A/N: Thank you to everyone for their patience in waiting for this chapter as well as the next installment of Life with Larry, which will be posted as usual on Thursday after #BurnerClub.
Real Life has been a little too intense, though nowhere near as bad as it is for our hero. Michael is in such a terrible place with his mentor in that chapter that we both need a breath of fresh air before continuing to work on that very dark and intense story in Serbia.
So, once again we thank you all for the favorites, follows, reading and reviewing of our efforts. As the forces working against our star crossed lovers continue to gather, can they find a moment of peace and rest in their little cottage hideout in the Irish countryside?
BE BRAVE LITTLE ANGEL
Chapter Five
Tom Card's jaw ached from maintaining a professional smile for so many hours at a time, especially after so little sleep. His head pounded with an excruciating pain coming from behind his eyes after having to spend a whole morning in the company of British politicians and civil servants. He remembered now why he'd let Raines talk him into coming out of the field and becoming a training officer so soon after starting his career at the Company.
"If there is any justice in this world, those bureaucrats in Whitehall and particularly those residing inside the Ministry of Defense will find a special place in hell reserved for just for them when they get to the other side," the senior agent had silently raged. Thoughts of speeding them on their journey to the afterlife followed soon thereafter. It was probably a really good thing he hadn't been armed.
From his early morning arrival at London/Heathrow Airport, he had been whisked straight through passport control by two agents from the US Embassy and taken back to the secret facility that the Agency maintained below said embassy to check in and freshen up. Then promptly at nine AM, Tom Card had been chauffeured to the Parliament buildings to speak with several high ranking officials in the Ministry of Defense. He had been joined at the meeting by an aide to the US Ambassador, whom he'd hoped had been there to add some weight to his request to run the search for his former star pupil personally.
Jack Kovich, the ambassador's aide, had in fact been no help whatsoever. The young man, who was making his way up the diplomatic ladder, had stuck to the official US State Department line, which unfortunately followed exactly the same line as British policy. As a result, he'd found himself facing something more akin to an inquisition than an exchange of information with a friendly government. With everyone looking for someone to blame, the US intelligence officer had certainly felt there was a bulls-eye painted on his back.
"Prime Minister Blair places great importance on a lasting peace in Northern Ireland. He sees it as his legacy, to achieve something no other Prime Minister has managed," the Home Secretary had informed him bluntly.
This had been followed by the Secretary of State for Northern Ireland adding, "The process is at a critical stage. The Provisional IRA has agreed to talks regarding disarmament. This is a very big step. You have no idea, sir, how much time has gone into coming to an agreement which all sides can sell to their supporters. So you see, we cannot allow one rogue CIA operative to put all our work at risk." The middle aged woman had smiled primly at him, her mouth set in a firm line and he could tell that the peace process was just as important to her as it was to the Prime Minister.
Then they had then settled down to quizzing him about his agent's motives for refusing to follow an order to end the assignment. They had Richard Chambers' reports, mission briefs and Michael's communication logs. Over cups of tea and biscuits, as they'd insisted on calling the selection of cookies that appeared on a silver tray positioned in the middle of the table, the questions had flowed fast on the subject of Michael Westen, CIA spy.
At the end of several hours of being forced to defend the training and moral fortitude of CIA operatives in general and his former protégée in particular, the two senior members of the PM Cabinet office had gotten to their feet and, after shaking his hand firmly to emphasize their displeasure with the whole sordid affair, they had left him in the company of three men who had only been introduced to him as MoD officials.
"Mr. Card, my name is Mason Gilroy."
Agent Card shivered again, as he remembered when the young man with cold dead eyes dressed in an immaculate Versace suit had stepped forward. Gilroy was fast becoming a living legend. He had been a professional spy. He was now a freelance assassin who could be working for Russia one week and some South American despot the next. "I've been called into assist in the hunt for your missing operative."
It had been all he could do to keep the smile on his face. What the hell were the Brits up to lending him the services of such a notorious wet work specialist?
"Pleased to have you on board, Mr. Gilroy," he greeted the man, even though he was far from pleased at the thought of having the assassin following him around. "I have some other business to attend to and then I'll be heading back to Belfast tomorrow morning. So, I'll see you there." The urge to turn and run out of the room had been almost overwhelming.
"Wouldn't miss it for the world, old man," Gilroy's reply had floated after him as he made his way briskly along the corridor, breathing a sigh of relief to be away from the man.
Looking over at Kovich, who was accompanying him back to the US Embassy, Card didn't have to wonder why on earth the young man was following him around. He knew perfectly well it was to report back to the State Department that he was following the company line.
One other thing he was sure of. If the Brits were bringing in a killer of Gilroy's repute, it had to mean that back home in Langley, they were getting ready to burn the man who'd been at the top of his class. The sandy haired man sighed. This was exactly what he had been trying to prevent when he'd jumped on a last minute flight to the Emerald Isle.
"Mr. Card..." Kovich held up his phone. "I've just gotten a call. Your guest has arrived from Moscow. She's being held in a secure room, waiting for you."
Finally, some good news... If he could get Samantha Keyes on his side, he just might be able to extricate Michael from the hole he had dug himself into before Mason Gilroy and all the other people competing to kill him got a chance to put a bullet into the soon-to-be former agent. If making the rogue spy see sense and straightening out this sorry situation got him his promotion into Operations, then he'd consider this pigscrew of a predicament worth it. Otherwise, he'd have to see to it that Mr. Westen's failures did not reflect on him.
()()()()()
It was mid-afternoon before Fiona began to slowly surface from a deep sleep. Still feeling the fatigue caused by a night on the run, she snuggled down under the blankets covering her body and willed herself to ignore the call of her bladder to climb out from the warmth and face what was left of the day.
She was so damned tired... Staying up all night never used to affect her like this, leaving her exhausted and weak. Memories of the previous night crept into her mind and, without conscious thought, her right hand slid down from where it had been resting under her pillow to settle over her belly. She was pregnant, on the run from her family, with a man she barely knew and a telephone book sized list of enemies. To add to her misery, Ms. Glenanne remembered clearly how she had not only pointed a gun at her brother, she had sent a warning shot close to his feet and then disabled his car.
Her blue-green eyes flew open as Fiona fought against a rising tide of nausea, which was not only caused by her new found status as a mother to be, but also as every fiber of her body and soul railed against what she had done. The Irishwoman had turned her back on her family for the love of an American spy and the baby she was carrying. Amongst the PIRA, she would be considered no different than the touts who informed to the British or the constabulary and she could expect to be treated exactly the in the same manner.
A shiver ran up and down her spine and the young woman turned to her lover. Rolling over under the covers, she reached out for the touch of the man she had sacrificed so much to be with. Only he was gone, the sheets were cold and the pillow showing only the barest signs of an indentation. Sitting up, the still lithe lass looked about, her heart beating faster in her chest as her normally logical mind went off at a wild tangent, feeding into her fears that one day Michael Westen would abandon her.
Clearing her throat, she called out. "Michael...?"
"I'm here, Fi." His voice floated out from just outside the bedroom door.
Slipping on her boots, the tousle haired redhead found her man on the small landing at the top of the stairs staring out of the window, his gaze fixed on the road and the fields beyond the cottage's overgrown perimeter.
"Hey..." she breathed softly and stepped up to his side. Standing on her tiptoes, she kissed his stubble covered cheek. "Could ya nae sleep?"
"I got two or three hours..." He slipped an arm around her waist to hold her close to his side while his lips brushed against her forehead.
"Thot isn't enough. Ya should try ta rest." Even as she spoke, she could tell he was barely hearing her, all his concentration on the peaceful view out of the cracked pane of the dirt encrusted window.
"Wa're safe har." Reaching up, Fiona cupped his cheek and drew his face around until she had his full attention. "It's safe, we made it safe, remember? An' Am not tha only one who needs ta rest."
"I'm fine, Fi." Michael smiled back at her. But it was a poor effort if he was trying to convince her all was well and it did absolutely nothing to hide how tired he really was.
"Give me a minute..." She looked over the bathroom, her bladder suddenly reminding her of the reason she had woke up in the first place. "While I freshen up."
Finding the stopcock under the old sink and switching the water back on had been a risk they had both agreed was worth taking. Luckily, the pipes in the dilapidated cottage were sound and, though the water was most likely unfit to drink, it did mean they had water to wash in and a working toilet.
When she returned several minutes later, the former spy was exactly where she'd left him, staring moodily out of the window, so lost in his own thoughts he didn't even acknowledge her presence back at his side.
McBride would have swept her up in his arms or slammed her back against the wall. Her Irish lover would have been ravishing her lips and throat with kisses and had her half naked in the blink of an eye.
The fiery former terrorist sighed, her fingers reaching for the shell of her wild Kilkenny lad before her hand dropped back to her side. It was just now becoming clear to her that even after she had discovered his true identity, the real Michael Westen had still hidden himself behind the persona of Michael McBride.
In a fit of pique, she kicked his ankle hard enough to draw a yelp.
"Come wit' me," she demanded and then, when he didn't move, she caught hold of his hand and pulled him towards the bedroom. "I said, come wit' me."
"Fi, somebody has to keep-"
"Wa've put trip wires on all tha doors." Fiona tugged harder on his arm when he resisted. "And ya recall tha windows ar' all nailed shut... We also have an escape route outta tha skylight in tha bathroom." As soon as she had him where she wanted him, the little Irish minx tilted her hip and threw her lover onto the bed.
Then, before he could react, she pounced upon Michael, landing astride his thighs with her hands pushing down on his chest to keep him pinned.
"Ya need ta relax." She paused, waiting for a response. But when he remained still, she sat up while her fingers reached for the buttons on his shirt. "An' I can think o' only one way ta make sure ya get relaxed enough ta get some sleep."
"Fi, no…" His hands settled over hers. "We can't-"
Shifting awkwardly, Michael managed to sit up and stop the flame haired siren above him ruining another shirt. "I – er, I mean, we..."
Ms. Glenanne stared back at him, watching his expression, confused at his refusal to blow off some steam. He gave her a half smile and changed his grip on her hands, so he could stroke a work hardened palm over her cheek.
"We have to stay alert and be ready to move at any moment. If we -"
"It never stopped ya befer." She tilted her head to the side, a pout forming on her lips. "I can name maybe a dozen time thot ya -"
He blushed and dropped his eyes and all she could think was this cold logical man wasn't McBride nor was he the Michael Westen she had known for the past ten months.
"That was different. That was - well, you know what it was... But we're not just being chased by an army patrol or even the RUC. Everybody is coming for us now and they'll be coming at us with everything they've got."
She kissed him, kissed the words away, pressing her tongue against his teeth to stop the things flowing out of his mouth. Her fingernails racked across his scalp as his arms finally folded around her. She knew what was wrong. He was worried by everything they faced.
Well, she would be too except one thing she had learned from a lifetime under the threat of violence and death was you had to grab what you could and have no regrets, no worries.
"Wa're safe," she gasped when they broke the kiss, her hands ghosting over his cheeks and throat before rubbing over the front of his shirt. "Wa're safe an wa're free and, right now, nobody knows wa're here."
They tumbled back onto the mattress with their limbs entwined and lips locked in a passionate kiss. For a short while, they lost themselves in the heat of the moment, strengthening their bonds of love. They might not have known one another very long, but from the first time they had come together on the dance floor that night in Belfast, from the first time they had kissed, each of their hearts had recognized the other as its missing half.
"Could ya nae take it easy on me clothes, luv?" he whispered as their mouths parted and her hands reached for the front of his garment. She smiled to see the light of McBride's good humor come alive in Michael Westen's eyes. "I dinnae bring thot many shirts wit' me."
So, shirt buttons survived strong slender fingers and a pale blue woolen jumper and the bra underneath were merely pushed out of the way this time in an effort to reach the bare skin underneath. Michael might have refused to completely lose his trousers and Fiona thought him daft if his idea that her jeans being twisted about her ankles and boots was any safer than just taking them off. But they still managed to make love nonetheless, despite the extra entanglements of their normally discarded clothing. If it gave her lover enough peace of mind to relax so that they could come together in the quiet of their cottage hideaway, safe for the moment from the forces outside bend on their capture, then so be it.
()()()()()
Maeve Glenanne watched the last of her children drive away from her home, on their way back to their own homes in an effort to show the world that nothing was wrong. The tiny birdlike woman closed the large oak door and slipped all the locks into place. For a moment, she stood with one slender hand on the polished wood. How had it come to this?
Refusing to let the strange mixture of sadness and cold fury overtake her, the elderly matron made her way back to the large farmhouse kitchen where earlier that day her eldest son had sat her down and had then torn her heart out of her chest.
Where had they gone wrong?
Fiona had always been her daddy's girl and hadn't she joined Sean to lead the troopers who had killed their eldest brother into a trap for Liam to exact revenge? Tha girl knew tha rules... She knew har fate fer loving tha wrong man... She coulda had har pick o' partners.
Maeve picked up the kettle, intending to fill it with water, and then changed her mind. Instead of a soothing cup of tea, she reached up into one of the wall cabinets and placed a half full bottle of Wild Geese classic blend Irish whiskey on the long wooden table that had pride of place in the kitchen. Sitting down at that table, she poured herself a triple...
Tha lass had never been one ta take tha easy path. Fiona wa' ferever gettin' harself inta difficulties wit' har head strong ways. But this… this wa' close ta breaking har family's heart.
Lifting the tumbler, she stared morosely at the amber liquid. When her beloved husband Patrick had died in prison, she had held herself together with hatred and the burning desire for revenge. She had stood side by side with Liam as he built the bomb that her oldest son Patrick Jr had delivered to the gates of Long Kesh Gaol.
Then when her oldest boy had been murdered by the British, who had broken into her house and terrorized her other children in their very own home, she'd bottled her feelings away because the wee ones had needed her to be strong. Finally, Claire's death had come close to breaking her, her golden angel cut down and left to suffocate on her own blood...
The elderly Irishwoman took a long fortifying gulp of the spirit. She couldn't bear even the thought of losing another of her children, her only other little girl…
She took another large swallow, emptying the glass and then slamming it down hard on the wooden surface. How could Fiona have done this ta them all? Gone against tha cause tha whole family had been wrapped up in fer nearly ninety years, tha cause three generations o' Glenannes had spilt blood fer? How could she have run off, nae jus' wit' some lad thot took her fancy, but wit' an American and an American spy at thot?
Wiping a hand over her face, the matriarch of the clan sucked in a deep breath.
"Fiona has run off wit' Michael McBride. They left thot flat o' thar's an' took off."
That was how Liam had broken the news to her in his own blunt way. But her oldest boy hadn't been done delivering the bad tidings by any stretch of her imagination.
"If thot wa' all thar war ta it, then it wouldnae be so bad... But Michael McBride is nae a lad fram Kilkenny. He's really some yank named Michael Westen and he's workin' fer tha British no less." Then her son had delivered the final blow. "An' Fiona's known fer quite a while. She tol' me so herself… right befer she shot me Merc ta pieces an' ran off."
"Ya have ta get har back," she'd gasped, her hand resting over her heart to stop it bursting out of her chest. "Who else knows? Ya have ta get har back, me boy, now befer tha word gets out." She'd had visions of her daughter's broken body being found somewhere public, a warning to anyone else thinking about betraying the PIRA.
She'd listened as the man in charge of the clan had explained everything he was doing to track down his sister. They had people covering all the ways off the Isle and other people checking out all the known safe houses and hiding places that Fiona might try to use.
"An' whot about Mc – this Westen fella? Do we know whot he's playin' at?" she'd asked.
"Thot's tha bit thot makes no sense," Liam had admitted, frustrated that he had no idea. "At tha flat, they'd left two fellers beat near ta deat, an then fram whot I heard Mc – Westen crashed the car he wa' in, busted up tha driver pretty bad an' jumped inta another car Fiona wa' drivin'... None o' it makes a bit o' sense... Unless the man's gone native."
"An yer sure them boys warn't Provo or any o' tha other factions?" she'd pressed.
"Am sure... I think they wa' either Special Branch or even MI6. I heard someone say they wa' English. So, he's attacked his own…" The spy's actions were still a puzzle to him.
"So, his Brit masters tried ta pull ham out an' he refused ta go? An' now Fiona has run away wit' ham?" She'd sighed as she tried to make some sense of the mess her daughter had gotten herself into. "An' whot about tha Brit's? How do they feel about losin' a man?"
"Thot's tha thing… As far as I can find out, thar doin' nothin'... I thought they'd be outin' Fi as a traitor straight away, ya know, ta cause some dissension amongst tha Provo. They like nothin' more than when wa're fightin' amongst ourselves."
"When's tha next round o' meetin's takin' place? Ya know between -"
"Next week…Some Yank ambassador is comin' o'er ta talk wit' Sinn Fein. Ya think they wanta keep it quiet til after tha visit?" Liam had grinned as he had realized what she was suggesting. "So we have at least a week ta track 'em down."
"Liam, ya cannae kill ham. Ya do thot an' Fiona will never fergive ya." She'd placed a hand over her son's larger paw and stared hard into his pale blue eyes.
"Ya know he has ta go. Fi will -"
"She will nae understand ya murderin' her man..." She remembered the way her girl had looked at the dark haired stranger, who was apparently not from Kilkenny after all. "We have ta bring tham both back har an' then wa'll decide whot ta do after."
Mrs. Glenanne filled another glass. Tonight was not a night to go to bed sober. Her sons were out hunting down their only living sister. If they failed to bring her back, if word got out about who she had run off with...
Tilting her head back, the tiny Irish woman swallowed down a third of the strong spirit. She would not lose another child and she would kill any man who tried to make her liar.
()()()()()
After their pleasant interlude, they had rearranged their clothing and taken turns visiting the en suite. Fiona had taken over sentry duty to allow her lover to get some shut eye.
She'd watched as he'd visited the bathroom before climbing back onto the bed and closed his eyes. Within minutes, she was sure he was asleep and a small glow of satisfaction warmed her soul. Not only had she been right about what Michael needed to relax enough to rest, but she also realized she wasn't the only one suffering from fatigue. Maybe it wasn't all because of the baby... They had both lost so much in going on the run…
After sitting by the window for half an hour, the young woman was bored and getting hungry. She had always hated surveillance. If she was going to stare at something for any length of time, it would be through a sniper scope. Besides, hadn't she already reminded him how safe the cottage was with the tripwires?
The cooler box was standing in the corner of the room along with the rest of their meager supplies. Making herself a cheese and ham sandwich and picking up one of the bottles of water, Fiona went downstairs to eat her meal and inspect their bolt hole while double checking their security arrangements.
The cottage had been well cared for, that much was obvious. The damage had mostly been caused in the aftermath of whatever had happened to cause the roof over the bathroom to collapse. She wondered about who had lived here and why it was left empty.
As Fiona walked around the few small rooms, the auburn haired woman began to make plans to tidy the downstairs. It would give them more space and something to do during the long boring hours while they waited out their pursuers. The former guerilla was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she failed to hear the sounds of her lover waking up.
"Michael!" Ms. Glenanne jumped when he suddenly appeared in the doorway to what had been a laundry room. "Yer supposed ta be sleepin'."
"And you were supposed to be on guard duty." He smiled to take the sting out of his words.
"I've been thinking," the ex-operative announced as he led her back into the living room and onto the old couch. "We're going to need to start looking at the bigger picture. We could be here a few days. If we can stay out of sight, the CIA and MI6 will eventually have to pull resources off the hunt. There's a good chance if we can alter our appearance and have a big enough crowd to blend into that we could even sneak by one of your brothers."
Fiona opened her mouth to protest, but snapped it shut again as Michael raised a hand to stop her from interrupting. "But, if we're going to do this, we're going to have to take a risk and go into town on a supply run."
Thot wa' better…Even after one day she was feeling trapped in the cottage. A trip into Waterford would add a bit of adventure to the day.
"I could cut me hair." She combed her fingers through her long mane. "Dye it, maybe go lighter? Ya know all me brudders know about me black wig, but a light brown or blonde?"
"No. No, you can't... the chemicals in the dye, we don't know what effect they'd have on -"
His eyes dropped to her still flat belly.
"D'ya think?" She had no idea if hair dye was dangerous to an unborn baby or not. "Well, whot am I ta do then?"
"Hide it with a hat or wear it differently." He then ran a hand over his own hair. "I could dye mine. At the very least, I'll cut all this off and go back to how it used to be when I was in – "
He'd checked himself. She'd caught it and, from the way she was looking at him, he knew he'd slipped up.
"When ya war in whot?"
"Where I was before coming to Ireland," he mumbled, caught between a lifetime of spy training and field experience, none of which had prepared him for his current situation.
"Is thot so, Michael Westen?"
The dark haired former spy let out a long sigh and then stood up, stepping away from his lover before turning to fully face her.
"I've noticed that you've taken to calling me by my full name since we've been on the run, especially when you want to make a point about something."
"Aye, Am reminding meself thot yer nae McBride and thot I –"
Fiona had wanted to tell him… try to explain to him how it had made her feel when he drew away from her and shut her out. But she didn't have the words and the former spy immediately jumped to the wrong conclusion.
"Do you regret leaving-" Michael began.
"Why d'ya bloody well ask me thot every time we have a tiff?" the fiery redhead demanded, swiftly coming to her feet as well. "Can we nae disagree wit'out ya gettin' yar knickers in a twist? McBride used ta love ta fight!"
"McBride loved a lot of things..." his voice trailed off as he stared at the floor.
"Whot's that? Ar' ya sayin' ya don' love me, Michael Westen? Thot it wa' only McBride?" Her temper was starting to rise again. She had noticed the lilt in his voice as they had made love. It had comforted her at the time, but now the thought of what it might have signified was making her very angry.
"No," he whispered, struggling to give voice to what was on his heart. "I'm afraid that you only loved Michael McBride and that one day you're going to wake up and be sorry that you've run off with me. I don't want you to hate me, Fi... I'm not sure I could deal with that."
The softness of his voice and the rare expression of his heart felt emotions stilled her tongue for the moment. She took him in her arms and squeezed tight while Michael merely accepted the embrace for a second before wrapping his arms about her waist.
"I hated ya when I found out ya'd lied ta me, when I found out ya warn't who ya said ya war," she spoke into his shirt and felt him flinch at her vehement words. Then the redhead lifted her gaze to his troubled blue eyes and laid a tender hand to his wiry cheek.
"But then I found out who ya really ar' Michael Westen, who ya ar' inside har…"
Fiona pressed a kiss to the right side of his chest, next to his heart, over the scar she'd given him when she'd flung to beer bottle at him and it had broken there on his body the day she found out that he wasn't who he'd said he was.
"And thot's why I forgave ya and let ya back inta me heart...and inta me bed, which is how we got ta whar we ar' har today." She smiled softly and there was a sparkle in her eye. "Yer tha man I fell in love wit', Michael..." She stopped herself from adding his surname. "Wa're both gonna change our names, change our looks and it's gonna work out so long as we donnae forget who we ar' inside, no matter whot we call ourselves fram har on out."
And she could see the unshed tears glistening brightly in those blue eyes which were filled with adoration before she leaned up to capture his mouth. He met her lips and they melted into one another, soft and slow, as her hands drifted up to card through his long black hair.