A/N: For the 'Theirs' portion to wrap up this segment, our story starts in the middle of 5.11 Better Halves after Michael declines the offer of a bath with Fiona. I tried my very best to keep this "T-rated" but it was too tough and the story was becoming way too long (a Jedi's Pal size epic!) So instead, there'll be a new chapter of "Bed Time Stories" next weekend to cover the missing moments. And like all my stories, there's loads of references to past events chronicled elsewhere, way too many to list.
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Letting the fluffy white robe slip slowly from her frame, the lithe Irishwoman looked over her shoulder again and was once more disappointed. Somehow, she had been hoping against hope that her work obsessed man would join her in the ridiculously ornate and damned-near-large-enough-to-be-a-jacuzzi bathtub of their centrally located VIP suite. Unsurprisingly, Michael appeared determined to finish writing his notes on their surveillance that some stiff back in Virginia would probably never read.
Posing as a travel writer and his trophy wife was the perfect cover for a still officially disavowed spy and his arms dealer girlfriend to attempt to get chummy with a mad scientist on the Agency's behalf and put said germ maker on a helicopter in a head bag headed for Langley with his hopefully talkative spouse.
"I like a good extraction just as much as much as the next girl. But when I asked for quality time I didn't mean on a job.
"Don't think of it as a job, think of it as a romantic getaway, Fi."
"A romantic getaway…? Tracking a biological weapons engineer?"
After dipping in her tattooed foot, the rest of her body slowly slid into the scented spa, sighing as the warm waters whirled around her while she sank back against the marble surface. Placing a small soft towel behind her neck, Fiona tightened the ribbon holding her long auburn locks in a makeshift bun atop her head. Leaning back, she exhaled slowly and surveyed the room of gleaming porcelain and gold leaf.
"The resort has a full service spa and a four star restaurant with Chef... Loius... Luis."
The exclusive couples resort near the beach in Puerto La Cruz, tucked away on the verdant hills far from the hustle of Caracas, had certainly lived up its marketing brochure and their flight south was less circuitous than the last time she'd gone to Venezuela on Company business, so she'd arrived in a better mood than before. It could have reminded her of the extravagant accommodations she stayed in as the consort of an international arms dealer, except Fiona had already had far too many raw recent memories of the Frenchman and the redhead refused to entertain any further thoughts of her ex-lover.
"It's not ideal, but... we'd be together and vacationing on the CIA's dime is not all that bad."
There was only one door into the en-suite and Michael was fortunately… or unfortunately depending on her mood that moment… on the other side of it, which meant she could relax and enjoy her soak. The Walther tucked under the thick folded towels on her right and the soft glowing candles to her left both helped the part-time gun runner in her attempt to adjust her frame of mind to something less somber.
Yes, they were working together, ostensibly with his bosses' blessing, but she'd had ample reason to distrust their acceptance of their relationship. Getting the Agency to approve them working together permanently had been his exit strategy for them in Ireland back in the day and that had not ended well.
Eagar to distract herself from the dark direction of her musings, Fiona added a few more pinches of the fragrant bath salts which she'd eschewed earlier when she'd still believed he might join her. Maybe typing up notes wasn't about completing the task, maybe it was an excuse to avoid getting into the tub…
Fiona could count on one hand the number of times she'd succeeded in getting Michael into a bathtub and most of them had been in Ireland, early on in their relationship… the Braeside Inn… her brother's house in Holyhead… the fishing cottage on Rathlin Island… and much later a glorious little villa in Milan…
For whatever reason, her dark haired boyfriend preferred showers to the point of phobia. She chewed her lip remembering what kind of shape he was usually in if he deigned to use that old claw-footed tub back at the loft in the manner for which it was intended. They'd been in it plenty of times together, but always under a rapidly cooling stream of slightly dingy liquid from an oft-replaced shower head...
Fiona frowned, recalling that she herself had been a bloody mess the only time Michael had drawn a bath for her in the tiny bathroom, a necessary after thought in that large industrial storage space. Lifting her arms out of the water one at a time to stretch her slender limbs, she examined the slight but visible if-you-knew-where-to-look slashes she'd gotten during an op with Sam that went sideways months ago.
They had ended up pinned behind the bar with booze and the glass that used to contain it raining down on them while bullets whizzed over their heads. Her ability to turn her scarf and some handy liquor bottles into the make shift fire bombs, setting the bar alight and allowing them to escape, was the only thing that had saved them, all while the ex-SEAL had fussed at her about injuring innocent onlookers.
Pushing away that unpleasant thought and the associated recollections of her time living alone at former spy's place whilst he was off tearing down the organization that burned him, the Irishwoman returned to idly examining the puzzle of her lover's apparent dislike for full immersion bathing. While she was certain it was due to his military and CIA training, a very miniscule part of her might have had, given time and opportunity to mull it over, intuited that it had something to do with childhood trauma.
Except it was hard to muster sympathy for his wounded past while he continued to hurt her…
Over the years, her lover's mother had said enough about the ugliness of their mutual history, but watching Michael and Madeline in that deserted shack while trying to break a Yakuza gangster disturbed her on a deeper level, one she didn't fully comprehend. More troubling, the paranoia and nightmares seemed to grow worse with the arrival of his brother and his nephew. She shivered for a second at the memory of her dreaming man's hand on her throat before consciousness and regret caught up with him.
"You're never gonna answer all the questions, Michael. There'll always be another thread to pull. You have to move on."
"I know. I will. I just need to take one more look. Just one more look, Fi."
When Fiona had accepted his invitation to share his living space, and by extension their lives, she'd been hoping they'd finally come to a point where they could just fight their enemies instead of fighting for his attention yet again. Michael seemed to want the same thing, said he'd needed to finish things then move on. But the normally competent spy seemed largely unsure of exactly how to proceed with that.
"Look, I know it's hard to leave your past behind, but… it's for the best. You'll sleep easier…. Unless I keep you up…." The petite ex-paramilitary wrinkled her nose, the pleasant reminiscence of what exactly had started on that work bench with a half-consumed cup of yogurt bleeding away along with some of the warmth from the spa. Fiona was displeased on multiple levels about not everyone who'd had a hand in making his life hell, and hers by proxy at times, over the last four years not being in fact dead or in jail.
"Why would anyone kill Max and frame you for it?"
The Irishwoman blew out a noisy breath. Moving in with Michael had been wonderful in all the ways she had remembered it had been with McBride in her life and as frustrating as all the harsh realities that had been thrust upon her once she'd learned she was really living with an undercover agent named Westen.
"Michael can find room for my snow globes in his apartment, but he can't seem to figure out how I fit into his life."
Patience was not her strong suit. She'd tried to be understanding, being almost as unnerved as Michael had been by his uncharacteristic displays of disorientation and his normally hidden inner turmoil bleeding into aberration behaviors early on. Requests to rearrange things had been met with quiet acquiescence, but attempts to probe his inner thoughts were parried by masterful deflection, sex or stoic withdrawal.
It reminded her too much of their final days in Dublin, tension caused by forces she hadn't understood.
Did he want her there or not? Her dark haired boyfriend couldn't seem by his actions to demonstrate his answer reliably from day to day, though if she was being honest her latest meeting with her French former lover also stirred up a whole host of memories that had left her feeling prickly and vulnerable.
"Well, you know who Mikey is with commitment…"
She snorted and shifted her position, nearly sending swirls of liquid up to the edge of the bath. Sam had been taking up for Michael again, which was hardly a surprise, while they'd been tearing through the back roads ahead of the police with a tazered, unconscious and probably unhappy Dixon in the trunk.
But it was something else that Mr Axe had said to her that had troubled rather than irritated her.
After they had gotten the information they'd needed from the probated computer genius and returned their reluctant asset to his home before the ex-SEAL departed to see his cop buddies, presumably to resolve Dixon's problems that they had caused, he'd been determined to hand out relationship advice.
"Yeah, okay, I get it. Mike can be a little too focused on the job sometimes and the CIA ain't exactly my first choice for drinking buddies either."
"Those idiots would have let Carmelo fill you full of holes before they would have lifted a finger to help."
"Probably, but, look sister, you know how Mike gets when he's onto something. You gotta expect that."
She'd given him her best glare. "I know damned well how obsessed Michael gets. That's the problem."
"Well, he can't exactly stop trying to figure out who framed him. Pearce is gonna find out he was there."
"I know Michael has to fix this before the CIA locks him up and throws away the key, but that's not the point. The point is that he needs to get his priorities straight and put the people in his life first and not the whims of a bunch of government bureaucrats who couldn't give a damn about him or us."
Sam had whistled low and shaken his head. "I know that's what you think you want, Fi. But let me tell you something, lady, the day Mike Westen makes you his mission is the day we'll all be in deep water."
But she'd never gotten the opportunity to demand an explanation. Her wayward lover had called to say he was back from his security job with Jesse and Sam had disappeared to go schmooze a police captain.
Something caught her attention then… or rather the lack of something. The continual clicking of the keyboard in the other room ceased for longer than the few moments it would have presumably taken for him to gather his thoughts before carrying on with typing up his report on the Cheshires.
Fiona didn't have to wait long, which was good, before his footsteps were heard heading her way.
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On their second day at the Venezuelan luxury couples resort vacationing on the Company expense account, he'd been up early listening to the bug and looking for an opportunity to provide the desperate housewife, who was sick of lame vacations and Russian goons telling her what to do, some social contact. Then it was merely a matter of finding a way to convince the Skylars to join the Jensens on their supposed private helicopter tour of the rain forest that he was allegedly booking for them tomorrow.
"So, any thoughts on how to arrange a meeting…?" she'd asked as she'd finished off the last of her mimosa and one of the most lavish egg white only omelets he had ever seen.
"Nikki has persuaded Kevin to join her for a little fresh air and sunshine."
"And I'm sure I don't want to know how that happened… I guess I'll need my swimsuit."
And that is how Brendan Jensen came to be standing next to the refreshment bar by the L-shaped pool fidgeting with the collar of his gray polo shirt until he got it flipped exactly the way his cover called for.
Surveying the pool deck and studious ignoring the copious amounts of naked flesh on display with calculated disinterest, with one very important exception, Michael tried to keep his mind on the job at hand and not what had happened while he'd been helping his girlfriend preparing to protect her skin from what could potentially be a long day under the South American sun.
For a spy, making an approach is about problem solving. Whether it's a bad marriage or an unsatisfying job, you look for the problem, the issue on the target's mind.
Watching the feuding couple with one eye, the covert operative ran through various strategies in his head to give his spouse an excuse to forge a rapport with her mark, a proposition made easier by Nikki's husband putting on his shirt and shoes in preparation for storming off. With the bioweapons engineer exiting in a huff and his overly muscular body guard following his wake, it left only Karina to watch what Fiona was up to from across the pool. Being watched by one armed FSB agent was far better than two…
"Can I get you something, Mr. Jensen?"
"Yes, I'm hitting the golf course, but my wife would like a little champagne and caviar."
He felt the phone in his pocket buzz. In the mirror behind the bartender's head, he could see Fiona on her mobile and could already guess what the topic of the impatient Irishwoman's message would be.
"It's our anniversary, so make it the good stuff, will ya?"
"Of course, señor…" Once you know the problem, it's just a matter of turning yourself into the solution and arranging a meeting. "I'll just need your signature."
Michael quickly changed the "6" on the resort receipt for his wife's deck chair to an "8" for the buxom blonde next door. He glanced back at slender redhead who was still staring at her cell and then put a stack of bolivars on top of the receipt to keep the younger man from examining the ticket too closely.
Having established his cover as an extravagantly generous tipper, he was certain the splurgy snack would be on its way quickly. He texted back: Off to book our helicopter tour. Enjoy the bubbly, darling.
Mr Jensen smiled at the service people milling about the bar as he moved off to find a more secluded spot to watch the interaction. Looking back at her, the smile of his alias morphed into the soft sly satisfied expression that Fiona, had she been able to see it, would have recognized immediately, the one that usually graced his face when they were naked, horizontal and covered in a light sheen of sweat.
Forcing his mind away again from what had transpired earlier in the day between them, the spy settled in the shadows behind the ornate white sculptures that decorated the sparkling waters edge to wait and watch before moving onto an even more secluded location to conduct his surveillance. His part in their little play was to be the absentee workaholic husband, which meant he had to be, well, absent…
But with an armed Russian potentially carrying a very high caliber weapon in the handbag the stern brunette had by her side, the spy decided to observe his partner just a bit longer before retreating.
In the field snipers can spend hours, sometimes even days waiting to take just one shot, but not matter how diligently you work to stay focused on the task, at some point your mind is going to wander.
Fiona was breathtaking… and not merely in that lithe body just barely covered by the bikini either. Inside she had a beautiful spirit that had learned somehow to be carefree and have fun, no matter what she was doing or how dangerous. Not that he didn't enjoy the work, because he couldn't imagine living any other way full time. But the petite former paramilitary seemed to be able to find a different level…
He had always secretly admired that about her… when it wasn't irritating the hell outta him.
"We don't get to finish our wine? It's a Kosta Browne…"
Fiona was someone who would find a way not leave behind an expensive bottle of wine she was enjoying and still find a way to work it into the job at hand, whereas he would have abandoned that long ago and never given it a second thought, although her appreciation for alcohol certainly did exceed his.
The bartender was making his way towards the pair with a large silver tray loaded down with the pricey hors d'oeuvres and Campos de Cima Brut Champenoise on ice. Time to go now…
Retrieving his travel bag from the concierge while still managing to keep an eye on his girlfriend charming their target, he inquired about the golf course and the helicopter rides, with no intention of using either. The CIA would be providing the aerial transportation to an interrogation cell for the Cheshires and Michael had no love of game whatsoever, as with most sporting events since he was in middle school. After Little League, he was more interested in martial arts and his parents were certainly not going to pay for more than one activity. Walking around an area with inadequate cover while testing his spatial acuity was time better spent on a range practicing putting bullets through bullseyes.
"Actually, Brenden is being a good boy today. He's arranging a helicopter ride for us. Apparently it's… it's the best way to see the rainforest… Of course he's only doing it because I twisted his arm."
Michael was pleased to see that Karina had not ventured out of her chair. She would have a hard time trying to maintain her cover had she tried to stop Nikki from engaging in conversation or sharing in the consumption of her new BFF's brunch. But you never know what a high strung FSB agent might do…
"Here's to being the better half…" he heard Fiona say before he moved out of eavesdropping range.
Venturing into deeper into the resort, the traveler writer used his acumen to secure a table on the second floor lounge, overlooking the pool and the room itself with his back to the wall and pretending to make business calls and sip beverages, all the while keeping an eye on Christina's progress. The listening device in her handbag by her low poolside table was broadcasting well enough to be picked up by his Bluetooth, but the sound quality was spotty at best, especially when he was pretending to make calls.
But as the morning morphed into afternoon, his thoughts started to drift even if his attention didn't.
Watching Fiona openly wasn't something he got to do a lot without her noticing. If she was awake, she had ways of interpreting or misinterpreting his attention depending on what was going on… and there was always a chance she would catch what he was really thinking, which was even more precarious.
If they were conducting surveillance, she was most frequently next to him, complaining about doing it, rather than being the subject of it. Probably why he loved to watch her sleep, like he had earlier today. But that hadn't happened often in the past. Back then, when they were actually sleeping together as opposed to sleeping together, it was one of the few opportunities he had to truly relax and get some deep restorative sleep. Having his favorite tactical support by his side had always helped him rest.
Except that hadn't been the case lately… It clearly wasn't Fiona's fault that he was dealing with the fall out of post operational paranoia, but her being there both helped and complicated his response to it.
He ended one ersatz exchange and concentrated on a writing a few cryptic notes about his experiences at the opulent couples getaway that would find their way into his action reports, though any casual observer would assume that he was preparing his piece on the property for later publication.
He wondered occasionally when he would let himself think about such things at all, because meditating on his feelings was totally off limits unless it served a tactical purpose, if part of his anxiety was centered around the fact that she had moved in with him, disrupting what was normally his retreat. Of course, the one-time urban guerilla had never had any problem with making herself at home whenever she wanted before he'd asked her to join him there and bring her collection of clothes, shoes, C-4 and snow globes.
Perhaps it was the permanency of the arrangement that was the issue. Or the potential lack thereof… Life had taught him early and often that finally getting what you desired didn't mean you could keep it.
And he did want her in his life, like they had been back in Dublin, except he kept making the same mistakes now that he had then, cutting off any real conversation and retreating into his own head to deal with the pressures of the situation that was threatening to tear them apart. The CIA could separate them again, whether to thrown him in a black site prison for a murder he hadn't committed or refusing to leave an assignment long after his superiors had deemed the mission over and his usefulness done.
And thinking about his time as McBride before living with her openly as himself stirred other thoughts.
While he'd been observing her earlier, sprawled out on a deck chair soaking up the sun and waiting for Kevin and Nikki to finish fighting so she could make the approach, he couldn't help but compare that to when he'd found her passed out on the patio at the loft. Michael had tried very hard not to think about that since it had happened. He was trying very hard not to think about it now without much success.
But there was a server with the bright eyes patiently waiting for the opportunity to bring Mr Jensen another drink or something to eat now that he was off the phone. Michael knew he needed to spend a few moments chatting her up and reinforcing his cover before returning his attention to his work calls and secretly the two women lying back on their loungers sipping champagne and talking animatedly.
It wasn't long until the sight had him thinking about the last time he'd seen her horizontal in a deck chair again. Contrary to what she thought, he hated hurting her, especially when he had no clue how to make it right. She'd taken the rest of the rosé out onto the balcony with her and slammed the door in his face.
But later, after he'd read the intel and realized his target was seven hours up the road, the soon-to-be wanted man knew he'd needed to have a conversation with his lover before leaving. Listening carefully before potentially stepping into the line of fire, what he'd thought he'd heard had frozen him in place.
"Donnae go…" That softly whispered plea in an Irish accent had immediately taken him back to that night he'd crept out of their bed, their place and her life, he'd done what he had that evening with a calculated purpose, plying her with rich food, wine and a little something more, telling her goodbye with his body what he couldn't say to her in words, all in a bid to make sure she slept through the night.
"Donnae go…" And much to his relief and his shame, it had worked. He'd never let himself think about the aftermath of his actions, other than she'd be safe from being murdered by her associates or possibly even her family because his cover had been about to be blown all to hell and all for staying too long.
But that evening on the balcony in the wake of Armand's visit, he'd gotten a fairly accurate portrayal of what had probably happened. She'd barely stirred as he'd perched on the edge of the deck chair.
Drunk off her ass, as his mother used to say about his father frequently…
It was a rare sight and he couldn't help but feel like he was part of the reason for it. He knew whatever had passed between her and her former flame was at the root of it, but Michael now knew Fiona would never have contacted that man voluntarily if it hadn't been on his behalf, to get information for him.
"What? Is there bad blood between you?"
"He likes me fine. I'm less enthusiastic about him."
He hadn't asked, hadn't pushed as he could have, because truthfully he really hadn't wanted to know.
"I know you didn't want… that it was not something… But Fiona, you… you offered…"
"I know… I knew better… but I did it anyway…"
Michael shook his head and pretended to be berating whoever he was supposed to be talking to on his faux business call, annoyed with himself for getting so distracted in so many unpleasant memories while he was supposed to be working. Fiona's working her magic well. Nikki just ordered another bottle…
The covert operative rubbed his hands over his eyes for a split second. He was getting sloppy again…
There's a reason spies try to stay detached. When you get emotional about something, even if it's just watching your girlfriend work a cover, you get distracted. And getting distracted can be very dangerous.
Fiona wasn't involved in all this bad decisions, but she had certainly played a part in some of the worst.
But Mrs Skylar and Mrs Jensen had stood up and were putting their sundresses on, which meant that it was time to move on to the next phase of reeling in their targets. The sooner the germ maker was in cuffs and on his way to a black site prison, the sooner he could finish keeping himself out of one.
Time to get back to work…
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As the black muscle car crossed over the Fifth Street Bridge and the large industrial space they now shared came into full view, the former Irish freedom fighter was surprised to find that she was slightly disappointed that their first officially sanctioned job as a couple for the CIA was almost over.
Having any sort of positive feelings about Michael's employer was almost alien to her.
She'd jumped into the bay, taken a wild ride with a scared little bunny clinging to her and holed up a shack for what could have been her last stand, going out guns blazing… well not exactly blazing as she'd missed with her last bullet and then found herself on the wrong end of a silenced weapon.
But instead of ending her life, the Russian woman had taken the butt end of an assault rifle to her head and she had found herself in Michael's arms, holding each other close and preparing to go to war.
"Shall we?"
"I thought you'd never ask."
As the Charger came to a stop at the base of the stairs, Fiona felt the warm remembered glow of holding his body close while blasting the bad guys, back to back in the midst of heavy arms fire and doing battle together… The only thing better than that had happened back in their room immediately afterwards…
"You know, I've been thinking. The world is a dangerous place." She stopped just short of his position, laying her hand on the trunk lid he'd just closed. "I bet there are lots of wanted types laying low in Spain, Italy, France…"
"Are you volunteering for more extraction jobs?" he asked, moving into her space and taking her bag.
"Paris is lovely in the spring." If his bosses were finally willing to let them work together, she supposed she could do this and be more tolerant of the Agency's presence in their lives. The moment their hands touched over the handle of her carry on, she noticed the cubic zirconia still on her finger. That was something else she supposed she could quit worrying about. They were more than married. "I guess I won't be needing this anymore…" The redhead was trying to remove it but it was strangely stuck.
"Let me." He did like the way it looked, his momentary relief at their successes making him abit giddy.
"Mr Jensen," she whispered, smiling softly. "It was nice being married to you."
"You too, Mrs Jensen…" His answering expression was unguardedly happy. "Maybe I'll hang on to this. Never know when I'll need it…" Wearing wedding rings these last few days had definitely been stirring ideas… but not that, too fast too soon. "For another job," he clarified as her jaw dropped slightly.
"Well, next time I'm your wife, I prefer an Asscher cut diamond."
"Good to know."
Leaning against the trunk, moving into each other's orbit, staring into her blue green eyes, he could see it, the future he wanted, the one she deserved. The Agency had approved Fi, they would do it again.
"Well, I guess the honeymoon's over. I'm gonna go to the tailor. Maybe he can turn my ripped gown into a mini dress." She was certain Buddy could work his magic on the Vera Wang knock off he'd made her.
"I'm gonna check in with Sam and Jesse about the Tavian situation." With her phone underwater and his in pieces, there had been no way to call and no real opportunity to stop for another secure burner cell.
As much as he had loved their little working vacation, he needed to get back to business PDQ.
"Happy hunting…. Maybe later, when you're done, we could do a little reconnecting…" she promised before sashaying away, deliberately exaggerating the sway of her hips.
Watching her walk away, Michael remained leaning against his vehicle, admiring the view.
Maybe he needed to go back to contracting instead of becoming a full-time CIA agent again. But right now he needed Pearce on his side, which meant doing whatever she, and by extension, the agency wanted. Once they finally found Max's killer, it would be time to reassess, like she'd asked him to.
He didn't want to not work. He enjoyed the excitement and adrenaline as much as her, and it seemed as though what he'd been trying to achieve all the way back in Ireland might finally happening.
The agency had approved Fi… more than that she seemed willing to work with that too…
If he could just get past this, he would make her a priority... More than that he wanted to… But he had a hard time not being afraid of losing her if he dared to invite her into his life full time. People he cared about who hung around him had a way getting hurt. Max had been his most recent reminder. He needed to figure out how to love and appreciate her not just when he was on the verge of losing her.
Michael bent over and picked up the bags.
First things first…
Find Tavian
Clear his name
Reconnect with Fiona and plan the future.
At least his list was getting shorter…