"It is better to understand little than to misunderstand a lot." Anatole France
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Andreani Estate, outside of Kildare, Ireland, December 2015, 15:57 GMT
Sam Axe was famous for talking.
Of course, it was hard to look anything but chatty standing next to Michael Westen, especially these days.
Still, his gift of gab was legendary in intelligence circles, as was his ability to charm male and female alike. So, whether it was bromance or romance that was required to salvage the situation, former Commander Samuel T. Axe was more than capable of resolving it with a wisecrack or the quirk of an eyebrow. He was pretty effective with a right hook, a 2x4 or a semi-automatic weapon, too.
But while Sam might have been legendary for talking, it was actually his skill at listening that made him the intelligence asset and loving Lothario that he was. His ability to get people to open up to him was centered on his ability to not only pay attention to what people were saying, and what they were not saying, but also let the person know that he was actually paying strict attention to whatever they wanted to tell him, which frequently somehow managed to turn into exactly what he wanted to hear from them.
The older man had been using that particular part of his repertoire to its zenith these past few days with the McBride twins and their extended family. What he hadn't expected was that while he had been busy being fascinating and charismatic and steering conversation into avenues of intel gathering, he'd found himself being equally beguiled by his best friend's relatives, particularly his offspring. Sam had chuckled internally and often about who was playing whom.
The one-time navy medic had been concerned, and rightly so, about the number of times Mike's head had undergone percussive maintenance lately. Besides a nasty concussion, Sam had suspected that there was a long overdue case of nervous exhaustion that would probably manifest itself once the head injury had worn off. That meant that he had been at his buddy's bedside, or some close proximity thereto, for the last 72 hours. Amidst the parade of people that came through the room, Sam Axe was the one constant there.
Apparently, whatever had caused Sean Michael's abrupt exit from the kitchen, the matter had not yet been entirely resolved. The young man had come to take his sister away again to deal with whatever circumstances required her attention as well. Based on the looks she'd been shooting her sibling and the brief argument they'd had about her ability to look out for herself and his committing a homicide in her defense, Sam began to wonder how many more jolts he was going to be able to take himself, never mind their father. He'd had bad feeling about who the now deceased "him" in question had been as well.
But his duty as he saw it, and the ex-SEAL was all about duty, had been to stay out of the way and let the big kids handle whatever game was afoot while he'd made sure that Mr. Westen stayed down and rested up. The covert operative needed sleep if he was going to be functional enough not to get one or both of them killed. That Mike had walked, or more accurately sprinted, straight into the ambush that had earned him a rifle butt to the temple had been warning enough that the dark haired man in question had been running too hard for far too long. Even super spy Michael Westen was a human being after all.
When he'd met his best friend's daughter for the first time, her da had picked that moment to try to stir. It hadn't taken an intelligence briefing for the older man to know that particular moment would be a spectacularly bad time for the former Mr. McBride to be informed he had abandoned not one, but two children. Fortunately, his brother in arms had heeded his warning to lay flat and stay asleep right now and the twins had subsequently gotten into an argument that momentarily had diverted them from wanting to have a conversation with their sire. Their departure had been something of a relief to Sam, who had felt nothing but sympathy for his pal right at that moment for what awaited him once awoken.
If he himself had been feeling exhausted from all the bombshells being dropped, then shell shocked wouldn't begin to describe Michael's mental state once he'd been fully apprised of the situation. He'd kept a watchful eye on the prone form, noting that his colleague had actually taken him at his word that it was safe to slumber. Because that's all his associate had done save for the occasional grunt or groan as Sam had roused him enough to make sure that the injured man hadn't slipped into a comatose state unnoticed.
The ex-naval commander had also realized that he too was due for some shut-eye for a couple of hours right before midnight on their first day on the estate. Claire Michelle had resolved his dilemma when she'd floated into the room with a quiet grace that belayed the quick temper she had displayed earlier with her brother and had assured the American that she would keep watch over her father and call him if he was needed.
Mr. Axe had slept longer than he'd meant, but had been grateful for the 80 or so winks, as the next day had seen the fatigued faux Irishman snooze through the entire day, despite the installation of a saline IV and a catheter at some point while Sam had been unconscious in the next room. The raven haired young woman at her father's bedside had then informed their guest that her Uncle Liam, a doctor in his own right, had undertaken those measures in the early morning hours before he'd had to depart to take care of business elsewhere. And since Mike had been unavailable for questioning, the interrogation of Sam Axe had started in earnest that morning.
Sean Michael was nowhere to be seen, but his sibling had more than made up for his absence, pressing his long-time friend for details about where and how he had come to be acquainted with her daddy and what they had been up to since the dark haired man's release from prison. If the older man could have been said to be conversant with tap dancing around the truth, then it could truly be said that the ex-SEAL gave a virtuoso performance that day. Mr. Westen's sole contribution had been to occasionally moan in places where the questions got tough, as if he'd known Sam was floundering, which always drew the young lady's attention back to comforting her da.
During those times, the Irishwoman had talked quietly to her dad then, filling him in on all the things in her life that the man had missed and the touch of Claire's hand and her soft melodic voice had seemed to put his brother from another mother at ease. Looking on as his daughter had carded her fingers through her father's black hair so like her own, tracing lightly over the fresh stitches while she had grasped one large inert paw in her own small hand, almost felt like too much of an intrusion on an intensely private moment. But the exhausted operative's occasional verbal outbursts, small as they were, let the naval medic know that his best friend wasn't in a coma, that there was no further need to rouse him to check and that was a very good thing.
As the day wore on, Claire Michelle had given way to the grand dame of the household, Claire Saoirse Glenanne Sullivan Fitzpatrick O'Donnell, the much married and equally widowed woman, who was her great niece's namesake and sister-in-law to the girl's maternal grandmother, and now just the 'Other Mrs. Glenanne' to all who knew her socially. Having lost all her own children to the Cause, she ferociously defended her deceased brother's offspring and heirs.
Sam had recognized the formidable female force of nature from their encounter in the kitchen with their hostess. This time, she'd also brought toddy for him and another plate of sandwiches. The girl's 'Gran' had refused to take 'no' for an answer until both the conscious people in the room had eaten. Then she had sent the tired and slightly truculent teenager who'd been up all night to bed and brooked no excuse.
The American had the feeling this Mrs. Glenanne had more inside intel than anyone else in the household and would be his best resource on his mission. While he still wanted a long talk with Sean, that particular Irishman had been unavailable until further notice and again Mr. Axe had a sneaking suspicion as to why.
"I remember whot she wa like befer McBride came along," the aged woman had commented, patting his unconscious friend's cheek affectionately, much to Sam's surprise. "They like ta fergit, but our girl wa' headed fer an early grave, so she wa'."
Auntie Claire filled in a number of the blanks as to what was going on in the household without expecting much of a reply in return, as well as letting Sam know her fondness for him personally, and his companion, was not held by all members of the clan. In fact, she was one of their few supporters besides the twins.
"I know McBride wa' doin' whot he thought best fer me girl. I don' fault him fer thot. It wa' nae his fault the whole world wa' conspirin' against ya bringing him home. Jus' steer clear o' Maeve fer now though. Me brother's bride's got some ideas in har head, whot wit' har being wit' Fiona an' the twins most o' the time she wa' in France, thot probably won't do fer someone in his condition right now. She might kill him without meanin' ta… But I'll have t'be mad at ya when she's about, ya know?" she'd added with a conspiratorial wink of her bright green eyes. "Cuz ya have t'stick with yar family, even when thar a bit far afield o' whot's really goin' on."
The former commander had been pleased to get the information he had so desperately needed, but he had at the same time been suspicious that she had given it up so readily. This Mrs. Glenanne's mind was obviously still as vibrant as her bright red hair despite her years, so he'd doubted he'd been putting anything over on her. Then it had dawned on the ex-SEAL that the twins' great aunt clearly had more than adequate intelligence on himself and his associate. As Sam mulled over her answers and the questions she hadn't asked, he had a fairly accurate hunch that this Claire had been the confidante of the number two in command of this other criminal organization they had been pursuing, the one that had apparently finished off their previous foes.
As the skies had darkened outside and their second day on the Andreani estate had come to a close, Sean Michael had made his reappearance. The auburn-haired teenager was almost sullen and a far cry from the spirited, if occasionally subdued, young man that his dad's best friend had met yesterday. He'd informed Sam succinctly that he could go get some shut eye in the next room while he would watch over his father.
The taciturn youth had kept a vigil at his dad's side, sitting on a stool leaning somewhat precariously against the wall by the head of the bed frame, never touching Mike as his sister had. But not once did the teen's gaze stray from the slack profile of his sire as he'd talked quietly to him.
As the older man had watched the father and son, so alike with their shared features and body language, he couldn't help but feel immensely sad for what both of them had lost by never knowing one another. Settling quickly into slumber as only as an ex-SEAL could, Sam had wondered what could possibly happen tomorrow to make this mission any crazier than it already was. Then he'd decided he didn't want to know.
()()()()()()
On the third day, Michael McBride/Westen had not arisen from the dead.
No, his best friend had slept on through the procession of people who dropped by alone and in groups of two or three to visit. Not to say that the dark haired man had been completely still. There'd been enough murmurs and muttering to indicate he might surface from the depths of slumber, as well as occasional stirring when Sam had checked to make sure his injured associate had been clear of the worst of his concussion. But Mike's momentary flirtations with consciousness had quickly passed, much to the disappointment of those assembled when the man at the center of all their attention sank back into the unresponsiveness of long overdue rest.
So, of course, Mr. Axe had then invariably found himself as the center of all their attentions.
The twins had tag-teamed him around mid-day and the vague answers regarding the exact location of Mike's prison and their post incarceration activities, the gist of which being why Daddy hadn't just come the hell home as soon as he was freed, had no longer proved sufficient. As such, Sam had found himself longing to get his hands on Sean Glenanne, especially around the throat, as he'd learned the penitentiary story had been their uncle's doing.
If the duo hadn't been bad enough, the appearance of Maeve O'Keefe Glenanne, who'd subsequently taken over the questioning, had the ex-SEAL mentally calculating exactly how much his insensible friend owed him in recompense for his efforts on the raven haired man's behalf over the last twenty five minutes of cross-examination, never mind the last twenty five years of combat pay earned.
The temperature drop in the small infirmary had been palpable when the small, almost bird-like woman with sharp features and auburn hair shot through with silver had approached the bed and had laid her fiery blue green orbs on her supposed son-in-law and his traveling companion. If Claire Senior could have been said to be an intimidating presence, then the other queen bee of the clan was downright terrifying and justly deserved her status as one of the most dangerous women in the PIRA throughout the Troubles. Sam had no trouble at all envisioning her with an M1 Garand in her grip.
"So ya say thot McBride wa' nae in a cell, but thot he wa' bein' coerced into doin' the biddin' o' those thot we war hidin' fram all those years in France, while he wa' tryin' t'find a way t'get the family outta the country?"
At the conclusion of his explanation for the first eight years of Mr. McBride's absence, Maeve's disbelief had been as plain as the dark scowl on her face. The twins' reaction to the fact their father had not in fact been held in irons while they were living under cover in Marseilles as the Descoteaux family had been even more troubling. Sean Michael had started to bolt, only to have been restrained by the hasty hold of his sister's hand.
"Well, not actually, but mostly that, yes."
The ex-SEAL had fast been running out of maneuvering room. How on the earth was he going to explain why the burned spy had not returned to Ireland following the homicidal actions of their various enemies? So it had been with immense gratitude that he had welcomed the previously quiet 'other Mrs. Glenanne' into the conversation.
"Ya've a talent fer talkin' outta both sides o' yar mouth, Mr. Axe," Auntie Claire had added helpfully, eyebrows arched. "But I think tis best we wait fer Sean t'come back an' then we'll be having the truth."
His buddy's involvement in the matter had been to groan in pain loud and long enough to interrupt the interrogation. That in turn had allowed the head of the current household to shoo the teenagers out of the room with the instruction to find their Uncle Liam. While they were waiting for the eldest surviving Glenanne male to put in an appearance, both the dowager empresses enlightened Sam as to how little they thought of the person purportedly in charge of the family estate and the international criminal organization he ran.
And for that reason, Sam had been indisposed in the en suite when Liam had finally shown up, such that the medical man had subsequently delivered his instructions verbally through the thick wooden door.
"Ya kin give ham sumthin' fer tha pain in a couple o' hours, but check his eyes first and don' mind how much whinin' he does. I've seen ham a feck load worse."
However, as the day had become the evening and his wounded compatriot had roused more frequently, the pain level evident in the dark haired man's low moans said that his colleague was now feeling all the knocks to his head and bumps and bruises on the rest of his body. Finally, Mr. Axe had taken out a pen light and peeled back an eyelid, performing medicine once again under the watchful eye of Sean Michael McBride.
"Just checking your eyes, Mikey… That was quite a whack you took… well, several of them actually," Sam had chuckled as Mr. Westen had tried to avoid the contact. "Looks like you've gotten past the concussion, brother." He'd been relieved to be able to say so. "I think it'll be okay to give you something for the pain now." Sam had administered the injection provided, waiting patiently for the effects to be evident in his companion's visage, and then leaving younger McBride settled once again at the elder's bedside.
"You two play nice while I'm gone," he'd advised with a smirk before gathering another change of clothing that had been left for him and then disappearing into the restroom. When Mr. Axe had returned, cleaner and happier, he'd caught the low words that he'd been certain the teen had not meant for him to hear.
"Why dinnae ya come back, man? Whot wa' so important thot yar family had t'go beggin' t'thot bastid—"
"It wasn't like that," Sam had said softly as he'd approached his best friend's bedside.
Even in the dim light of the room, the ex-SEAL's still sharp sight had been able to spy the mist gathering in those blue green eyes. The emotions responsible for the moisture had mixed there on the young man's face, but had still been evident individually: anger, sorrow, frustration, regret, disappointment, longing…
"Whot wa' it like then? Ya tell me plain, sar, if it's in ya t'do such a thing. If he dinnae go t'prison, how wa' it he couldnae leave? He wa' fightin' against them whot meant t'harm us, or so I've been told me whole life! An' whot am I t' know except whot I've been told and who am I t'believe? Cuz it appears me family's lied t'me and so have-"
"Look, I don't why your family said what they said, but I'm sure they had what they thought were good reasons," Mr. Axe had countered and then had shrugged. "I mean, in their defense, you probably don't have all the pieces to the puzzle to know why, right? All I know, fella, is that your Dad there…" Sam had gestured with his chin towards the prone figure between them. "He left here with every intention of coming back to get your mom and that's all he thought about from the minute he took off was getting back here and lemme tell ya something, son, a lot of good people died trying to help him do just that. Now, I know there's been plenty of victims and villains in this mess. But I can tell one thing for sure, your old man wasn't one of the bad guys."
"Aye…" Sean Michael had sighed heavily before biting his bottom lip so far down that it had disappeared. "So I've been told…" he had repeated, exhaling noisily as he'd rubbed a hand over his brow.
"You were told right, kid, and don't ever forget it. No matter what else he is, your dad's one of the good guys."
()()()()()()()
A very disconcerting sound woke Sam up late the next morning.
It was bad enough that he had overslept and woke up groggy, abandoning his post as it were. More troubling was the fact that apparently someone in the next room was crying. After last night with Sean Michael, the ex-SEAL's own nerves were already on edge over the sorry state of what his colleague had come 'home' to. While he was trying to shake off the stupor of sleep, the most alarming aspect of the lamenting presented itself when he finally realized that it was Mike who was doing it.
Mr. Axe arrived in the infirmary to find Claire Michelle, who had taken her brother's place at some point during the past ten hours, frantically trying to soothe the semi-conscious figure in front of her.
"Oh, dinnae do thot, no... Shhhh…" Anxious hands stroked his buddy's tear-stained face and clasped his hand. "Shhhh…. dinnae weep now. It'll be fine, it'll all be fine."
Those startlingly familiar cobalt blue eyes, bright with gathering wetness and concern, stared straight up into his sympathetic brown ones.
"Whot's wrong with him, Mr. Axe? Why won' he wake up?"
Sam had his own theories about that, but none he cared to share at the moment. As he reached a hand out towards his best friend, the raven haired man let out a deep stuttering gasp and seemed to collapse in on himself, oblivious to the world around him and caught up in his own head once again.
"He's just completely worn out, little missy, and your Dad's taken one too many hits on the noggin lately," the one-time navy medic advised. He circled around the bed and came to stand in back of the young woman, laying a large comforting hand on her shoulder. "But he's going to be fine, I promise."
"Not if Mammy has har way wit' ham," the girl's uncle countered as he came through the doorway.
Having previously missed the doctor in the house during the man's prior visits to change the bags which provided his insensate associate with hydration and removed the byproducts thereof, the former naval commander was duly daunted by the force of threat Mr. Glenanne radiated just by existing. His colleague looked positively relaxed and giddy compared to the Über intensity of his proposed in-laws. Jeez, no wonder Mike's sleeping this one out. I'd rather be on the beach with a blonde holdin' a mojito myself right about now.
"Off with ya, lass," Liam rumbled, stepping into the spot Sam had just vacated behind his niece. "Tis man's work war about now, so thar's a good girl, run along. Tell Gran and tha others thot yar Da'll be up soon."
Claire Michelle looked like she wanted to argue, but wisely held her tongue and did as she was bidden.
As he observed the slightly older man operate from a respectful distance, Mr. Axe was impressed with the skill and the speed with which the PIRA medic had removed the various tubes connected to his associate. After rearranging Mr. Westen's clothing, covering and placing a bandage over the IV site, the Irishman fixed the American with a cold stare that had brought lesser men to their knees.
"I dinnae know whether t'thank ye or kill ye whar ya stand fer bringin' ham back after all this."
"Well, alrighty then," Sam chuckled nervously. "In that case, you're welcome, fella. Hey, what's that you're giving him?" he questioned as Liam loaded a syringe full of another clear liquid.
"Me baby brudder will be along any time now. I suspect ya'll both be wantin' a word wit' ham."
Sam was going to take his opportunity to question Mr. Glenanne privately prior to lighting into his younger brother. However, before he could finish crossing the distance between them, the man's flame haired older but not elderly aunt bustled in and grabbed the ex-SEAL firmly by the forearm.
"Come along then," she commanded. "I've a fish pie jus' fer ya fresh outta the oven. Tis always best when it's first hot." She looked from her nephew, to Mike and then back to him. "Nothin' gonna happen t'yar mate thar whilst yer havin' a meal."
And that was how it came to be that Sam was tucking into a mighty fine piece of home cooking that he'd reminisced fondly about to Claire Glenanne a few days ago, from back in his time stationed in London between special forces missions, when Michael Westen staggered into the pantry, looking dazed and confused and plenty worse for the wear.
()()()()()()()()()
Sam Axe let loose with one of the first hearty belly laughs that had left his lips in what seemed like ages when the white ceramic dish, fork and napkin were placed upon the table.
"Oh yeah! Now that is how fish pie is supposed to taste," the ex-commander declared after savoring the first bite of correctly cooked cod swimming in a cream sauce under waves of delectable mashed potatoes.
Auntie Claire smiled as he continued to chew with a look of bliss on his face. It had been decades since he'd had this particular delicacy and even longer since he had the privilege of having it made properly. For all that Mike's in-laws were a crew of crazies, they definitely knew how to cook.
"Oh, yeah, this is what I'm talkin' about, my compliments to the chef."
"Chef?" she snorted. "I'm jus' an old country cook, so I am."
"You are a woman of many talents, Nan." He guffawed again, realizing what he had just called her. She so thoroughly reminding of his own maternal grandmother, who ran the Wisconsin family dairy farm where he spent his youthful summers with an iron fist firmly tucked in a velvet glove, that it was hard not to.
"Aye, thot I am. Ya'd do well t'remember thot, Mr. Axe."
Mrs. Glenanne treated him to a hard stare, reminding the ex-SEAL of who she could be if she needed to. But then a sly smile graced her face and a merry twinkle entered into those bright green eyes. "Tis 'Gran' they call me about this place, sar, though I'm nae sure ya've earned thot privilege yet."
Sam chucked again and then closed his eyes, inhaling deeply the heady aroma wafting up from the dish.
They were back in the place where they had first come to, where he'd occasionally taken his meals. Sitting at the head of the long pine table opposite his hostess, in what he had learned they referred to as "the pantry," Mr. Axe was preparing to scoop up another bite when the doors near the entryway opened and Sean sauntered in wearing a snow covered anorak.
"So, the shite has well and truly hit the fan now, hasn't it?" the Irishman remarked, shrugging out of the heavy coat to hang it on a hook. "Me phone's fair exploded from all the texts and messages."
"Ya might try answerin' it every now and ag'in, lad," the elderly woman retorted. "Come an' have a seat. Our guest has been waitin' t'have a word with ya fer days now."
"Whar's Mikey boy then?" Sean queried as he took the seat his aunt had just vacated in order to serve up another slice of lunch for the new arrival.
"Sleeping off another concussion," the ex-SEAL advised in a clipped tone. "And what the hell was the idea of dumping us out at Armand's house and then disappearing on us for four days?"
"I've been running around like a blue arse fly, thot's whot, not thot tis any o' yar business."
"How's that, pal? That's a fine way to thank the man who saved your life. Oh, and while we're playing twenty questions, what the hell did you think you were doing telling everyone Mike was in jail? Do you have any idea how much trouble—"
"And d'ya have any idea whot hell it wa' tryin' t'keep her from chasing across the Atlantic after ham? Not thot it did me any good t'try. She still went over thar and got herself burnt alive!"
"Thot's enough outta the pair o' ya now," Claire ordered in a firm voice as she put a shallow bowl filled with delectable fish in front of her youngest nephew. "Let the man eat and ya do the same."
While the food was still beyond good, the brief argument with Mike's one time asset had spoiled the mood. Sam searched his brain for a way to get the conversation back on track and get some answers.
"Look, fella, all I know is the people Mike has been trying to get out from under for the last seven years have all disappeared and it looks like the guy whose kitchen we're all sitting in was responsible."
"Ya don' know the half o' it," Sean declared as his auntie set drinks down in front of the both of them.
"Damn straight, skippy, that's why we're here."
"Whot happened t'McBride?"
"He had another hit to the head with a rifle butt after you ran off and left us out in the snow."
"Well, I bloody well saved both yar lives. I meant fer McBride t'have a word wit' his family befer havin' a go with thot bastid Andreani. Except I come t'find thot Armand wa' planning on killin' the pair o' ya befer it wa' all said and done. Truth be told, Sean Michael is the real reason war all still breathin' now."
"Whoa, whoa, hold on there, pal. Why would Armand finish off the people who were trying to kill us just to whack us the minute we got here?"
"I suspect he wa' plannin' on gloatin' a bit first. Truly, it wa' his ego thot got the sonuvabitch killed."
"Aye, our boy went straight t'ninety when he found out whot wa' goin' on," Mrs. Glenanne added.
"Sean Michael shot and killed Armand Andreani… what, four days ago?" Sam asked directly.
"Aye," the woman on Sam's right confirmed. "The lad always seems t'know when sumthin' is going on, so he does. He went off like a volcano when his sister had gone t'have words with Mr. Andreani…" She spat his name out like a curse. "Over whot he wa' planning t'do and the nobber tried t'have his way wit' our girl."
Fair enough… Sam could easily see what probably had happened under those circumstances. But that didn't explain the young Irishman's other activities. "Just like he blew up Thomas O'Neil?" he pressed.
Sean snorted. "O'Neil had it comin' and thar's no one t'say otherwise. If the ass hadn't tried outing McBride t' his son, he might still be breathing. But the wanker never did know when t'shut his gob. "
"Lemme get this straight, Armand Andreani was the one that kept tipping off—"
"Now yar suckin' diesel, man; thot devil himself wa' behind the whole blasted thing. Every blessed time I stuck me head out t'find McBride, thot fooker would make a call and someone would come t'shoot it off, jus' like O'Neil did."
"But he was hiding the kids out in France under assumed names and then, after Mike was burned, he brought them all back here to live in his house under his name? Why would he do that if-"
Mr. Axe knew the confusion was plain on his face from the looks his hosts were giving him.
"He wanted Fi fer himself and the wee ones, too," Claire explained. "But he couldnae do it openly. We came t'suspect, but we dinnae know fer certain back then, thot he wa' the reason behind all o' it."
"He wa' always thar, offerin' t'lend a helpin' hand wit' our troubles, except he wa' causing most o' the trouble, the bloody wretch," Mr. Glenanne concluded. "Thot's why he wa' also using whoever McBride had pissed off back in his spy days t'keep ham fram comin' home. Once O'Neil'd outed him, Mike couldnae jus' come back and I'm guessin' those other bastids ya war hunting had the pair o' ya tied up thar as well."
"But why lie to the kids and tell them their dad was in jail?"
"D'ya take me fer, a squealer? Whot wa' I supposed t'tell 'em, boyo? Ya keep blatherin' on about the truth. Well, the truth wa' thot he wa' a damned spy. Tis no matter thot he come har t'help us put down the Real IRA and put 'em outta business. Jayzuz, yer thick! D'ya want me t'tell them thot?"
The sound of the door that went out into the kitchen swiftly swinging back shut was the only sign that Sean's declaration of his friend's true profession had been overheard by ears that ought not to have.
"Ack, Mother Mary and all the saints preserve us. We'd best pull our socks up then," Auntie Claire sighed. "He's off to the other side, so he is, and the lad's not gonna be satisfied 'til he's heard it all."
"Why is Sean Michael running like the hounds o' hell be on his heels?" Maeve inquired as she ambled through the entryway that her grandson had just flown out of, worry etching another line in her face.
"Yar boy har has gone and let the cat outta the bag," her flare haired sister-in-law answered with a jerk of her head towards her youngest son.
"Sean Connor Glenanne, whot have ya done now?" his mother barked while hanging up her own coat.
Sam quickly shoveled a large spoonful of his swiftly cooling his treat in his mouth and chewed happily while all the negative attention was off him for the moment.
The man in question let out a sharp exhalation of frustrated breath. "Whot I always do, feck it all up!"
"Ack, Sean boy, thar's plenty o' blame t'go around and many hands thot made a right hayms o' it. I—"
Claire stopped talking mid-sentence when the other door into the pantry, the one that led back into the massive mansion, eased open and four sets of eyes fixed upon the figure that appeared in the entrance.
"By all thot's holy, thar's the chief architect o' all this mess!"
The tiny woman charged towards the disheveled man, whose coal black hair was sticking up at odd angles from a massive case of bed head and whose dark heavy clothing was wrinkled and bunched up in weird places, before Sam could get up from his hard bench seat tucked under the pantry table.
"Michael McBride," she growled low, her expression and her body language screaming bloody murder. "Tis a long time I've been wantin' and waitin' t'get me hands on ya."
Sam and Claire both were hustling across the enormous space with Sean in their wake, the former Navy man almost skidding to a stop in his haste to lay hands himself on his long time compatriot, who was staggering under the antipathy of the incensed grandmother.
"Whot kind o' man goes off and abandons his family t'the likes of Armand Andreani t'care fer them? Whar in the name o' the blessed virgin have ya been, man? D'ya have any idea at all whot's happen t'har while ya've been off doin' Lord knows whot only God himself knows whar all these years?"
"Okay, Mikey, let's take a seat there, brother," Sam suggested, getting between the combatants and maneuvering the dazed man away from the Irish assault battalion.
"Ack, Maeve, go easy on ham fer a moment, will ya? Thar'll be plenty o' time t'teach ham the error o' his ways. But ya cannae kill him before he gets a chance t'see—"
"Fi…?" His best friend breathed out the question with a trembling voice made rougher from disuse.
The older American recognized immediately who the female form at at the far end of the room was, but he also knew what Mike thought he was seeing: decades of dreaming fulfilled right before his watery eyes.
As the hood was thrown back from the anorak and the slender fingers undid the fasteners, Sam felt the tremor that ran through his associate's body. When at last the coal black hair was freed from the woolen cap and those looking-in-a-mirror cobalt blue eyes made contact, he heard the ragged gasp that tore from Mr. Westen's lips.
Sam sensed his own eyes welling up as his buddy took two cautious steps forward before Claire Michelle had flown across the distance between father and daughter and enveloped her shaking sire in a tight bear hug. Mike wrapped his own arms around the teenager, pressing his cheek to the top of her head and then both were crying, water flowing freely from lids squeezed shut and running down both their faces. It was all the other three people in the room could do to keep from joining in.
"I'm so sorry…" his brother in arms whispered into the girl's raven hair, repeating the apology again and again like a prayer of repentance, swaying slightly as they held onto one another for support.
Time seemed to stand still within that place, as the warmth of the moment belayed the cold in the air and the frigid temperatures outside the tall windows, where the snow was falling gently to the ground. But, as with all good things, that precious moment came to end and, as with all things Glenanne, that ending was abrupt and violent.
The young woman was reaching up to wipe the tears from her dad's face while his large hands were thumbing the moisture from hers, those exactly the same orbs locked together in fascination and adoration when the wooden door at the far end of the prep kitchen flew open, slamming against the wall with bang that made them all jump involuntarily and zero in on the potential threat.
Sean Michael McBride came barreling through, striding across the hard floor like a man on a mission. But Mike was too overcome by the tidal wave of emotion crashing through him to read his offspring's intent, which was plain as day to all the other adults present. Nonetheless, his son still managed to land a particularly vicious sucker punch to his dad's stomach before anyone else could prevent it.
"Ya sonuvabitch!" the teenager screamed at the doubled over form of his long lost father. "It wa' true! Every fookin' word thot bastid said wa' true! I killed a man fer tellin' me the truth about ya!"
Unfortunately for him, Sean got careless as he hurriedly approached his namesake with the intent of intervening in the attack. The enraged youth got off an upper cut to the jaw that snapped the older Irishman's head back hard. As he turned to resume exacting his retribution upon his elder with his knuckles, Sam caught the fist that was aimed at his best buddy's head in his own meaty hand. But before the former naval commander could do more than start to utter a warning to the young man, Sean Michael's sister slapped him so hard across the face it was that teen's turn to be blind-sided.
"Don' ya dare lay a hand t'him, ya idjit! Ya don' know whot—" Claire Michelle shrieked.
"THOT'S ENOUGH!" thundered the matriarch of the clan. "Stop acting the maggot, the lot o' ya! Now, all o' ya will be sittin' down quietly at thot table or I'll be knowing the reason why! MOVE!"
Even Mr. Axe found himself obeying the flame haired woman with the suddenly flaring temper. He helped Mike to his feet and eased him onto the end of the bench where the remainder of his now nearly cold repast had sat awaiting him. Pushing the dish aside with a gentle swipe of his hand, Sam left space for his friend to prop his elbows onto the flat wooden surface and rest his dark head in his hands while the former medic checked to make sure all the stitches were still intact and healing up.
Maeve had separated the twins and Sean had come to his senses enough to take hold of his niece while his mother had taken charge of her grandson, settling the boy down opposite them at the table. The girl came to sit next to her dad and then her uncle moved toward the head of the table where Claire Glenanne was glaring all the participants in the domestic drama, daring them to start up again.
"Thot's better," she announced, somehow managing to stare down at all of them despite her relatively short stature. "We'll be having the tale told now by him whot's been in the middle o' all this."
And Sam fixed his eyes on the man behind her, as did the remainder of the group while Mike continued to keep his face buried behind his spread fingers as he fought off the nausea that the ex-SEAL knew for a fact would have come from being gut punched.
"McBride thar, he wa' a spy," Mr. Glenanne admitted bluntly, but continued quickly before any of his audience could interrupt. "But he warn't har workin' against us, he wa' har t'help stop bastids like O'Neil an' the rest of the Real IRA fram destroyin' the peace process and startin' another thirty years o' bloody carnage and he saved me sister…" Sean choked up momentarily whilst Mike stifled a sob with only partial success. "He saved har and I know thot he loved me sister with all thot he wa', else I woulda killed ham fer sure once I knew whot he wa'. McBride only left yar mammy t'try to go an' get permission t'take har wit' ham outta Ireland, an' away from all killing and the violence, and I know it broke his heart t'go."
Claire Michelle laid an arm around her dad's shaking shoulders. "I know ya dinnae want t'go and leave har."
"I'm sorry," Mr. Westen whispered, finally raising his head, his red rimmed eyes looking directly his son's, which were brimming with hot tears and hotter emotions.
"Whot wa' thot?" Sean Michael demanded. "D'ya think ya can jus' say 'sorry' and it's all fine then?"
Sam watched with growing sympathy as the man on his right struggled to do the hardest thing that Michael Westen could ever be asked to do.
"It's nae like thot," his sister countered, locking gazes with her brother across the table, the imprint of her hand glowing red on her sibling's cheek. "He wa' doin' whot he had t'do. Listen t'me—"
"No, ya listen!" he shouted his twin down. "Ya've never killed a man in cold blood! Ya don' know—"
"I do," their father confessed, interrupting their argument. "Many times over, it's something that changes you…. It never leaves you. Sometimes…sometimes I can still hear them scream…"
Sam looked in amazement at the haggard profile of his friend as the man swallowed thickly and then drew in a harsh breath. They were both military men, the both knew the price such actions exacted from the people performing them. But he'd never heard Mike discuss such things openly and certainly not without a lot of alcohol as the catalyst. In fact, this was the most he'd ever heard from him on this particular subject.
"Well, ta much fer helpin' me learn thot lesson, da!" his offspring sniped, his attention on his sire again. "So, ya expect me t'fergive ya, jus' like thot then, while yar sitting thar talkin' like yar English masters and-"
"No... no, I don't… I'm not going to insult you by pretending to be Irish when you know I'm not and I'm not going to pretend that ten thousand life times is enough to make up for what I've done…."
"No, no, don' say thot. It wa' nae yar fault…" Claire Michelle countered softly, taking his hand with her free one.
"No, he's right," Mike told his daughter plainly, his voice almost cracking. "I did what I came here to do, but I left with one mission and that was to get Fi… your mom… out of Ireland and I failed miserably."
"Hey, Mikey, it wasn't like you—"
"No, Sam, it doesn't matter that Fiona and I had enough enemies to choke every horse on this property." The dark haired man looked from the man on his left to the angry young man and his grandmother across the table. "It doesn't matter that I was trying to protect them by not coming home until every one of those enemies was dead or disabled."
The ex-SEAL laid a hand on his shoulder as Mike fought to get his emotions under control. The hostile faces opposite them did not soften while the ex-spy worked hard not to break down as he professed his guilt. Sam knew that the people surrounding them had no clue how extraordinary this event was or how little his colleague spoke of anything that wasn't tactical. Especially anything that had to do with his feelings.
"What matters is that I wasn't here… and there's nothing I can ever to do make that right…"
"Hey, hey, easy there, brother," the older man counseled, turning his gaze from his buddy to scan the stares of the other members of the clan assembled around them. "He's right, guys. That organization that we've been fighting, that pack of assholes who thought they could run the world from their cushy offices, they had their sights on you, all of you… that was the reason you were hiding out in France, remember? That's the reason we hadda take them down and that's the reason he wasn't here. He couldn't lead them straight to your doorstep. And that's the reason your mom agreed to—"
"Thot wa' me own fault," Sean interjected. "I lied t'her, t'me own sister, t'keep her from chasin' after yar da. Cuz she had the pair o' ya t'worry about. Cuz every bastid on this island fram O'Neil on down wa' lookin' t'hurt ya, t'use ya against yar mammy and ya both know whot happened t'her when she did go after yar da. She wa'—" It was Sean's turn to be unable to finish, choking on his words as a lone tear broke free.
"No one wanted whot happened, me loves," Auntie Claire said quietly. "Whether they balloxed it up or nae, they war only tryin' t'protect ya. Come on, then…" The matriarch took Sean Michael by the elbow and pulled him to his feet, gesturing with a nod of her head for Mr. Westen to get up as well. "Whot ever happened yesterday tis in the past an' ya cannae change it. Yar da is finally home now, boy, and ya can beat the shite outta each other if thot's whot the pair o' ya want t'do, but ya'll do it tomorrow."
She looked up expectantly at father and son before taking a step back, causing Sean to back up as well. As both their bottom lips disappeared simultaneously under their teeth, both the Claire's laughed lightly at the mirror expressions of discomfort. Mike held out his right hand slowly, but his son hesitated to take it and that truly didn't satisfy his daughter.
"Tis a good thing Mammy's nae har t'see this," the dark haired young woman stated, leaving her seat and taking them both into her arms, forcing them together. "She'd kick both yar arses."
Sam could see the effect that the mention of his long lost love had on his companion. Choking back a sob, Mike wrapped his arms around his two children, the girl accepting the embrace, the boy fighting it momentarily before surrendering as well. Soft sniffles from the trio echoed in the suddenly quiet space.
"D'ya want t'go an' see Mammy now?" Claire Michelle asked when her father finally released his hold on them to swipe away the salt water from his eyes. "She's just on the other side."
He gave her a very sad smile and nodded, still chewing his lips and trying to get a handle on himself. Sam felt the weight of Mike's world settle on his own heart, empathizing with the loss the man obviously felt.
"Ya have a lot t'talk about," Auntie Claire said sagely. "We'll see t'it thot yer not disturbed."
There was slightly puzzled look in those bloodshot blue eyes as his associate stared out of the window at the snow, which was now falling heavier than before. "I guess I'll be needing a coat at the least if I'm going to be out there for any length of time."
"Out whar, man?" Sean chimed in.
"The apple grove… isn't that where the marker is?"
"Whar the marker is—? D'ya think she wa' buried out thar? D'ya nae hear me before, boyo? Armand put thot thing thar in the garden when she went t'Miami t'fetch ya back. She wouldnae let me take it up once she took up workin' fer thot bastid again. She's on the other side."
"The other side?" the ex-spy echoed, his confusion plain. Sam could almost hear the gears grinding while the dark haired man tried to make sense of what he was being told.
"The other side o' the compound…? This is our side har, whar we live, thot's the other side whar the business is done and nae the twain shall meet. I thought ya war some sort o' master spy and ya don' know about nae mixin' business wit' yar family home?"
"Fi's over there… in Armand's business offices… right now?" he stammered.
"Jayzuz, McBride, yer thicker than I remembered. Let's go."
Sam sat down heavily on the bench, several of the pieces of the puzzle coming together at once, as Mike moved hesitantly at first, but quickly picking up speed and urgency, following Sean towards the door to his future. The ex-SEAL stared blankly at his cold supper before his hostess removed the dish, calling over her shoulder for everyone to sit down while she served up some warm food and hot drink.
"Well, I guess yar Da is har t'stay this time," Maeve said on a sigh, looking from one grandchild to the other. "And ya, sar," she continued, turning her eagle eyes upon the lone American at the table. "Whot will ya be doing now thot McBride has come home?"
And Sam Axe, a man famous around the world for talking, had absolutely no idea what to say.
()()()()()()()()()()
A/N: Multiple mea culpa's are in order for letting this hang so long! There's a reason I do series of one-shots and not chapter stories! Thank you to everyone who follows or fav'd this story for your patience and welcome to some of the new readers. I will make every effort to finish this in a timely manner now. There are only two chapters left to go, so hopefully it will be completed well before 2014 ends =)
A quick shout out to ObsidianEmpress for consulting on the disgruntled teenager character of Sean Michael and providing some of his best lines. I forgot to do this in Chapter 7, so I must do it now or suffer her eternal wrath (kidding… sort of ~LOL). Much love to lovely PCC ladies and my continual and never ending gratitude to everyone who takes time to read as well as review. Writers live on feedback, so it is much appreciated. A special shout out to my writing partner and the other half of Jedi Pal, the incredible Purdy's Pal who has helped with all the intel on all things Irish in all stories, mine and ours!
Speaking of Jedi's Pal, starting on June 12th, when we should have had a Season 8, our next series, Life with Larry, the inside scoop on all things Larry Sizemore, will premiere after #burnnoticeclub at 10 PM and post regularly in that time slot until mid-season break. If any of you don't know what #burnnoticeclub is, there are #burners watching DVD's (or Netflix) and live tweeting starting at 9PM Eastern time every Thursday. This Thursday we will be watching Long Way Back. Check out Storify by Jane Grafham to see what fun we have!