A/N: This piece takes place after the dinner scene between Michael, Maddie, Benny and Fiona at the end of 5.08 Hard Out. This story follows the "Hard Out" Chapter 5 of "While Fiona Sleeps," which is of course from Michael's POV. I recommend reading that first, as this story dovetails with that. The first part of this story covers the ride from the restaurant to the loft from that story from Fiona's POV and then continues.
It's hard to believe how long it took me to produce the promised follow-up chapters… But Real Life has been historically crazy for everyone these days and since we're watching it at #BurnerClub (aka BNClub) now seemed like a good time to fix the problems with this chapter and finally finish the story sequence.
So, there is an additional content alert for this chapter, which has been extensively updated since it was originally posted in 2015.
~ooooooooo~
She had known it was a bad idea before the words had even left her lips and yet she'd said it anyway.
"I could call someone I used to know. He might be able to help."
She had wanted to protect Michael. The idea of him getting caught breaking into Homeland Security, much less the idea of him spending the rest of his life in a black site prison having been framed for the homicide of his CIA handler, had made her desperate and foolish. Her examination of the bomb had left her with but two options, neither of them palatable. Only her family or her former lover had the contacts.
And after what had happened with Sean a couple of years ago, she didn't dare contact her siblings.
"Do I know him?"
Michael's question had set one off in her own head: had she really known Armand herself, even after living together for almost four years? The gun runner certainly knew what the man was capable of.
"No…" She'd left him and gone back to her family long before an alleged Irishman named McBride had shown up to complicate her life. "But if you need this kind of information, he's the person to call."
And then she had waited a beat, wishing she'd kept her mouth shut and yet wanting to see what Mr. Westen would have to say about it. He'd gotten her dossier decades ago, so he could have known...
"What? Is there bad blood between you?"
"He likes me fine. I'm less enthusiastic about him." That was putting it mildly. "But, under the circumstances, I think he may be our best option." She paused again, dreading Michael would ask her further about the relationship but paradoxically hoping that he would. The covert operative had held her gaze, giving her that measured stare as he weighed the information offered, but had said nothing more.
"I'll send him the photos and see if he comes back with anything. In the meantime, why don't you go over your old notes…? Maybe you missed something. Don't forget we have lunch with your mom tomorrow."
Fiona had pressed a kiss into his raven hair and walked off. There were so many things that should have tipped him off. She had left wearing nothing but one of his T-shirts and a pair of leggings. That should have been a clue. She'd told him to go over his old leads, though to be fair the fact that someone had framed him for Max's murder pretty much proved that Michael had been right about it not being over.
She sighed heavily as the steady motion of the Charger altered and she assumed Michael was taking one of those back roads he was so fond of. The petite redhead with the high tolerance for alcohol had to admit that she might have crept up on the edge of overindulgence with the copious amounts of the hard stuff she had imbibed before she'd arrived at dinner with Michael, Madeline and her new man, Benny.
She had climbed into the Charger and sunk into the seat, letting all the booze and bone-deep weariness settle over her. Once her not-quite-bloodshot eyes had slid closed, she was simply too tired to open them and she couldn't bring herself to look at Mr. Westen right now anyway, though if she was being truthful, the Irishwoman was furious with herself as much as she was mad at her current lover.
She felt exhausted on the inside, the ghosts raging in her head draining her normally boundless energy.
"Fiona…?" The voice had been full of surprise and delight. "So good to hear from you, to what do I owe the pleasure of your call?" He was in Rio on business, but would be there as soon as it was concluded.
The sound of Armand's voice alone had shaken her at the time. So many suppressed memories of Monsieur Andreani had crashed together in her head then that she had spent hours on the beach after the call, wandering aimlessly, trying to tell herself that she'd had to do it for Michael's sake, though she knew deep in her heart that any contact she had with the Frenchman would end up damaging her soul.
The former paramilitary wasn't shocked when she'd come back home and found the recently reinstated spy still pouring over paperwork, looking for a way to get out of their current conundrum. What had surprised her was the fact that Michael had put the mountain of files aside when she'd arrived just before dark. His eyes said he had been concerned about her absence, though his face had betrayed nothing.
"Fi?" Michael called softly into the silence that was broken only by the sound of the black cars motor.
She wasn't going to answer him… not now… Fiona was too tired to deal with his questions, so she kept her eyes closed. He should have asked them then. She'd given him plenty of opportunity to ask, over and over again. He was a damned CIA agent again after all, he was supposed to be smarter than that…
He'd been clever enough that night to realize something was going on. Instead of inquiring, her dark haired lover had wrapped the redhead in a gentle hug, kissing her softly. Hurting from the tumultuous emotions contact with Armand had stirred within her, Fiona had not been in the mood to cede any sort of control. She had tripped him, tossing him onto the bed before ravishing his body and riding him hard all the way to heaven. Michael had been happy to let her have her way with him. She'd awoken the next day without the specters of her checkered past cluttering her mind for their lunch with Madeline and her friend.
That is until two motorcyclists decked out in dark crash helmets and black leather had sped up behind them and two more had blocked the street ahead of them.
"You know the contact I reached out to, the one I told you about? This is just his style."
Mr Westen had been a day late and a dinar short telling her she didn't have to go with them. She'd already set the wheels in motion. In her head now, the sway of the classic muscle car she was riding in melded with the memory of climbing onto the back of one of the bikes, her hair blowing wildly in the wind. Sitting behind an anonymous driver then had reminded her of all the rides she had gone on with Armand.
They had spent hours tearing through the French countryside on expensive high-powered machines, the best his money could buy, her lover and his two bodyguards, resplendent in gleaming custom riding suits.
"Fiona?" But Michael calling her name mingled with another man's voice speaking from her memory.
"Fiona, it's so good to see you. I was just finishing up some business in Rio when you called. My pilot flew us here as fast as he could."
"Did you really have to send a fleet of motorcycles to pick me up?"
"I didn't have to. I wanted to."
And there he was, the man who still haunted her dreams… no, nightmares… from time to time. It seemed as though he hadn't aged a day since she'd seen him last, the long hair slicked back into a tight ball, his handsome face both guarded and pleased, the deep brown eyes looking straight into her soul.
She had tried sticking to business, all the while fearing what the price would be for the transaction.
"So, can you tell me who built the bomb or not?"
"Of course I can. You know me—always a friend to those in need."
"What's your price, Armand?"
"No price. My help is free. All I ask is one small favor."
The last small favor he had asked had involved a playing lookout on a kidnapping, exchanging her new way of life in America for someone losing their way of life permanently. When she'd gone back to work for him following Michael's departure, that one small favor had involved one last return to their previous intimacy, a reminder of what had been before they moved forward with what their relationship would be.
She'd gathered up the photographs of Riker Munitions with that same feeling of relief that he had not asked for more and the growing suspicion that there was more to what he wanted than met the eye.
"I'll wait for your call."
"Fi-o-na…" Michael's voice sounded distant, an echo of the past as well, as though he were taunting her, reminding her that he was the reason she had ended up back in that other man's bed. The PIRA guerilla had done what she had to do to end the Real IRA all on her own following the traitorous spy's departure. Finishing off the radical splinter group might have been good therapy but it had made her an even bigger target for retribution by some very powerful and dangerous people.
Going back to work for Armand had been her only choice to come out from under Liam's heavy handed protection and her family had been all too happy to see her move on with him after McBride's treachery.
But Mr. Andreani's life was ruled by the principle of equivalent exchange and there was always a price to be paid. It had taken her years to understand at what cost to her humanity their relationship had come.
"That's not how Armand works. If we want his help, we have to do what he asks," she had explained.
"That's funny. I heard the devil works the same way.
Sam had understood immediately in a way Michael had been completely oblivious to as the man under the gun for the killing of a CIA agent had explained their mission to the ex-SEAL. She found herself torn, in that same spot again: forced to accept Armand's assistance because of Michael Westen.
"I'd do it myself, but—"
"Michael's new friend, Agent Pearce, has a top secret mission for him."
How bizarre had her life become that Sam Axe, of all people, understood things Michael was ignorant of?
"I'm just saying, the way the CIA is using you on these hush-hush gigs reminds me of another group of spies you used to work for."
Why couldn't the dark haired man see that what they were doing to him when even Sam saw it plainly?
"Cause someone has to keep Tinkerbell here from shooting everyone," at the cost of many, many mojitos.
What would be the price to her? Because there she was again, choosing to do something for her lover because the CIA had other ideas about how he should be spending his time and Michael was dancing to their tune once again. He didn't have a choice of course; just as he had said the last time they had dictated how he should live his life. He hadn't had a choice when he'd been burned. Somehow, Fiona had hoped it would be different this time… it had almost looked like she and the CIA could co-exist this time.
"I'm sorry, Fi." Michael said simply and then fell silent once more.
The apology echoed in her head, reverberating down through the years. She knew she was drunk when she wasn't certain whether that was him talking to her now or his ghost begging forgiveness for sins past.
She was too disconnected from her body at that moment to be sure he had even touched her in reality.
The thing about Michael's mea culpas was that while she'd believed he was genuinely apologetic, the regret expressed did nothing to change his future behavior and he was inevitably saying sorry yet again.
…It's a slow fade when you give yourself away….A price will be paid. When you give yourself away…
Tell me, tell me where I'm going. I don't know where I've been…My heart is breaking, my body's aching…
How did we get here? Well, I used to know you so well...
"Dammit!"
The words stopped taunting her abruptly and the Irishwoman stirred as the music cut off. She regarded him momentarily, finally deciding that she must have passed out momentarily before shutting her bleary eyes and turning her face away from him. Why was she mad at Michael? It'd been her decision to do it.
"Fi, we're here."
Because it was a choice she wouldn't have had to make except for the choices that he kept making!
She heard his car door close and then her mind was drifting into the recent rather than distant past.
"Fi, I'm sorry I can't help you with, uh, the other thing."
"It's fine. Sam and I will figure something out."
"I know you don't like Armand, so it means a lot to me."
"I said, it's fine."
But it wasn't fine and when she'd felt someone's hands sliding across the back of her neck and knees, she lashed out suddenly, partly because she'd been startled and partially because she'd been seething.
"Sorry, sorry, Fi,"
Michael was holding his face and his attempts to be conciliatory only made her angrier. It was not fine, despite the number of times she told him it was. Did the man not understand what 'fine' really meant?
She sailed into the loft and stopped cold at the empty space where the automatic rifles had been, not even on the market yet, just the memory of them sitting there looking lovely and lethal causing the bile to rise in her throat. She remembered the way her uninvited visitor had caressed the weaponry, the ways his hands had caressed her once upon a time and an involuntary shiver coursed through her body. Six of them, naturally… Armand didn't do anything without some hidden meaning.
She lifted her gaze to look around the cavernous area she'd been calling home these past few months, remembering his taunting words as she heard Michael doffing his suit coat and dress shoes behind her.
"So, this is home then? After all the effort you put in to getting to Miami, I expected something more."
How dare that bâtard arrogante break into her home and critique her choices, her life?
"Armand got me out of Ireland, when nobody else could. Passport, VISA, the cash..." Her words to Madeline flashed through her brain, answering her question. She had invited him into her life again.
"After the IRA, life is good. You have a gorgeous flat, you're a star on the black market and then you decide to throw it all away and move to Miami. Why?" Now Gabriel's query came back to haunt her.
"Fi…? You okay?" Michael's voice echoed in the open space where he stood behind the metal stairs.
"I followed a man here."
"And how did that work out for you?"
"There's lots of bottled water in the frig. You might try drinking a couple before you go to bed."
"Not quite as I hoped…."
Fiona sighed heavily before she moved towards the kitchen, stopping to stand next to the now-bare wooden table, recalling how her hands had trembled when she lifted one of the rifles while trying to decide what to do with the deadly machinery which would have on any other day from any other supplier been the source of intense delight. What the hell was wrong with her? Damn both of them!
After stashing the hardware behind Michael's collection of suits and rigging a quick makeshift lock, the Irishwoman had felt the need to fortify herself with some tonic of her homeland before going to do Armand's errand. Once they'd hit their target, there had been some of Sam's liquid courage before facing the Frenchman. Upon learning she'd been an unwitting accomplice in a homicide by liberating the munitions truck, she'd opened up the wine while getting ready to meet her current lover and his mother.
The petite woman let her fingers drift towards the bottle, marginally aware that Michael was moving towards her, stopping a safe distance away from her lethal reach should she decide to strike. It made a bitter laugh bubble up and out of her mouth before she could stop it.
"You okay, Fi?" he repeated, his tone clearly indicating he knew he was in trouble but clueless as to how to resolve the situation. In another time, she might have found it sweet, the capable super spy that she could reduce to a hesitant mess with a flash of her eyes, but now it just irritated her all the more.
"Delightful, Michael," Fiona retorted without bothering to turn and face him. "Absolutely top shelf…"
She heard him swallow. "I was wondering about…" The former guerilla glared at his blurry reflection in the window above the kitchen sink. Now he wanted to ask questions? "The new hardware in my closet... Did you go on a shopping spree while I was gone? Or maybe… a thank you gift… for a job well done…?"
"Is that any way to greet a guest? And one who comes bearing gifts no less. These automatic rifles aren't even on the market yet. You'll recall that working with me has its perks."
But Armand had meant far more than working with her. The incensed redhead had tried unsuccessfully to blot out the memories that had risen up in her mind at his implications, then and now.
"I don't want heavy artillery. I'm trying to do this job without guns."
"Without guns…?" His wry laughter had made her squirm. "What has Miami done to you?"
The question reverberated in her head while the remembrance of his fingers playing with her hair sent another shiver through her frame. Belatedly Fiona realized she hadn't answered Michael's inquiry.
"I've nae a bally," she snarked, though she knew precisely what message the weapons were meant to convey. It was five of them for the years they had known each other and now a sixth for their reunion.
"Bally?" he echoed, his breath whispering across her bare shoulders as the man dared to come closer.
"A clue, Michael, a thought, an idea…?" Her tone was a kaleidoscope of conflicting emotions. "Surely you must have one. You were Irish once….at least I thought you were…" Fiona finished on a whisper before walking away towards the balcony doors, skirting the end of the table and snatching up the half empty bottle of vino. "I'm going out on the balcony, I need some fresh air," she announced, leaving hesitant spy trailing in her wake before shutting the doors in his face.
"I'm gonna… take a shower…I'll be out in a minute…" the former black marketer heard him say through the wooden barrier between them. She knew what he was doing. A tactical retreat to give her time to cool off and him time to go through the intelligence that had been burning a hole in his suit coat all night.
"Fine," she reiterated as she plopped onto one of the deck chairs, popping the cork from the neck of the bottle and flinging it into the blackness beyond the balcony rail. No need for it as she'd be finishing off the remainder of the rosé. Raising the bottle to her lips, she took too large a swallow and choked slightly.
"….A lot happened with Armand, years ago, back in Ireland in the bad old days."
"Were you and he—"
"Yes, we were, Michael."
Fiona thought about her former French lover, her first real long-term relationship, as she continued to swill down the burning red liquid in gulps. She had seen Armand's interest as they moved in the same circles while she was traveling with her brother and his entourage on her first foray into the gun running business, using her facility with languages to aid in the expansion of family trade routes and her need to get away from home. Following the brutal assault after her graduation party, no one got near her in those days.
However, Mr. Andreani had worked his considerable charms on everyone… by the time she'd started living with the international arms dealer full time, her whole family had been in favor of the relationship.
"Until I found out that he had paid to meet me by doing a favor for some of my associates."
Only it hadn't been her associates per se that the Frenchman had paid for the introduction. It had in fact been Seamus Glenanne who had been facing permanent incarceration and possibly the rest of her clan as well. But that was old family business and frankly none of Michael's business at that given moment.
"He killed a British customs agent if you're curious. Quite a romantic gesture, don't you think?"
Armand Andreani had introduced her to a world where the violence had lingered in the background, where the brutal realities of their chosen life were covered over with layer of fourteen carat comfort, where adrenaline, blood and champagne flowed together, where a man who could commit cold blooded murder with his bare hands would use those same hands to tenderly touch her, letting her recover from her past while providing her with what she'd believed a bright future, everything she'd thought she'd ever want.
"I didn't know that, Fiona."
"No, you didn't. Ignorance is bliss."
As she held the flagon aloft to drain the last of its contents, the moonlight caught the remnants and her vision became awash in red, reminding her sharply of why she had really left Armand in the first place.
"I don't trade favors for blood," she had declared. While the one-time urban guerilla did have plenty of red in her ledger nonetheless, both before and after their association and they both knew it, she no longer allowed herself to profit from other's blood being shed… Or so she had told herself all these years…
"So maybe we aren't so different after all."
"You bastard…"
"Oh, we know what kind of man I am. What I'd really like to know is what kind of man sends you for my help?"
The inebriated redhead staggered onto her unsteady feet, snarling as she launched the empty container in the blackness beyond, the echo of breaking glass returning to her ears as Fiona ran into the railing at the edge of the balcony, the slight breeze ruffling her hair hinting at potential rain later that evening.
She knew she was well and truly hammered as she swayed towards the doorway that led back into the loft while the voices in her head continued to clash, vying for her attention and warring for her heart.
"You don't hold me back…. I need you, Fi…"
"Fiona, I need ya ta be brave. Can ya do thot fer me, me darlin' girl?"
"I like my life and I want to live it with you… Here."
"Tell me something…Are you happy? Was it worth it coming here to live with an absentee boyfriend in his drab little flat? You were meant for much, much greater things."
Misjudging the distance to pass the cushion-covered lounger, the sodden Irishwoman ran into and then collapsed onto the deck chair. Her vision swam and her guts threatened to rebel as she righted herself before squirming into a sitting position, her head lolling to the side once she was upright on the recliner.
Her family needed her, her friends needed her, the Cause needed her, Michael needed her… what did that say about her when the only man who didn't need her, who actually wanted her, was a sociopath?
And the stars and the clouds mocked her as they started to spin against the blackness of the sky.
Unconsciousness overtook her and yet the questions lingered on...
()()()()()()()
She's back in the safety of her mother's home…the things she had seen in the Drina Valley had shaken her to her core and she couldn't do it anymore… she couldn't pretend anymore that she didn't know what kind of man she was living with, couldn't ignore who she had become anymore. But she couldn't not deliver the weapons… it would have meant her death. She had been a coward then and she can't face him again…Coward that she is, she calls him after her 'emergency' trip home to her mother's bedside.
"If anything should happen, remember you and I have a lot in common. I'm just a phone call away."
She's crumbling onto her bed, relief making her weak, relief that he's taking it well that she's decided to stay home and try to fight for peace in her homeland while caring for her family… Armand is a powerful man and this could have gone wrong in so many ways… he's letting her go. She's free of him now…
"Fiona, so good to see you again, I've missed you."
She's standing in their old bedroom as the memories of their passion on that mattress cloud her mind. She'd gone home to her family, to try to bring peace, and Claire had been murdered on the cold streets of Belfast and she had committed cold blooded murder for revenge while the peace process had fallen apart around her. She had met an Irishman named Michael McBride, who had agreed to help her try to keep the peace this time…She had been abandoned by a spy named Michael Westen and left high and dry…
Michael's moving around inside the loft… talking to someone… But she's still in the grip of the alcohol and only marginally aware in the vaguest of ways… Maybe that's the dream and this is the reality….
Armand's hands rest on her shoulders and then slide up around her neck…one travels down her trembling back and the other tangles in her long auburn hair…Armand always loved her hair…as they seal their bargain with a searing kiss…one more night of what they were in exchange for who they'll be.
She's going back to work for him…she needs some time and some space to work out the mess she's made of her life and the resources to do that until she can get on her own two feet again without her family's help…she reminds herself that they were a good team once and this will happen only once more as he slowly lowers her to what was once their bed…Armand keeps his word, he always does…
"You know me—always a friend to those in need."
She's in a swank hotel room in Libya… the bastard who broke her heart is lying on the floor beaten and handcuffed to the bed frame…Armand had tipped her off that someone had been following her, an assassin intent on ending her life…She couldn't believe her old lover would stoop to that…but there he was, shadowing her on the streets of Tripoli…no doubt his CIA masters have ordered him to do it…
She gets the drop on him and now he's naked and helpless and she wants to hurt him like he hurt her… wants him to feel the same pain and confusion she felt when she woke up alone… when she lay awake in Armand's bed for the last time wondering why it had felt so familiar and yet so wrong to be there….
"Speaking of help, where is this boyfriend of yours you went through so much effort for?"
She's standing before Armand again, dreading the price for her ticket back to America. She had been in the States, a star on the black market, when some old associates had started sniffing around New York. She'd snuck home to Dublin… Christmas with the family while figuring out her next move when she'd gotten the phone call and now she needed to get to Miami and the Frenchman was the only one who could get her out of Ireland on such short notice…she couldn't go to her family and tell them where she was going after they'd gone to so much trouble to get her out of the US and back covertly back home.
"Hmmm…. Well, I hope he's worth it."
Fiona moved restlessly on the lounger, too agitated to rest properly and too intoxicated to wake up either.
It's been years since she's felt like this, but her cousin and sometime partner in crime Ryan O'Keefe had seen her much worse. The memories of it embarrass her, even now in her dreams. As she pushes aside thoughts of what she'd done alone and abandoned on that cold spring morning, a different remembrance of a betrayal involving her relatives takes its place, a secret the man clearly hadn't meant to reveal.
"Whot d'ya mean thot wa' tha price o' business? Yer tellin' me Armand paid off ya lot fer an introduction?"
"Calm yerself, Fiona, tis nae whot yer thinking. Remember thot customs agent Seamus thought he had in his pocket? Well, Armand approached Shay wit' some proof thot tha man wa fixin ta grass on us all. 'pparently one o' Armand's lads knows a fella who works in MI5. He wa' fixin' ta hand us all over ta tha limey bastids fer his own freedom. All he asked fer wa' permission ta take ya ta out ta dinner fer tha night.Would ya rather yer brudder come home in irons, lass?"
She's standing before Armand as he casually admits to killing said agent to resolve her relatives' issues. He's apparently puzzled as to why she's questioning the murder, as curious as he will be to her reaction upon learning her last job for him in Belfast was a kidnapping. She's drifts away from him then, going back to working with Seamus for a second time and asking why she keeps letting this man into her life…
"You know I always deliver. We're alike that way."
She's back on the streets of Belfast, not far from her childhood home near Falls Road…Was that why Armand had wanted her for this job? Because she knew the area like the back of her hand and could see it in her sleep? Knew all the places to check for and the escape routes should the RUC come calling?
Remembrances of Belfast bleed into memories of Belfast past when the sounds of Michael's packing up penetrate her conscious dimly. He's getting ready to go somewhere but she knows he won't come back.
She's a young girl of eight sitting on the stairs of her Da's basement workshop, hiding in the shadows and listening to her parents argue…the sound of raised voices was no surprise in her home, but the sound of her mother loudly contradicting her father has never come to her ears before and it draws her to the fray.
"Tis completely mad… Goin' away ta London ta blow up Parliament indeed! Ya have a family ta think about Patrick Tierney Glenanne an' so does he!"
"Ya know I have ta go. I have nae a choice. Aiden cannae do tha job on his own. This could be tha thing thot gets tham ta listen. Once we're living free again, we will do whotever it is ya want, me love."
London! The unholiest place in all the world, where demons who look like men sit and plot to kill them all! They were the fiends who send the soldiers that break into her house and take her family away! The very thought of her beloved Da amongst the English devils causes a startled gasp to tear from her throat before she can stop it and it gives her position away. Two sets of sharp eyes spot her on the wobbly wooden structure, trying to blend into the darkness near the top and the face of her father breaks into a wide grin while her mother's fills with and odd mix of disapproval, pain and chagrin.
"Thar's me fearless Fiona…" and the man scoops her up off the creaky staircase and takes her back to the bedroom she now shares with her little sister. As much as she resents having to share that space with Claire, she's had to admit that at least the boys had to stop tormenting her at night once the baby of the family was sleeping beside her in the bed.
She's clinging to his neck as he tries to settle her back down next to her sleeping sibling. She wants to be brave, but big gulping sobs that she can barely suppress sneak out and she's ashamed and yet not.
"Thar, thar, me darling girl, tis nae a reason fer ya ta fret."
"Donnae go!" she pleads with him. "Donnae go!" It soon becomes a mantra, one she's unable to stifle. If her mammy would bring herself to speak against his plans, then it must be something truly dangerous. She's always been fearless Fiona, always supported the Cause dear to his heart, but not now, she can't.
"Fiona, I need ya ta be brave. Can ya do thot fer me?" and his tone becomes firmer as he pats her back. The rest of his words become a blur…it's important, it's necessary, she needs to be strong for the rest of her family, it's the difference between living and living free, he's so proud of her and her determination…
She's used to him leaving with his friends for longer periods than she'd like, but this time she knows down in her bones that he's not coming back. She knows the Cause needs him, but why can't he see that she needs him to? But she'll do anything for him, so she lets go and nods, fighting back the tears because Glenanne's are tough and Glenanne's don't cry and she wants to keep making her Da proud of her.
Her father's rough hands rub up and down her arms as he leans forward to press a kiss to her forehead. The smell of him, of smoke and of sweat, of gun oil and chemicals, is all over her and it fills her senses as she clings to that small piece of him while he's moving away, patting her cheek and whispering comfort.
But when the door closes and she's in the dark again, she whispers what she really wants, "Donnae go."
"Fi…?" There was a hand on her arm and the touch was gentle. "I'm here, Fi…" She's a light sleeper, but this is more like a drunken stupor than slumber. "Come on, Fiona, wake up…" He's become insistent as the press of lips was to her temple this time and then callused hands were on her face. But the smell of Semtex had given way to the Aqua di Gio on the shirt he's wearing and she realized where she was.
"Michael…?" she mumbled as the face before her slowly came into focus. His eyes were sad and his countenance concerned as he perched on the edge of seat near her knees.
"You were having a nightmare…?" It seemed a question rather than a statement. Fiona groaned loudly as the hangover that had been lying in wait roared to the forefront of her mind. He offered a couple of Excedrin for her to swallow and a bottle of water to wash it down. "Drink it all, it'll help."
"Where are you going?" she asked when she had finished the cool liquid. The Irishwoman knew he was leaving, had sensed it in his posture… felt in her bones… There was still a surreal quality to her vision.
"Tallahassee," he confirmed. "As soon as Sam gets here…"
"Michael…" she murmured, trying not to talk too loud, reaching for a coherent thought without success.
"I'm sorry, Fi, but I have to go. I don't really have a choice here… We have to move on this immediately."
Her burning eyes narrowed as she tried to concentrate. What was he apologizing for… this time?
"But, Fi… I… I wanted to… to thank you… for what you did…."
"Thank… me…?" the fiery Irishwoman repeated incredulously.
"I know you didn't want… that it was not something… But Fiona, you… you offered…"
"I know," she cut him off and let out a frustrated huff. "I knew better… but I did it anyway…"
Michael dropped his gaze and chewed his upper lip. "Thank you…" he repeated. "I know it was hard…"
"No, actually you don't." He met her bleary eyes reluctantly. "Ya really donnae have a bally."
"So explain it to me."
And there was the crux of the matter right there. For all she was angry with him for not asking before, she had no desire to explain in the moment why being reminded of who she had been while she'd been living at the Frenchman's side had cut her to her soul. She should have been better than that. Nearly every time she'd been furious with Michael it had been because his callousness reminded her of that other woman.
"It doesn't matter now," she mumbled.
"It seems like… it still does."
It was her turn to stare down at her toes, knowing that nothing she said would make this feel right.
"Fi," he whispered softly, daring to reach out to cup her face.
"I don't like talking about…" She almost choked on Michael's oft-offered excuse for not discussing things.
The spy who'd stolen her heart decades ago thumbed away a tear that dared to leak from the corner of her misty blue green orbs. The intensity of his own gaze seemed to pull the confession from her heart.
"Who I was back then… when I was with him… I was another person… someone I'm not proud of," Fiona finished in a small voice, trying to pull away from his touch. But her lover refused to relinquish his hold.
"Fiona…I…"
The sound of heavy footsteps thundering up the metal stairs outside cut off whatever the covert operative was going to say. Michael looked frustrated right before he looked relieved and then torn all at once.
If she hadn't been so engulfed in her own conflicted pain, Fiona might have been amused at his dilemma.
"Sam is—"
"Go," she said simply.
As he got to his feet, the dark haired man leaned forward to press a kiss to her forehead, lingering a moment before heading through the balcony doors.
"When this is over, Fi—" he started to say over his shoulder on his way out.
But she wasn't listening anymore. She was trying too hard not to remember another man who had promised that things would be fine when it was all over. A man she had never seen again…