"That man is prudent who neither hopes nor fears anything from the uncertain events of the future." Anatole France

-00000-

Leesburg Executive Airport at Godfrey Field, Leesburg, Virginia, USA, December 2015, 19:05 Hours

Mr. Westen watched surreptitiously with ill concealed disinterest as his friend explained their unavailability to entertain them to the two women in the entrance of the dark airport bar. He saw the brunette try to catch his attention as she leaned around "Mr. Finley's" shoulder from the corner of his eye. Had he been in the mood for such company, Michael could have been pleased by the coincidence that had brought them together.

Of all the ladies on Sam's list of regulars for the two of them, she was the easiest to be with. She understood the rules, what was and wasn't allowed in bed and in conversation, and had accepted them with reasonable grace. She kept her suspicions and her sympathy well concealed to anyone but a trained operative and he was grateful for that. Being a good sex partner was all he had to offer in exchange.

He wasn't anyone's lover.

Not anymore.

Not since her.

He had gone back to thinking of sex as just another reality of life, like drinking, eating or sleeping; something that needed to be done with a certain regularity or problems would result. It was a necessary habit to fall back into, although it hadn't been easy to do so once he'd had a taste of making love.

The loudspeakers in the dank little room blared out an Aerosmith tune he remembered from middle school that seemed appropriate for the situation.

Michael sighed and flashed a brief glance at Sam's back as he stood in the doorway watching their potential companions walk away. They were on a private plane and could've have left any time he wanted to actually; just a change of flight plan required to accomplish the task. But he'd been apart from her long enough and he wasn't going to be diverted any longer, especially not for that.

Dream on, dream on, dream until your dream comes true.

Mike never realized in all those years, sixteen in total before he'd arrived in Dublin, that what he'd had with her was what he'd been looking for in all those sexual encounters. He'd started young, even by Miami standards; he'd been fourteen and the girl was nineteen. It was a way to get attention that was positive instead negative, a way to connect intimately with another person without unnecessary strings attached. It was also a way to feel affection that didn't necessarily include some attempt at emotional manipulation.

There had been plenty of girls his age just looking for a good time. It was South Florida in the early eighties after all, where spring breakers from Ft. Lauderdale to Miami made every effort to recreate Roman orgies all along "The Strip" on A1A. Although the sex and alcohol consumption were probably comparable to those ancient bacchanals, he imagined that the food and the drugs were better in his day.

Still, the older he had gotten, the more that young Mr. Westen had preferred to pursue older women. On the whole, they better understood the nature of the relationship he was seeking; though they came with their own attendant risks, including jumping out of windows or leaving without all of one's clothing to avoid getting caught.

Being with someone who had a decade or so on him usually meant a condo on the beach instead of the back seat of a stolen car. It did have its perks and it had left him with an appreciation for expensive clothing. He understood even then the importance of appearances in perfecting your cover albeit used to accomplish a different mission then.

As the voice of Steven Tyler gave way to Steve Perry, it put him in mind of one woman in particular whose company he'd sought out. She'd been a high dollar criminal attorney who'd arranged to scrub his record clean. It was a much easier thing to do back in the day than now. He would have never gotten into the Rangers, much less the CIA, with his history of lawlessness intact.

Michael had fallen into what he'd thought was love once in high school and she'd betrayed him. After that, he'd put up yet another impermeable barrier around his wounded heart. There was more than enough physical, mental and emotional pain at home already without providing any more opportunities for anguish to invade one of the few areas of his life where he could feel good. The Army had done little to change his views and his first years as an operative, particularly under the tutelage of Larry Sizemore, had only reinforced them.

-00000-

"You owe me, Mikey," Sam had groused when he returned to the table.

"On me."

"Never have to tell me twice, brother." Mr. Axe scooped up the two twenties from the dark glass table top and headed towards the bar.

Mike focused on the cashier, who was also acting as bartender. She was definitely one of the people watching. He cast his glance around the poorly lit room looking for another. The space was cramped, but sparsely populated. For someone at his clearance level, there would be at least a two person team. Taking down the organization who had burned him had given him a great deal of freedom and latitude, but he knew that wouldn't stop Raines from keeping a close eye on them.

If it was Raines' people watching them, that is. As Sam chatted up the cashier, it occurred to him that she looked a lot like the other Sam that had been in his life, except for the bad dye job.

Samantha Kees

She had been like all the women in his life before her, all rolled into one. The lies were easy, the sex was easy, the way they spent time together was easy, both on and off the job. The reason they were together was the same. "I used her, she used me and neither one cared. We were just getting our share," the lyric drifted through his brain in conflict with the music that was currently playing.

Samantha had been the epitome of all the night moves he'd made with other women. When she'd proposed to him, his first reaction had been 'what the hell.' He'd laughed at the time and then wove elaborate fabrications about what kind of nuptials they would have, concluding that most of the guests would try to steal the wedding gifts and that someone would probably start shooting before the reception was over.

When he had realized she was serious, then they were over.

She'd tried to reconnect with him, after duping him into helping her out of her jam with Tyler Brennan. He'd sent her packing with a stern lecture about considering the effects of her lifestyle on her child. It had infuriated him that she hadn't given a second thought to dragging her son into the world of a professional thief. He'd had enough trouble being raised by an amateur thief- con man, hustler, gambler, drunk, wife-beater-

Mr. Axe returned to the table with two beers, neither of which were for him. His long time partner eyed his untouched drink for a moment before settling into a chair next to where Mike sat with his back to the wall. From the speakers nestled somewhere out of sight in the dingy little lounge, Chester Bennington's voice began to fill the room.

"So, are you going to let me in on the mission parameters before we hit the ground?" he whispered, leaning in close.

"Cashier. Janitor."

Sam looked around the bar, doing a good job of making it look nonchalant. The ex-SEAL observed the surveillance team and took a swig of his beer with an almost imperceptible nod.

"In fifteen," Mike said, letting him know how long he wanted Sam to wait after he departed the bar to head for the Learjet-85. He wanted his wingman to ensure that they wouldn't be followed.

I'm strong on the surface, not all the way through

He knew Sam noticed how little he'd said the last couple years, especially these days. His best friend would have laughed if he knew the reason or stared at him in silent sympathy. Since neither was not a reaction he wanted to deal with so, he kept it to himself, like his words.

Forgetting all the hurt inside you've learned to hide so well

Pretending someone else can come and save me from myself

The younger man stared at his shot of whiskey, observing the patterns the now-melted ice cubes had made in the amber liquid. At length, he picked up the glass and swirled it around before downing the contents in one long drink.

Michael didn't talk because he was afraid of what would come out of his mouth if he said anything more than the bare minimum.

But since he'd worked with Sam over half of his life, bare minimum was sufficient. Sometimes, they didn't have to say anything at all. A look, a gesture, a grunt or simple silence instead of answer were often enough to do the job. They had raised non-verbal communication to an art form. It amazed him.

For one thing, it was amazing that Sam had chosen to stick by him that long, given every bad thing that came attached with being in close proximity to him, and, for another, it amazed him that he'd been able to actually achieve that level of connectivity with one other person and that had only taken a year.

Now he would find out if that connection had survived the years in between.

"Can I get you something else to drink?" the cashier/bartender/spy asked, hovering in front of their table.

Mike waved her away with a flick of his hand without looking up from his now-empty glass. Sam followed his lead, mouthing 'no' with a smile. Agent Westen saw his partner's reaction in his peripheral vision and caught the tiny sigh that escaped his lips

Sam had thing for blondes, even faux ones: his ex-wife Amanda, Rayna, Veronica, Elsa, Yvette, the one just now at the bar- Mike couldn't be bothered to remember her name. Blondes weren't his thing, any more than relationships were.

He'd like Rayna Kopec well enough when they worked together, but she was Sam's lover, not his. He'd been grateful for her part in helping him after- he pushed the thought away and scowled at the table as the opening bars of an all too familiar tune echoed in the tiny space.

Rebecca Lange had been the last in a line-up of steely-eyed, tough-as-nails blondes Anson had sent across his path. She'd ended up just like Carla and Evelyn. It gave him a small measure of comfort to know that Dr. Fullerton didn't actually know him as well as the former DIA shrink liked to think he did.

Lessons learned, bridges burned to the ground,

And it's too late now to put out the fire,

Tables turned, and I'm the one who's burning now,

And it gave him a great measure of comfort because it meant that Anson still didn't know about her. He wouldn't have bothered with those other women if he had.

Well I'm doing alright, 'til I close my eyes

And then I see your face and it's no surprise.

He couldn't close his eyes, day or night, without seeing her face, couldn't wake up in the morning without wondering what she was doing, couldn't go to sleep at night without wondering where she was laying her head.

Just like that I'm crawling back to you,

Just like you said I would yeah,

Chris Daughtry had been born the day after Christmas. Michael had learned early on to dislike holidays that were considered 'family' events and Christmas was usually one of the worst. The added stress of his mother trying to force some familial interaction on their dysfunctional little brood usually ended in disaster; Christmas of '82 in particular.

He gritted his teeth at the memory as the chorus of the song washed over him.

His father had punched his lights out, giving him a black eye, and all his mother was worried about was getting a Christmas portrait taken of her 'happy" family. Frank's son had concluded some time ago that all the hits she'd taken to the head from his father must have caused brain damage.

It was the only explanation he could live with.

Time can heal, but the scars only hide the way you feel,

And it's hard to forget how I left you hanging

On by a thread, when everything is said, I will regret it, yeah,

Regret? That was an understatement. Even now the image of her sleeping there in their bed as he backed out of their room, backed out of her life, tormented him like he'd done it days ago instead of years.

I was doin' alright, thought I could make it,

Then I see your face and it's hard to fake it.

He closed his eyes and set his jaw against the flood of memories. It was over now. Now he could go back. Now he could see her again. Now, at last, he could turn his back on what was and move on.

Just like that I'm crawling back to you,

Just like you said I would yeah,

I swallow my pride,

Now I'm crawling back to you,

He'd thought about killing Daughtry after this song came out as the battle with the organization that burned him had reached fever pitch. At that point, he'd already killed a few people as well as thinking about it. His former mentor had done everything in his power to get Mike to return to his side, to the dark side.

In the end, Michael had decided there should be at least two men on the planet that could get away with telling him the unvarnished truth about himself without worrying about the repercussions of that honesty.

Unfortunately for him, Mr. Sizemore wasn't one of those two.

If you could find a way to forgive everything, I know you would.

And I would take it all back, if only I knew that I could.

That's what he had held onto all these years. That she would forgive him, that she would take him back, that she would understand what he'd been trying to do, how he'd been trying to protect her, how he never, ever wanted to leave her behind and how much it broke him to walk away from her.

Lessons learned, bridges burned to the ground.

And it's too late now, to put out the fire.

He hoped, no- he prayed- that the fire between them was still there after everything he'd done.

"Wheels up," Mr. Westen said, in a tight, clipped voice.

"Whatever you say, partner."

Mr. Axe gave him an odd look, but let it drop. He knew Sam could feel the tension radiating off of him that threatened to spill over into some random act of violence. That's why he'd asked his friend to check for the tail. He might maim or kill someone in the mood he was in at the moment and Mike didn't want the potential delay an assault in an airport could garner these days.

As he exited the bar, the final lines of the song pushed him towards his aircraft and his destination.

Outta my head, can't wait any longer,

Down on my knees, I thought I was stronger,

Just like that, like you said I'd do,

I'm crawling back to you.

No, he wasn't crawling back to her.

He was running.

-00000-

A/N: Much thanks to the amazing Amanda Hawthorn and the equally awesome Purdy's Pal for their help with this AU and luv to all the girls in the Padded Cell Club. Thanks as always to everyone that alerted, fav'd and reviewed; it is all greatly appreciated. Playlist available upon request.