading towards her son.
Seeing she looked a helluva lot better than she had when he'd first brought her there that
afternoon, Stiles nodded and pointed to a tomato. "Can you cut that for the salad?"
Working quickly together, the three quickly had dinner on the table in the twenty minutes
that Stiles had promised. Afterwards, Stiles efficiently cleared the table whilst Terri
whisked their son up the stairs and into a bath before, much to his protest of course,
settling him into bed.
Stiles was setting the final plate into the dish-drainer, thinking that he definitely needed
to invest in a dishwasher, when he heard Terri padding down the stairs again. He went to
the refrigerator and grabbed a beer. "You want one?" he asked, knowing she could hear
him even if she wasn't in the kitchen.
"No thanks," Terri answered, settling herself on his couch and waiting for him to join her.
Stiles popped the cap and took a deep swig as he headed into the living room. By this
time, Terri had pulled her knees to her chest and had laid her head on her arms. Her hair
was once again pulled back into a hasty knot and, after reacquainting himself with what it
felt like, his fingers ached to reach out and touch it. Inwardly, he grit his teeth and took
another deep sip of the alcoholic beverage.
For a while, neither said anything, although there was so much that needed to be said.
With Alex present, it was easy for Terri to look past the embarrassment of that afternoon
but, since he was more than likely a resident of Dreamland now, it was staring them full
in the face.
Stiles, too, was thinking of that afternoon. He still relished in the taste of her lips on his
but he was also fraught with worry about the bigger situation. As a field agent, Terri
could be an excellent actress; he hoped she wasn't acting in either situation. He decided
to bite the bullet and speak first.
"Are you truly alright?" he asked Terri, fixing her with his blue-eyed stare.
Terri's eyes flashed up to meet his. Was she truly alright; she wondered. "Physically, I
feel better than I have since this whole catastrophe. As for my mental state, well, ask me
that question again at the end of next week and I'll have an answer for you then," she
replied truthfully.
Stiles grit his teeth and nodded. The famous two week deadline…. He wondered if he'd
ever be truly alright after that. But his hands were tied. Maybe this was the Fates' way of
retribution for all his past wrongdoings.
Terri couldn't believe she'd consented to aid him in what was obviously a crime but she
set – she would do anything to protect her family. She needed to be sure, though.
Everything she knew about Archer prodded her to seek another explanation. Why would
the Cell want him dead? Aye, he'd made his desire that the Northern Ireland PM be a
Protestant, but those were just words, right? Should a man be marked for death simply
for his words?
It's happened before – Martin Luther King Jr., Mandela…. Somehow, she couldn't
picture Archer as a martyr. "You've worked with him," she began. "Tell me; what sort of
man is Martin Archer?"
Stiles' eyes narrowed and he remained silent for a while, carefully sorting his words out.
"No one seems to know. The political arena and the wider world believe one thing; the
darker side – like the world of the Sumac Cell – believes another. I know from my
experience that Martin Archer is a vile sonofabitch, but he's still a human being; he
doesn't deserve to die…." He trailed off, his mind back on what Jonathan had told him of
the man. "Still, I want to give John-boy the benefit of the doubt."
Terri's eyes widened. "Are you kidding me?" she asked incredulously. Stiles' silence was
all the answer she needed. "You're not," she stated, throwing up her hands in disbelief.
"What is this hold that Jonathan O'Brien has over you, Stiles? How can this man nearly
destroy this family and you still want to give him the 'benefit of the doubt'?"
"I don't trust John-boy, but I sure as hell don't trust Martin Archer, either. I know his
kind, Terri; we both do. The kind of man who hides behind good intentions but is really a
wolf in sheep's clothing. That's the kind of man Martin Archer is."
Confusion furrowed Terri's brow. "Who told you this? John-boy?" she asked
sarcastically. "I wouldn't trust that sonofabitch any more than I could throw him."
"I've never trusted Archer, and I sure as hell don't like him. What John-boy told me just
reinforces my opinion of him."
"And just what did John-boy tell you, huh?" Terri asked, crossing her arms over her chest
and glaring at him mutinously.
Stiles took a deep breath, wondering if she would believe him when he didn't quite
believe it either, and launched into what his former friend had made known about the
man. By the end of his account he watched carefully for Terri's reaction.
"We don't have any proof. Quite frankly, it's the word of a renowned terrorist's over a
United States diplomat, Stiles. It's a no-brainer who anybody would believe."
"John-boy knows I won't take it as that. We have to find the proof."
"To do what, Stiles?" Terri asked frustrated. "Don't you think if there was any proof – if
what he's saying is the truth – that someone in the intelligence community wouldn't have
known about it?"
"They know," Stiles pointed out.
"Someone credible, Stiles! Someone I can believe beyond a shadow of a doubt."
Stiles set his teeth. "The only person who you can believe beyond a shadow of a doubt is
yourself, Terri. If you don't believe me, then the only recourse we have is for me to
dispose of Archer myself."
Terri narrowed her eyes. "As opposed to what?"
Stiles' eyes narrowed. "As opposed to getting someone else to do it for us."
Northern Ireland, Prime Minister's office
Gavin Thompson watched John-boy take leave of him and sighed heavily as he sat down
in his chair, wondering how the lad had gotten so cold.
You know, a niggling voice in his head censored.
Aye, he did.
They were not memories that he relished and he partially blamed himself for the man
Jonathan O'Brien had become.
Which was exactly why the occurrences of the next fortnight were so important.
He'd be damned if he let that bastard Archer win again!
Bangor, Northern Ireland
She was humming. A mournful Gaelic tune of love gained and lost.
He swallowed as he paused on the threshold. He hoped the same wouldn't hold true for
them. He'd taken leave of the Prime Minister two hours ago in Belfast and had driven
like a bat out of hell to Bangor, the little town at the edge of the Northeast coast of the
Emerald Isle by the North Channel.
John-boy watched her silently.
She wore a cream satin nightgown that molded each generous curve and she stood before
a full-length mirror as she dragged a brush through her inky tresses.
Och! but she was beautiful, he thought not for the first time. And she was. She descended
from the Rom (insultingly known as Tinkers today)… successive generations of
Bohemian blood coupled with Celtic hummed beneath her veins. She was his gypsy girl
with her ink black tresses and flashing dark eyes, golden skin and red lips, she was….
Her song stuttered and trailed off as she caught sight of him in her mirror.
She was Kit.
Knowing he'd been caught, John-boy fully entered the room, drawing nearer to her, not
even having to glance down at the small cot at the foot of the bed to know that his children lay sleeping soundly.
Even though so much about his appearance had changed, one thing always remained the
same – the startling ice-blue of his eyes. Sometimes frosty, or filled with contempt and
rage, now filled with sadness and weariness. She would recognize them anywhere.
Compassion and love and a hint of anger filled Kit's as she turned to face the man.
John-boy drew a deep breath before gathering her fiercely into his arms. "Och, lass! I
need t'be absolved."
Stiles' Apartment, Virginia
Terri pinched between her brows, feeling a headache threatening to come one; those few
hours of rest she'd gotten now seemed to have been in vain. "I'm not hearing this," Terri
covered her ears in a move that vaguely reminded Stiles of Alex and leapt off the couch
away from him. "It's bad enough that we were even thinking of going through with this
but, just when I thought you'd discovered one thread of common sense in that thick skull
of yours, you go and completely ruin in by saying something like that. A-a-and just what
is that supposed to mean? It better not be what I think it means. Tell me, Stiles. Tell me
you mean you're going to tell someone else about this and let justice take its course."
"Damn it, Terri, do you hear yourself? You're talking like a civvie instead of a CIA
Agent! There is no such thing as justice! Unless you count a bullet and a gun. You seem
prone to point it out to me countless times, so let me return the favour – Archer is a
freakin' diplomat! No one credible," he spat, "is going to believe us! Who in their right
mind would? Oh, that's right, no one! We don't have the luxury of hoping someone does
because we'll be dead if we so much as hesitate to take a piss!" he continued crassly. He
was tempted to break something, so he did, hurling his beer bottle at the wall, brown
glass and ice cold lager spraying all over the place, splashing on his hardwood floors, the
rug and on his clothes and even in Terri's hair.
Terri flinched. It was the tiniest move that had the biggest impact on Stiles. "Jesus,
Terri," he said softly, swallowing a lump of emotion the size of a duck egg that suddenly
found its way into his throat. "I'm sorry."
Terri took a deep breath, her brown eyes finding his. "No, I'm sorry." She picked her way
carefully through the bits of broken glass to stand before him. "You're right. I'm acting
like a mother –"
"You are a mother, Terri," Stiles pointed out.
"That's not quite what I meant. We can't afford to let our emotions hinder us, Stiles. We
can't." In a move that would still shock Stiles in many years to come, Terri stepped
closer and wrapped her arms about his waist and hugged him to her. He released a breath
he didn't even realize he'd been holding and his fingers got their wish and tangled in her
wavy chestnut hair.
They stayed that way for a few precious seconds before Terri stepped back. "I trust you,
Stiles," she said softly. "Tell me your plan."
TBC…
A/N: I know, short, especially after keeping you waiting for so long, but hopefully you'll
think of it as quality over quantity. I hope you enjoyed. Don't forget to drop me a line or
two just to let me know what you thought.
