"To imagine is everything, to know is nothing at all." Anatole France

-ooooo-

Andreani Estate, outside of Kildare, Ireland, December 2015, 16:08 GMT

"Another stitch and you'll be all set, Mike."

This wasn't the first time he'd had to sew Michael Westen back together both literally and figuratively under someone's watchful eye. But somehow being under the gaze of his best friend's previously unknown progeny had complicated this operation in unforeseen ways.

When the teenager had first approached them in the hibernating apple grove, Sam had been too absorbed in reading the marker and too busy trying to process what the cold stone, and Sean's abrupt departure, meant for their immediate future or perceived lack thereof in Mike's case.

Once the young man had gotten his attention, the former Navy commander had been stunned almost speechless, something he'd not experienced in a very long time until this recent sojourn into his partner's past. Of course, he was certain that the shock and awe he was feeling was inconsequential compared to what had to be coursing through his colleague at that particular moment.

If sending his mother into permanent protective custody had silenced the dark haired man for three days, Sam could only just imagine what the discovery of his son would do to him, which could be very awkward and non-productive in establishing a relationship with said offspring.

Fortunately, and it felt odd to be grateful for a head wound, Mr. Westen had apparently cut his head when he'd tripped over the proverbial stumbling block hidden in the snow, but it had taken time for the blood to seep through his hair and appear visibly on his face. It had providentially appeared in time to excuse the lack of coherent response from his father and allowed Sam to turn the conversation with Sean Michael toward the medical attention that was now required.

It also allowed the ex-SEAL the opportunity to spin a physical reason, between that and Sean's powerfully delivered punch, for his buddy's silence instead of the emotional upheaval that was at the core of Mike's non-response and it gave the McBrides a reason to embrace, albeit momentarily, when the younger helped haul the elder off the cold ground to his unsteady feet.

Addressing the troublesome topic of what to call the young man had engaged most of the conversation on their walk back into the house, as Sam had pointed out the inherent but obvious confusion of having two people with the same name in the room.

Apparently, his mother had made it clear there was only one Michael, that being his father, and addressing him as Sean wouldn't work well either since his uncle was an omnipresent figure in their collective lives. Michael Senior, and by extension his associate, then learned that his son had gone by a multitude of names in his lifetime.

Apparently he had lived under the name Rene Descoteaux while living the south of France until just after his eighth birthday when he'd been collected along with his grandmother by his Uncle Colin and returned to Ireland.

He'd been going by the French version of Michael, that being Michel, under the surname Andreani, a protection for which his mother had told him to be grateful, until recently when he had decided he was simply Mike McBride. His Uncle Sean had always called him 'Mike' once they had returned to Ireland, although his mother had never called him anything but the pet name she had given him as a baby, 'Keevan.'

Mr. Axe could tell by the tiny movements in his friend's jaw muscles that this Mike McBride did not care one bit for the fact that his namesake had lived a life that involved cover ID's from the time he was born and particularly that one of them apparently indicated a deliberately chosen relationship with the powerful mob boss they had been scheduled to meet.

The former Navy man looked again at the youth, who was leaning casually on one shoulder against the wall, his leather clad arms folded across his chest and his denim clad legs crossed at the ankles. He was staring openly at his father with a carefully controlled countenance, but Sam saw the curiosity and the longing that also held just a hint of the sorrow and anger that had to be coursing just beneath the surface.

It was surreal, like a faded sepia tone version of an old black and white photograph. He was the spitting image of Mike Westen, specifically the one Sam had known as a recent graduate of Army Ranger School, possessing the same bone structure and body language. Only this one had a shock of auburn hair, a dusting of tiny freckles across his pale checks and intense blue green eyes which surely had to have belonged to his mother. It was that visage that had caught Sam off guard back when they had first been introduced.

They were in what the ex-SEAL supposed was the servant's pantry off of the main kitchen. There was a rectangular table made of an ancient wood in the center of the room with long, hard, dark wooden benches on either side of it. The windows were tall, narrow and frosted on the one wall and the multitude pantry doors on the opposite side were also tall and narrow.

The swinging doors placed in the center of each of the remaining walls made a slight sound as they swished open and closed, but it was more noise than the wordless dark skinned woman had made when she brought a basin of warm water, clothes and a surgical kit and placed them on the table before silently exiting the door at the other end of the room from whence she'd come.

"Ta much," he had called to her as she exited and then had silently watched Sam do his medical magic on the lengthy but swallow slash on his elder's scalp.

"Ya'll be wanting something t'drink or eat now, would ya?" he queried at length, his accent a curious mixture of his native Irish with a soft undercurrent of French phrasing to it. "Do ya fancy anything in particular?"

"Whatever ya have'll be fine. Thank ya kindly," his father responded, speaking for the first time since they'd met.

Sean Michael gave his sire a long look before nodding. Then he pushed off the wall and exited toward the kitchen. As soon as the door swung closed behind him, the pair breathed a collective sigh, though hardly from relief.

"Word of advice, Mikey," he interjected quickly.

Mr. Westen cocked his head to the side, shifting its position under the hand that was gingerly exploring Sam's stitches before reaching for the wet cloth again.

"Talk to the kid and, for god's sakes, make sure it's about something besides Fiona when he gets back. There'll be time enough for that later."

"What am I supposed to say, Sam?" the words practically exploded from his mouth. "Sorry, but no one told me you existed?" he hissed, as sorrow and regret quickly morphed into anger, his time tested resolution for containing his hurts.

Now it was Commander Axe's turn to get momentarily lost in another time and place, as he remembered finally locating his own missing father and the fierce resentment that had welled up in him as their dialogue had consisted solely of the man inquiring about his mother and her well being.

"Be prepared for some of that to come back your way, too, Mikey," Sam advised brusquely as he sat down heavily on the bench on the opposite side of the table. "I know a little bit about this kind of thing."

Mr. Axe was grateful that his friend was too entangled in his own emotional upheaval to ask where or how he had acquired such knowledge.

"Why the hell didn't Sean just tell me?" he asked plaintively, his cobalt blue eyes growing watery. "All this time, all this waiting and she… she —" The torturous words caught in his throat.

Sam sighed heavily and then tried to keep his tone gentle, but firm. "Mike, your son has been waiting his entire life to meet you. You need to focus on what's here and now, brother, and not on what's left behind." This was not the time to get into all the little things that weren't adding up.

Michael closed his eyes tightly and nodded mutely.

"Look, we don't know what the kid knows or doesn't know. And here's another thing you need to keep on your sonar. This is still Armand Andreani's house. I don't know how or why your son is here, but we still have CIA business we need to do with Mr. Andreani sooner or later, business that involves more than finding out why your son was using his last name."

Mike's face twisted into a scowl, but since he refused to look at him for the moment, Sam pressed on.

"This is going to be the most important Intel gathering op you've ever been on in your entire life, buddy. You need get your head outta—"

His partner's eyes snapped open then. The anguish there was deep and multi-faceted, almost staggering, but his jaw was tight and his mouth set in a thin line as he gave a sharp nod of assent. They hadn't survived all these years in a shadow world of covert intelligence without learning how to shake off pain and pursue the mission.

So it was with some greater measure of composure that the two men greeted the arrival of their afternoon tea a few moments later. A short, stout woman with brilliant red hair, looking every bit the archetype of an Irish grandmother bustled into the room carrying an enormous tray laden with an astonishing variety of sandwiches and two steaming mugs which smelled of lemon, cloves and fine whiskey.

"Mind yar places!" she barked as both men started to rise. "I'm old, nae helpless," she continued with a broad smile as she set the tray down on the end the table between them.

"Toddy'll be jus' the thin' t'warm yar bones." She pushed a mug towards each of them. "Tis a proper one wit' good Irish tea and Jameson's. Go on then, et up," the redhead admonished. " Fifi'll be 'round later, so mind ya don' et it all up."

She reached out as she went past Michael and gave his shoulders a surprising strong squeeze for a woman who appeared to be so advanced in years and kissed him on the neck just behind his ear.

"Tis good t'see ya home, man."

Since she had her back to them as she marched out of the room, she missed the barely concealed incredulous looks that passed between the two Americans. On the other hand, Sean Michael did not as he entered the room through the opposite swinging door with a dark green bottle tucked into his arm.

He reached over for a plain pine wood chair sitting against the wall near the door with his free hand and began to drag it on its back legs across the room with him.

"She takes a wee bit o' getting' used ta, but she's a wise ol' gal, she is," he said fondly as he reversed the seat, pulling the chair back up against the end of the table and straddling it. He set the dusty bottle on the table as he settled into his seat, leaning his elbows on the top of the chair back. "She put in me in mind thot Mammy'd been saving this bottle fer ya."

Sam nearly choked when he saw the label on the Irish whiskey. "Jameson's Rarest Vintage Reserve?" He whistled low and touched the glass reverently with his fingertips.

"He bought it fer har 'bout ten years back as a birthday present, so I've been told."

"That's some birthday present," Sam agreed.

Sean Michael chuckled humorlessly. "He bought har the whole distillery, no' jus' the bottle. Point in fact, he bought Pernod Ricard, which owned Jameson's. Acquiring French concerns wot hold Irish assets wa' somethin' o' a specialty o' his," he added, his tone taking on a softly bitter edge as he stared at the gift for a moment, "Been savin' it fer a special occasion."

Michael tried smiling at his son as the young man turned his gaze upon him.

"I wa' startin' t'think ya wa' a myth instead o' a man," he finished mildly.

Mr. Westen took a deep breath and then bit his lip, shaking his head ever so slightly before answering. "I never wanted thot."

"Then thot'd be both o' us," the younger McBride agreed. "The way she used t'talk about ya, I jus'—" Now it was his turn to exhale loudly. "Expected ya to be taller or somethin'- somehow."

"He gets that a lot," Sam cut in, trying to break the tension.

"Do ya now?" The young man stared hard at his namesake, as if he were trying to read his mind. "Ya must have quite the reputation outside of yar homeland then. Lord knows, thar's still plenty o' talk about ya down at the Black Sand."

Sean Michael didn't miss the flash of recognition in his sire's eyes. That was the pub where he was supposed to have met Sean all those years ago, but instead it was the place where he had met Fiona for the first time. He'd asked for a dance and gotten a revolver pressed into his ribs for his trouble.

"So wot have ya done t'earn such a fierce reputation, sar? It'd seem thot ya leapt tall buildings in a single bound and all thot, or so I've been told."

Mr. Axe chuckled in despite himself. "I don't know about that, but I have seen bullets bounce off of him."

Michael Senior glared at his partner while his son looked between the two of them thoughtfully.

"Does he always do ya talkin fer ya?"

"Usually," they said together.

It was kind of disturbing watching the familiar and yet unfamiliar face formulate his response to their obvious relationship. Commander Axe could almost see the same wheels turning as he did with his father and it was an odd experience to say the least given that he'd only met the teenager some hours before.

"So, then," he was looking at Sam, but the questions were clearly meant for Michael. "Wot have the pair of ya been up to these last eight yars? I mean I know, being in prison and all, he couldn't drop round fer holidays, but I find meself wonderin' wot took up all yar time afterwards? Did ya really mean t'leave har, to leave us, t'deal with this all on our own? Do ya know wot's she'd had t'do t'keep us safe?"

"I'm curious," Sam interjected before his associate could answer. "What did your mother and your uncle tell you?"

The blue green eyes turned from one to the other before settling on the elder McBride. Now he was addressing the older man, but his intense gaze never left his Da.

"Thot wa' the thing, ya see, there never wa' much said. Nana didn't know and apparently neither did Uncle Colin, or so they said. O' course now, the two thot wa' meant t'be knowing never did have much t'say on the subject."

The youth cocked his head then and let out an exasperated sigh, a gesture of frustration so Mike-like that the ex-SEAL had to put all his training in play to keep from smiling at it.

"She said ya wa' a great patriot, imprisoned for the Cause, fer protectin' yar family, or so I wa' told. Uncle Sean said when she didn't come back from goin' t'fetch ya thot ya war fightin' them wot meant t'harm us."

Mike's son paused and swallowed thickly, his eyes growing misty for just a moment.

"Mammy and Uncle Sean wa' always talkin' about ya, how much they missed ya, how they couldn't wait t'see ya and about wot'd be like when ya got home." He paused and shook his head again, blinking away the moisture. "Hiding out in Marseilles wa' probably better'n prison, I'd suppose, but some days it warn't."

Regret was written large all over Michael Senior's face, which was good because was also plain that the man couldn't find his voice at the moment at all. It was his turn to swallow loudly as he nodded his acknowledgement of the anguish his absence had caused. His partner could tell that not knowing that he had done it in no way alleviated any of the guilt he felt for it.

"Matter o' fact," his son continued as he regrouped. "I found meself in the curious position o' havin' t'ask round the pub to get some answers about ya, seein' as how Mammy and Uncle Sean war tight as a Scotsman purse when it came t'war ya might be and wot ya wa' doin'."

He leaned back away from them then, critically eyeing their untouched food and drink as he straightened in the chair.

"She'll have yar heads if ya don' at least drink yar toddies," he remarked. Sean Michael's fondness for the old woman was obvious. "Go on, eat up whilst I tell ya a tale thot I h'ard down at the pub."

Knowing that Mike was feeling too overwhelmed to eat, Sam snatched up two of the nearest sandwich wedges and began to chew. SEALs were trained to eat anything anywhere after all. The cheese and pickle contents were surprisingly pleasing to his American palate, although the texture was odd to say the least. He found himself wishing for a little differentially cured pig to go in between. But the bread was freshly made and that enticing aroma still clung to it.

"I met a man over a pint one fine night then, not so very long ago it twas, who said he'd be delighted t'take me t'meet a man who said thot he knew ya well."

Mr. Westen's eyes flashed and his jaw tightened reflexively. Sam wondered whether it was the implication of the underage drinking or the fact that the pub in question was over two hours away in Belfast that bothered him more. Mike tried to cover up by drinking deeply from the warm mug, but the young man caught the gesture nonetheless as surely as his long time companion had. Obviously, his progeny was every bit as observant and intelligent as his colleague was.

Or maybe it was the fact that they both knew that Frank Westen's eldest boy had done much worse at a much younger age that sparked the reaction. Regardless of the reason, the air between them was suddenly charged with a crackling mixture of defiance and heartache.

"With all due respect, sar, ya don' get t'judge me now when ya've nae bothered t'be har before now and I've nae been too young fer anything else life's decided t'hand me up til now whether I wanted it or nae."

The older man knew if he had no idea what to say to that, then Mike was going to be pretty clueless on that front himself. Sam opted for picking up another sandwich instead.

"So, who exactly did you end up meeting with?" he queried.

Sean Michael reached forward and snatched up a few sandwich pieces himself. Chewing thoughtfully, he announced. "He said his name was Thomas O'Neil."

It took everything in their mutual reserves not to choke on their respective food and drink as his offspring announced that he had met with a man who'd tried to have them both killed on several occasions.

"We met a couple o' times, the last in a car park 'round an abandoned warehouse. Seemed quite an odd place fer a meetin' and thar wa' somethin' about the man I nae cared for. But ya needn't worry, Mammy taught me well. I came prepared thot night, thot I did."

The former naval commander found himself dreading the next words.

"He remembered ya well. Said ya wa' the reason he'd be walkin' wit' a cane the rest o' his life. But somehow on thot fine evenin', the spirit o' charity came over him and it seemed thot he felt compelled t'share a tale wit' me."

Placing this hands on his thighs, the teenager leaned slightly forward, causing his jacket to gap, and he stared straight into his father's eyes with an unflinching gaze. It was then Mr. Axe noticed that Mike's son was armed, well armed if he knew his gun handles, which he did. Sam didn't envy his buddy one bit.

"He tried t'tell me thot me father was an American spy, not a patriot from Kilkenny. He tried t'tell me thot ya'd used Mammy, used har t'infiltrate and destroy the REAL IRA, the true patriots of the Republic. He tried t'tell me thot ya used har like she wa' nothin' more than a pawn t'ya and then ya left har behind t'bare yar bastard without so much as a backward glance."

It was all Sam could to do to keep his jaw from hanging open. He sincerely hoped Mike's self control was up to the task as well. The junior McBride sat up straight in the chair then and crossed his arms tightly.

"I'm guessin' somehow O'Neil wa' thinkin' thot I'd a Glenanne temper t'go wit' me colorin'. I'm guessin' somehow thot Mr. O'Neil thought thot if he got me riled up enough thot I'd succumb to that temper. I'm guessin' thot Mr. Thomas O'Neil got it inta thot thick skull o' his thot he could somehow get me riled up enough t'murder me own father for him once ya set foot on Irish soil again."

Sean Michael nodded his head as though he were contemplating a particularly troubling math problem as he looked down at the table for just a moment.

"I'm guessin' thot's wot he thought. O' course, wot he didn't think much about wa' whether o' not I wa' more like ya or more like Mammy. I've been told, ya see, thot I can be a cold, calculating bastard, just like ya wa'. So maybe they'll put thot on his headstone, if they can find enough pieces o' him t'bury thot is."

It suddenly felt as cold in that small pantry as it surely was on the other side of those high frosted windows. The youth chuckled then, but it was not a pleasant sound by any means.

"So t'would seem I've a bit more than a touch o' Glenanne in me as well." He took in the guarded expressions of his elders on either side of him with a bitter but also bemused smile.

Suddenly, his visage turned vacant for just a moment as he stared blindly at the swinging door at the far end of the room which led to the kitchen. Then his features darkened into anger, more akin to cold fury, though it was obviously directed elsewhere when he rose from the chair and cursed.

"Thot sorry sonuvabitch," he grounded out through clenched teeth. "I'll kill the bastard." He was drawing his weapon and halfway out of the room before either of them could react.

"Stay here," he commanded over his shoulder as he barreled through the swinging door and into the kitchen.

Mike was on his feet and rifling through the many drawers in the countertops under the cold windows in the next instant. "Check the drawers first," he commanded.

Sam didn't need to be told that they were looking for means to arm themselves with as well. They had only the non-metallic blades hidden in their clothes for defense and he didn't have to be an Irishman to know you didn't bring a knife to a gun fight if you wanted to live long. Given their location, he didn't question Mike's assumption there would be weapons hidden about the room somewhere.

They soon found a couple of Glocks stashed in various crockery in the pantry and armed themselves accordingly. Sam had a momentary flash of disrupting shipments of said pistols amongst other arms from Libya to Ireland back in the day before focusing on moving into the kitchen cautiously enough to not alarm anyone that might be there while not get themselves shot as well.

Fortunately, the kitchen was empty except for their hostess and the quiet dark skinned woman who'd appeared early with the medical supplies.

"War's Sean Michael got off to then?" he asked as casually as he could manage, looking down into the lively green eyes as she gazed up at him from over a pot of Irish stew she was tending to.

"Ack, thot boy o' yars," she tsked as the steam from the cooking wafted gently around her head. "I've tol' him til I'm blue in me face not t'run about wit' a gun."

The pair was not sure whether to be relieved or appalled by her nonchalance.

"Yelled somethin' about needin' t'see Fifi. Well, he cannae go t'the other side jus' like thot."

Before Mike could question her about what she'd meant, there was the muffled sound of gun fire from far off in the distance. Though Sam knew they lacked the necessary intel for the pursuit, there was no stopping his brother in arms as he bolted for the nearest exit in the direction of that sound.

"Ya'll be shot dead if ya don' put those bloody things away!" she called after them, but they were already into the main entrance of the great house as her words echoed behind them.

"Hold up, Mikey!" Sam called, but it was too late. A heavily muscled man carrying a nasty looking assault rifle and wearing an earpiece to finish out his uniform that clearly indicated he was a well paid security guard appeared out of nowhere and had already struck Mr. Westen in the side of the head with the butt of said rifle before the covert operative even had a chance to turn. The dark haired man collapsed on the floor in a heap, the automatic weapon spinning away from his suddenly lifeless fingers.

"Damn, there go my stitches," the ex-SEAL muttered as he raised his hands in surrender, feeling the barrel of an AK-47 compressing his spine. "Excuse me, Bruno, but we really are guests here," he continued as he felt the automatic being taken from his open hand. "I'm hoping there's something in your personnel manual about not shooting unarmed guests in the back, so when I walk over there and take a look at my buddy right now, you're not going to decide to use me for target practice."

Apparently, Mr. Axe was right because neither of them did more than watch cautiously as he knelt by Mike's side, Yep, the stitches were broken, the wound was bleeding again and he was unconscious.

Sam was beginning to suspect it might be better if he stayed that way for a little while.

"Can you guys give me a hand? If you're done capturing us, my friend could use some medical attention now," he called aloud, sincerely hoping that this wouldn't ultimately end with a funeral for either of the McBrides.

Whatever their motivation before, the guards appeared to have gotten confirmation from whomever was on the other end of those earpieces, as they stooped down and lifted the limp form of Michael McBride Westen off the polished marble floor. If he hadn't been to so busy worrying about his best friend, Sam might have taken the time to appreciate the resources that had gone into the opulent entryway.

When he finally had Mike cleaned up, re-stitched and bandaged up in a surprisingly well stocked little infirmary of a room, Sam glimpsed the arrival of a feminine figure in the doorway out of the corner of his eye. Not really looking back at her, the former commander decided maybe it was better if he made a trip to the... what was it they called in here? The en suite?

He was washing his hands and then splashing cold water on his face as he heard her cross the room.

"Ack,wot have they done t'ya?" Her anguish was plain. "Ya poor man."

He heard Mike groan and then croak in a barely audible voice, "Fi?"

"Aye, tis Fifi. Ya rest now. We'll talk later when ya feel better."

His friend had sighed what sounded like an assent and had presumably gone back under.

Sam could no longer contain his raging curiosity and came back into the room. But, he soon found himself stunned speechless for the second time that day when the decidedly young woman looked up at him from her perch on the bedside, her pale features framed by a curtain of long, straight coal black hair and those terribly familiar cobalt blue eyes stared back at him from her delicate face.

"Ya mus' be Sam Axe," she said politely, nodding her head towards him.

The aforementioned was saved the faux pas of not speaking when Sean Michael strode back into the room and stood at her side, his body language screaming "protector" in silent, but no uncertain terms.

"Whar are me manners?" the young man said as he laid a hand on her shoulder. "Sam Axe, this is me twin sister, Claire Michelle."

And Mr. Westen's long time partner suddenly found himself very grateful for a head wound yet again that day because he was certain that would be easier to recover from than what had just transpired and what would be waiting for him when Mike finally regain consciousness.

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A/N: Another apology for the long time between updates and another huge thank you to everyone who has reviewed, fav'd and alerted this tome. I once again find myself grateful to amazing Amanda for her quick BETA skills, equally awesome Purdy's Pal for helping me while I bounced ideas off her in every direction and the utterly incredible Daisy Day for keeeping us laughing every day and much love to CJ for putting up with all my TMI alerts lately and to all the wonderful ladies on Twitter, you know who you are! I am forever grateful to Matt Nix and his brilliance. S6 rulez!