Show: The Agency
Title: The American Family – Chapter 23
Disclaimer: See Chapter 1
Rating: PG-13 for language and sensuality
PLEASE READ AUTHOR'S NOTE (A/N)!
A/N: Life has been a bit difficult to say the least in the past couple of months. The chapter was delayed due to summer vacation, getting shipped off to my Dad's minus the disk with what was written so far. Then on returning home, the computer was very uncooperative (I'm trying not to use any expletives) and I couldn't even send emails far less a work in progress to my beta to help clean up. As if things couldn't get any worse, Ivan the Terrible hit the island and we'd been without electricity, water and telephones for two days. Things are a little better now and I've finally finished. Better late than never, I always say.
Thanks for last chapter's comments; I really appreciated each one. I've been doing some research and I've learnt that The Republic of Ireland was actually a semi-independent state (The Irish Free State), whilst pro-Protestant Northern Ireland is under the 'rule' of a 12-member Protestant-Catholic 'coalition' of sorts which represents their interests in the Westminster Government of Great Britain. Most of the history you will read is true (I hope it won't bore you; it's pretty interesting and explains a lot about the dissension between the people) but I've also taken liberal artistic license as well (you should be able to spot the differences). Simply imagine therefore that, in addition to coming to true peace, Northern Ireland gained its independence from England as did all the other countries that made up the British Isles: Scotland and Wales.
This chapter will have no Stiles and Terri and a whole lot of Jonathan O'Brien. The reason this is so is because we got a few hints in last chapter and a few previous chapters that everything is not as it seems, and a whole lot of things have happened to make John-boy the sort of man he is today. I know that this in no way excuses what he and Michael did to Terri and what they want Stiles to do, but I hope it aids in the complexity of the character and really makes you understand why I pleaded for a more objective outlook of him. I hope you enjoy and drop me a line or two to let me know what you thought.
Bangor, Northern Ireland
John-boy gazed lovingly at the sleeping children. Niall, the elder at four years old, had wavy ginger hair, much like his father's original hair colour, a button nose ablaze with cinnamon freckles and bright blue eyes. His sister Gwen, younger by a mere two minutes, was more like her mother in terms of colouring but she had her father's bright blue eyes as well. The two slept innocently in their bed, oblivious to the turmoil that surrounded them simply because of whom their father was. He ran a callused finger along his daughter's nose, smiling slightly when she wriggled it in her sleep.
He felt Kit's touch on his arm as she firmly guided him from the room and down the hall into the small living area of the tiny cottage. She switched on a lamp, bathing them in a warm glow as she tucked her housecoat securely around her body and wrapped her arms protectively about herself.
John-boy recognized the act immediately, his heart yearning. "Hallo, lass," he said softly, holding his arms out to her.
Anger immediately ignited in Kit's onyx coloured eyes. "So, now ye decide t'greet me properly?" she asked bitterly. Her accent was strange, a nuance of Irish and Hungarian, carefully modulated into a husky tone. " 'Hallo lass'?" she echoed sarcastically.
John-boy stepped forward, reaching to touch her. "No, doona touch me... don't!" she hissed, mentally cursing herself as her voice cracked on the last command.
John-boy swallowed heavily but did as she asked. "I know I hurt ye –"
"Ye have no idea, Jonathan O'Brien," she broke in, her eyes broadcasting just how deeply he had.
He had been prepared for the anger – Kit always lashed out first, asked questions later. He'd not been prepared for the hurt – she'd always been good at hiding that particular emotional weakness. He couldn't deal with the knowledge that he'd yet again hurt someone he loved. "I'm sorry," he said softly.
"Ye're always sorry," Kit pointed out.
John-boy could feel her words cut him almost to the quick but he knew he'd in no way experienced the brunt of Kit's temper.
"What are ye doin' here?" she asked softly. John-boy turned beseeching blue eyes on her and she had to mentally steel herself against the emotions swirling in their depths, struggling against the urge to pull him into her arms; she had to remember that he more than deserved her anger.
"I needed t'see my family," John-boy whispered.
"Ye have no' seen us in eighteen months, John-boy, so why now?" Kit asked bitterly, praising herself that there was no visible sign of the tears that were burning her nose and threatening to fall. "Why are ye here?" she demanded again. Kit turned away, unable to look at him anymore.
John-boy dragged his fingers through already ruffled platinum tresses and turned troubled blue eyes on her back, feasting for a few precious seconds on the figure she cut. He stepped forward, hearing her sharp intake of breath as he invaded her personal space and set warm hands on her shoulders. "I need ye, Kit," he whispered softly, against the shell of her ear.
She shuddered involuntarily, feeling her anger seeping away at the touch of his hands and the despair in his voice.
"I need ye t'help make sense o' this worl'." His hands drifted down, peeling the wrapper from her shoulders. She started when she felt cool wetness on her bare shoulders. John-boy turned her around to face him and Kit bit her lip as she watched silent tears stream down his handsome face. "Tell me why I'm doin' this again. Tell me I'm no' a monster."
At the sight of him, her anger evaporated. It was replaced with her love for this man, tinged with heartbreak for the demons he harboured within. "Ye're no' a monster, John..." she conceded softly.
John-boy sank to his knees, as though all his strength was drained. "I feel so –"he broke off. Even to Kit he couldn't reveal how disgusted he felt. He'd believed he was justified in his actions but the despair in both Michael's and Stiles' voices kept reverberating in his mind, leaving him no peace.
Kit tunneled her fingers through his hair, hating the platinum colour and the stiffness of the gel, wishing instead for the soft ginger that had drawn him to her the first time she'd ever seen him. John-boy, wrapped his arms around her waist and hugged her fiercely, his tears wetting the satin of her nightgown. "Ye're not a monster..." she whispered fiercely again.
And so she held him through his quiet tears until he drew deep shuddering breaths and made to stand up. Once on his feet, he gently stroked the side of her cheek. "I truly am sorry, Kit," he said softly.
Kit looked away, wishing for the justifiable anger to resurface, but John-boy gripped her chin and gently forced her to look at him. "I know," she finally conceded in reply.
John-boy stepped away and dragged a heavy hand over his weary face, wiping away the evidence of his tears.
Still wanting to protect herself physically from the spell John-boy could weave on her body, Kit picked up her housecoat from where it had fallen on the floor and she shrugged into it and stepped back, furthering the distance between them.
Yet again her actions were not lost on John-boy, who knew he was not completely back in Kit's good books as yet.
"I take it tha' everythin' is no' goin' accordin' t'plan," Kit began. She too was a member of the Cell, though she'd put herself on 'sabbatical' as such when she'd become pregnant.
"Actually it is," John-boy replied.
Kit's eyebrows lifted. If so, then why was he acting this way? He'd not divulged the details to her, but she definitely knew something was up and as his 'woman' and a fellow officer in the Cell, she felt she had a right to know what was going on. "John..." she began, not sure why she couldn't seem to broach the subject. This had never happened before; she'd always been able to speak her mind.
"Can we no' talk about this t'night, Kit?" he asked softly, once again shortening the distance between them.
Kit swallowed convulsively. After being without him for over a year, her senses were on overdrive at the thought of being close to him again.
"I just want t'..." he trailed off and lifted a strand of dark hair, lifting it to his nose. He dropped his hands to her shoulders; her skin was warm beneath the satin. Kit's eyes fluttered close as John-boy's head dipped to kiss her.
At the first touch of his lips on hers, Kit moaned inwardly. It has been so long, she was thinking. The kiss was a lot gentler than she'd expected. He wooed her mouth, gently persuasive as his tongue probed the seam of her mouth asking for permission to enter the honey depths within. In a sigh that was half defeat-half acceptance, Kit opened her mouth beneath his and allowed him to take charge.
John-boy trailed soft wet kisses down the length of her jaw, along her throat, taking her housecoat with him as his hands slid down her shoulders. "Let me love ye, Kit... please."
It was the 'please' that caused her the most concern. John-boy had never asked her to give of herself. She'd always come willingly or he'd simply taken what he wanted; she'd never before denied him.
Until now.
"No." Kit stepped away, breathing shakily as she tried to get her emotions under control. John-boy's eyes were filled with confusion. He opened his mouth to ask but she shook her head, cutting him off from continuing. "I canna... not now." She took a deep breath and for the third time again that night, tightened her housecoat around her. There was too much to be discussed. She would forget all sense of purpose if she allowed him to have his way. She indicated the couch, "Ye can have th' couch, t'night. I'll get ye some blankets."
Without another word, she whirled around and headed back to her bedroom. A few minutes later, she returned with a comforter and the extra pillow from her bed. John-boy didn't bother to protest; he knew it would do no good. He watched her as she efficiently laid the sheets out and plumped his pillow for him. Kit cleared her throat. "G'night, John."
John-boy watched her back as she once again retreated to the safety of her room – what should have been their room. The sound and the meaning of her turning the lock on the door was the most obvious of messages as she left him alone to the darkness and his dreams.
Kit shut the door and locked it behind her, leaning heavily against the oak frame as she tried to school her thoughts and emotions into some semblance of order. It was still difficult to grasp the fact that he was there – after eighteen months of lying low. Seven months ago, she was told that he'd 'ordered' them moved to this cottage in the tiny town on the Northeastern coast of the island. She'd been furious then that, even in absentia, he still dictated her life and the lives of their children. But, she knew better than to argue – it was a fact of the life that they lived. And, simply for being his family, they skated on very thin ice.
Now he was back.
And in a state that she'd never seen him in.
Never.
Swallowing heavily, Kit listened intently to the sounds of the quiet cottage. If she listened beyond the deep breath of the twins, she could hear him moving about in her tiny living room. She heard the heavy sound of dipping springs and surmised that he must have at least sat down. Soon he would be taking off that thin black turtleneck baring his –
Kit angrily shook those thoughts out of her head and instead tried to focus on her anger. It was no secret that she loved him dearly, but he'd hurt her and their children immensely. How dare he think that, simply because he was obviously hurting, he could just waltz back into their lives and that everything would be all right? That he could just touch her and all the unspoken issues between them would simply melt away?
He was seriously mistaken if he thought so!
Kit felt slightly better knowing that she could remain angry.
Of course she ignored the fact that this was infinitely easier when he was not looking at her with those beseeching blue eyes or touching her with those long slender fingers with their callused tips....
She took a deep calming breath and stepped away from the door. Quietly, she knelt by the cot and gazed at her children. Her son, Niall, never ceased to amaze her. He looked so much like his father that at times, before John-boy had returned, it almost ached to look at him. His wavy ginger hair flopped into his face, almost covering his eyes and his nose seemed to be a miniature version of his father's – in time to come, it would take on the same long aristocratic form (that had existed pre-plastic surgery, of course). Gwen resembled her not only in colouring but in temperament as well – och, but that lass could throw a tantrum! Her bright blue eyes were all her father's however. No one could doubt that these were Jonathan O'Brien's children.
She kissed them both softly before climbing up into her own bed and gathering the sheets about her. She prayed fervently to the deities – Rom, Celt and Christian – that she would have the strength to face him come morning.
John-boy took the opportunity to survey the small cottage. He'd ordered one of his Lieutenants to purchase the property and to move his family there after Gavin had sent him to America. He'd not trusted them to stay in Dublin and sure as hell not in Belfast; he would have preferred them to leave the island altogether, but he knew Kit would have hit the roof even harder than he'd imagined she had when informed of his actions.
The house was small, with less than half a dozen rooms – bedroom, bathroom, a small kitchen and the living room – there was a small garden in the back and an even smaller shed. It was off the beaten path even for this small town, outside the actual center by a good mile.
But it wasn't just the privacy that had driven him to purchase the property. The house stood at the crest of a small hill, beyond which were sheer cliffs that fell into the North Channel leading into the Irish Sea. On the clearest of days, the craggy coast of Southwest Scotland could be seen in the distance. Kit adored the ocean – he'd purchased the house on that particular spot in an effort to butter her up in a sense.
Even now, he could hear the waves crashing against the rocky cliffs and smell the brine in the air. He looked around the small room – it was cozy, as was her bedroom. He imagined he would only have to step into the house's other two rooms to know they reflected the same sense of style. Kit had made a home here and for that he was glad.
John-boy groaned inwardly as he thought about her. Och, but he had made a mess of things! If he never saw that look on her face again, it would be too soon. Oh, how he burned for her. Simply being in the same room as her had muddled his thoughts. Knowing she was a mere ten feet away, clothed in that slick satin nightgown that left nothing to his already vivid imagination was enough to set his blood to boiling.
His groan this time was audible. Consigned to his fate, at least for the night he thought hopefully, he quietly left the cottage and walked quickly to his car, which he had parked in a small parcel of trees, and removed his small duffel. Once back inside, he quietly locked up again and, force of habit, he went through the other two rooms, checking that all the windows and doors were double-bolted. Once satisfied, he returned to his modest pallet and stripped down to his boxers before pulling on a white T-shirt.
He lay back in the couch, immediately feeling a spring digging into the center of his back. He shifted to his side and another poked him in his ribs. He shifted to his other side, blissful comfort. It was late and he was admittedly weary. He closed his eyes and fell asleep to the sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs, hoping fervently his nightmares left him alone.
After the rule of the Norsemen over the Celtic Kingdom of Ireland and maintenance of Christianity after its introduction by St. Patrick in the 5th century, the reform movement of the church in the 11th and 12th century turned its eyes to Ireland. This task was given over to King Henry II of England, who was granted the island by Pope Adrian IV on condition that he bring order to the Irish church and by extension, the state.
The English arrived in Ireland in 1171, placing the island in a state of subordination. For almost five hundred years, the Ulster chieftains, kings in their own rights, challenged English rule. In the 17th century, the winds of change blew across the Emerald Isle. In 1607, the chieftains fled Ulster forever, marking the true end of the Celtic Kingdom. England branded them guilty of treason and their vast estates were confiscated and turned over to colonists to form 'plantations'. With the arrival of English and Scottish immigrants to the Ulster region of the island, came the upheaval of old traditions and the establishment of a new Protestant majority in an area of a country that was previously entirely Roman Catholic.
The first general uprising began in 1641, where thousands of colonists were murdered or forced to flee. However, the Irish Confederate Armies were no match for the English forces, led by Oliver Cromwell (who himself had led a rebellion in England, seizing the kingdom from the Royal Family) and by 1652, Irish Resistance was crushed, the land remaining in the hands of the Protestants.
By the nineteenth century, the Southern Irish were lobbying for Home Rule, but the Ulster 'Unionists', many of who had closer ties with the British than their own Irish brothers, clung tenaciously to the union with England. Rebellion took place as far as the United States and even in England in the 1860's by exiled Irish Men who formed the Fenian revolution movement. Dissension was high – the Ulster men loyal to Britain formed the Ulster Volunteer Force in 1912 to resist home rule, a move countered by the formation of the Irish Volunteers in 1913.
On Easter Monday 1916, the Irish Volunteers led an uprising, which was quickly and violently quelled by the British, who then proceeded to execute more than a dozen of their leaders. Public outrage led to victory in the 1918 elections for the Sinn Fein party, lead by a survivor of the Irish Uprising, Eamon de Valera, who set up a provisional Irish government and parliament called the Dáil Éireann. The Irish Republican Army (IRA) was established to support the claims of the self-proclaimed free state.
The IRA launched a reign of guerrilla attacks, finally forcing the British Government to initiate negotiations for political settlement. In 1920, six of the nine predominantly Protestant counties of the Ulster region were designated as Northern Ireland, which remained under the diction of the United Kingdom, although the rest of the island established the semi-independent Irish Free State. The six were: Londonderry and Antrim, in the north; Tyrone, in the center; and Fermanagh, Armagh, and Down, in the south (the other three being Donegal, Cavan, and Monaghan). So began a life of uneasy cohabitation – the Southern Irish almost brought on civil war by demanding Fermanagh and Tyrone counties as well as several border towns; the dispute was settled in 1925 in favour of the Northerners.
The Irish Free State was to be a sovereign nation within the British Commonwealth, much to the outrage of many people. Conflicts caused two factions of the IRA to be pitted against each other. In the end Michael Collins, a founding member of the IRA, was assassinated by his own army. The turmoil became so much that the IRA was declared illegal in 1931 and any members caught were to be imprisoned, without trial. Outraged, the IRA organized a series of bombings in England before five of their leaders were captured and executed by the Irish Free State, the very state they'd sworn to protect. In 1948, the Irish Free State withdrew from the British Commonwealth and formed a Republic. The IRA then turned its eyes to the unification of Northern Ireland with this new nation.
By the late 1960's the province was being rocked by terrorism waged between Irish brothers – Catholic Republicans who sought unification with the Republic of Ireland and Protestant Unionists who wished to remain under British rule. In an effort to retain order, the British assumed direct rule in 1972 and maintained a military presence in the area, but the rebel factions, especially the IRA constantly made their displeasure known. Yet another split occurred within the IRA ranks, this time over how much violence to use. The official IRA maintained its wish for the unification of Northern Ireland and the Republic – Catholics and Protestants – in a socialist republic, through the use of peaceful means. The splinter group, formed in 1969, was called the Provisional IRA or the Provos, whose tactics included bombings and assassinations during the 1970's (including the 1979 assassination of Naval official Louis Mountbatten, a member of the British Royal Family) as well as staged protests and hunger strikes (including the 1981 hunger strikes that resulted in ten deaths), none of which had satisfactory results.
It was especially during this time that other pro-Catholic and pro-Protestant rebel groups emerged. Many people believed that the larger rebel groups – the IRA; The Orange Brigade; Protestant Ulster Defense Association; the Ulster Volunteer Force – had lost touch with the will of the people. Indeed, many innocent civilians were caught in the crossfire. Both Catholics and Protestants became victims despite which rebel group took responsibility for an attack.
Such was the fate of young Niall Silas O'Brien. He wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed education-wise, having dropped out in his fifth year at secondary school, but he worked hard and tried, for the most part, to keep his nose clean and out of trouble. From the age of sixteen, he'd worked in a pub in the center of Dublin, bussing tables first then working behind the bar for the very cranky but fair Richard Ronin Stiles. He was the first-born of his family and he had to work to ensure there was enough to put food on the table and keep a roof over their heads since their mother had forbidden them to go across the sea to England to work the mines or to break their backs in the potato fields. Even if he'd had greater aspirations, he knew they could never bear fruit – it was his responsibility to take care of his family, especially since their drunken and broken father was not much of a help.
Like most persons in Ireland, he knew all the tales of the history of the Emerald Isle and of the struggle the Northern Irish Catholics waged for independence. He wished the best of luck for his Irish brothers but he had the good sense to know they all had a long and bloody battle ahead of them. Many young men his age shared the same opinions – they despised the harsh treatment of the Catholics in Ulster and the domination of the British. Some of them took their hatred a step forward, their impressionable minds molded by the silvered tongues of the rebels to the point at which many of them left the relative safety of Dublin to fight in the 'war' in Belfast.
Niall and his brother watched these men consign themselves to the fate of being branded terrorists, enemies of the Irish Republic and the British Crown, doomed to the fate of imprisonment without trial or even execution. Niall lamented the sheer lunacy. His brother John-boy, silently and then not so silently, egged them on. Niall recognized the darkness in his young brother and prayed for a reprieve.
It came as a blessing in disguise in July 1984 in the form of a tall dark-haired fifteen-year-old American boy with a serious attitude problem and an even filthier mouth. John-boy had been away, spending some of his summer vacation with his mother and her family in Drogheda, north of Dublin. He'd returned a month later in August and much to Niall's dislike, the two became fast friends. For three years, the boys were inseparable, entering into manhood together. He'd not had time enough for his little brother, but he was glad that this "A.B." seemed, in time, to have enough maturity to look after them both.
Disaster struck three years later with the arrival of the Marine Lt. Colonel Joshua Stiles in the early summer of 1987. The boys had just completed their A-Levels and were contemplating what to do with their lives after school. It went without saying that young A.B. would be off to university and Niall, who had taken over the role of head of household after their father had gone to the pub one night and never returned, was determined that, even if he had to work his fingers to the bone and forfeit his meals, John-boy would be accorded the same privilege and would truly be able to make something of himself.
Colonel Stiles had quite effectively put a stopper into any grand plans he had entertained of John-boy being the first in their family to have a university education. He'd assumed that, with the seeming disinterest of A.B.'s father, the boy would be staying on in Ireland and under the watchful eye of his grandfather would have enrolled in one of the Republic's two universities: the University of Dublin (Trinity College) or the National University of Ireland. His sudden arrival and announcement that he'd applied for and accepted a position for his son to enter the United States Military Academy had quite effectively sent his brother into a downward spiral. A.B. had been furious but there was nothing he could do about it. His eighteenth birthday was in July and having completed the entrance examinations (in an effort to get his grandfather, who was an unwilling co-conspirator, off his back) he didn't have a choice.
A.B. had been John-boy's saving grace and his immediate departure for basic training had caused any plans for his future to fizzle. Although outwardly his brother tried to maintain a sunny disposition, he'd taken a job in a mechanic's shop instead of enrolling in university. There, without the somewhat staid presence of A.B., Niall watched his brother fall deeply in with the wrong crowd.
During this time Niall's closet friend Kevin had fallen under the spell of a faction of the Provos. Much to his friend's dismay, he crossed the border (both literally and figuratively) heading into Belfast and headlong into the struggle for unification. Niall had always prided himself on being a levelheaded individual, unlike his younger brother, content to let each man decide his own fate. His usual mantra when such a thing happened was: "If th' man wants t'go ahead an' kill 'imself, let 'im do it." This concept of 'To each his own' flew the coop when he realized what his friend had done.
It was a time for revelation.
This was no simple defection of a friend... not even a best friend. No. Niall would sooner have cut off his own arm than admit his dismay stemmed from the fact that he'd lost a lover.
Imagine that.
No one knew of their secret and, to maintain their already precarious grasp on their lives, no one ever would. But, desperate to drill some sense into the man he loved, Niall too left Ireland under the guise of bringing him home.
He never made it back.
The two had been arguing furiously in an alley, and were being eavesdropped on by a few drunken members of the Orange Brigade. Upon discovering not only were the two men Catholic but homosexual, they'd ambushed the couple and, after beating them within inches of their lives, slit their throats and left them in the alley to rot.
Their murderers were never found.
When news of the murder reached John-boy, the transformation was complete and he was truly never the same again.
As the head of the household, it had been his duty to hold it together for them all.
He hadn't.
When his father had abandoned them, his mother had fallen into a state of depression. There was no raising of her spirits although she was much better off without the bum. Niall had tried though and it had seemed to be working. With him gone as well this was sure to kill her.
But instead of staying, which any caring responsible son would have done, which Niall would have done, he'd hot-footed it out of Dublin the night after the police had called with the news.
Nothing could have prepared him for the sight of his brother, lying so cold and stiff on the metal slab at the county morgue. He was unrecognizable, his face a mangled pulp – the bastards had really put their backs into it.
It had been a closed-casket funeral.
He hid in the shadows and watched from the rafters of their old church.
He hadn't shed a tear, although Fiona and his mother Maude had shed enough to overflow the Liffey, had shed enough to make up for the fact that he was nowhere in sight.
Perhaps Maude had known he was there. Looking back on it, at the end of the service as she and Fiona had leaned on one another as they walked down the aisle, she had lifted her head and held his gaze. He was so far in the shadows, she probably couldn't see him, but he definitely saw her. It was the last time he saw her alive.
For days after the funeral, John-boy drifted about aimlessly, consumed by grief and anger and a debilitating thirst for revenge. He didn't know who had been personally responsible for his brother's death, but his hatred towards all Protestants had been festering for as long as he could remember and this was the perfect excuse for him to finally act out.
It started out innocent enough – young impressionable angry Catholic men, emboldened by far too many pints of Guinness and bravado. The planning had been purely accidental or at the very least theoretical but, at the end of the night, three men, none over the age of twenty, had unwittingly set out on an undertaking that would change the rest of their lives...
John-boy always woke up at that point. The dream, more a rehashing ofIrish history, was not a stranger to him. This dream had followed him for more years than he'd care to remember, brought more baggage than he could handle. He always forced himself awake because, quite frankly, remembering all the horror that he'd witnessed and the atrocities he himself had committed, frightened him.
But he couldn't escape, especially now since he had cruelly manipulated the only person who had truly been his friend, into committing an act of treason. No matter how many times he tried to convince himself that he would do whatever he had to for Northern Ireland, his conscience would not let him rest.
He would keep on having these dreams.
He would keep on seeing the disappointment on the faces of Kit and their children because they could never be a real family.
He would keep on seeing the grief in Michael's eyes because Fiona was gone forever and revenge wouldn't be able to bring her back.
He would keep seeing that look of horror on Stiles' faces when he told him what he would have to do for Terri and Alex to keep on breathing.
He would keep on seeing that cool, calculating look of assessment on Gavin's face as his superior tried to determine if all the emotional baggage that he carried was eating him away to the point where he'd become a ruthless bastard teetering on the edge of insanity.
All because he'd let that bastard Archer get to him....
John-boy sat up and wiped the fatigue from his face. He was restless and weary and the night was definitely not going the way he had planned it. Resolved to yet another night of sleeplessness, he got up from the couch and headed into the kitchen. Switching on the light, he opened the refrigerator and stared at the frugal contents for what seemed like hours before finally grabbing a bottle of Carlsberg and snapping the top off.
"Jaysus!" he exclaimed, when he turned around, bottle halfway to his lips, to see Kit leaning against the doorframe.
She smiled lightly. "I'm takin' pity on ye," Kit said softly. "I kinda figured ye'd have a rough night at it."
John-boy shrugged and his smile was rueful. "I'm alright."
"So, ye're just thirsty?" she asked lightly.
He looked away and took another swing of beer. "No. But I'll be fine, Kit." It came out more forceful than he'd intended and he was relieved when she didn't seem offended.
"Okay."
Their eyes met and held and John-boy brought the bottle to his lips once more in an effort to do anything but stare at her beauty.
"I don't mean t'be so hard on ye, John," she said after a pregnant silence.
He nodded. "I know... I understan', Kit. But ye're right. I have no right t' expect things t'be like they were b'fore."
Kit swallowed and looked away. "Things have no' changed that much, John." Her eyes met his again. John-boy put down his beer and gave her the full attention of his blue eyes. "I still love you," she said softly. "But it's so hard.... I never know what's goin' on in tha' head of yers. Ye don't talk t'me... ye insist on dictatin' our lives... ye take an' take an' take an' never give of yerself. An' it hurts, John. It hurts tha' ye show up outta th' blue every once in a while when it suits ye memory that ye have a family, an' then ye disappear again without so much as a fare thee well. So, yes, I'm sick of it!" She was breathing deeply, her breasts heaving with every gulp of air she inhaled. "If ye're hurtin' talk!"
John-boy's eyes widened and even Kit looked surprised by her words.
John-boy shook his head sadly. "I can't...."
Kit nodded sagely, her eyes sad. "Then we have a serious problem, John, because whatever it is that ye're holdin' inside will eat you alive."
TBC...
A/N: Well, what do you think? Have I whetted your appetites as to what horror it is that Archer committed against John-boy to have him hate him so much? I hope so. What do you think of the character of Kit? Don't forget to drop a line and tell me. Sorry for the delay once more.
Cara
