(Two months later)

July 1964

The rain continued to pour down. Heavily dripping off the roof, it landed with slow, never-ending plops in the stream that used to be her flowerbed. With a sigh, Alex turned away from the rain streaked bay window and raked a trembling hand through her already tumbled hair.

Pacing the length of the room, she flung herself down on the sofa and poured herself another drink. Taking a gulp, she pressed the icy glass to her throbbing temples and closed her eyes wearily.

"Bam, bam, bam!" came the immediate pounding on the door. Jerking up in surprise, she felt the whiskey in her glass stream wetly down her arm. Cursing, she slammed the glass down to the table with an irritated smack as she glanced around for a towel or rag, only to find none.

The pounding came again within seconds. "What now?" she muttered in annoyance at the door, wincing in pain as she did so.

"Open the door, Alex! It's me, Michael!" yelled a deep male voice in almost equal frustration from outside. "Come on, have a heart! It's pouring out here."

In silence, she glared balefully at the sturdy oak door, wondering if she dared ignore him. Just how long until he gave up and went away?

"Alex," he called, evidently sensing her silence as a bad omen. "I'm getting soaked out here."

"You should've thought of that before you made a trip all the way out here," she answered remorselessly.

"Enough, Alex!" he shouted in frustration. "Do you stop behaving like a child and open this door, or would you rather I find my own way in? I will you know."

Grudgingly, she had to admit the truth in that statement and moved to unlock the door. "Alright, alright," she replied. "You win, just hold on a minute."

Succeeding at last in opening the stiff lock, she stepped back, opening the door just enough to let him in. "Well, what do you want?" she asked bluntly, eyeing with distaste the puddle of water he was leaving on her floor.

"My, but I'm glad to see you too," he replied, a grin tugging sardonically at his mouth.

"Get to the point, Michael," she snapped. "Obviously, you wanted something from me or you wouldn't have come all the way out here in the middle of the worst storm we've had in who knows how long."

"I couldn't just be concerned about your welfare?" he asked innocently, amusement lighting his eyes.

For a moment doubt tugged at her heart and shame at her attitude assailed. Then abruptly it was gone, as a mask of impartiality slid into place across her features. "You?" she asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "I rather doubt it."

"Is your opinion that low of me?" he asked, only half-teasingly. "Or just of men in general?"

"Both probably," she replied with a humorless laugh. Turning, she closed the door behind both of them before leading the way across the room. "Come on in, Michael. Since you're here, I might as well hear what it is that you have to say."

Waving him to have a seat in the chair across from her, she flung herself back down on the sofa facing him. Gathering her feet up under her, she waited.

Frowning, he shrugged out of his jacket even as he took the offered seat. "Little early in the day for you, isn't it?" he asked, nodding towards the half-empty whiskey glass sitting on the coffee table.

"Not really," she answered, mentally adding - especially when you haven't slept in days. "Don't worry, Michael. I'm a big girl now. I can take care of myself." Shifting position, she pressed on, "So, just why are you here, Michael? If it had been purely concern, you could've just called and saved yourself the trip."

"True," he replied. "But would you have answered?"

Frowning, she set the glass down. "I don't know," she answered truthfully, feeling she owed him at least that much. For a long moment, they simply stared at each other and then dropping her eyes, Alex broke the contact. "So-ooo," she drawled. "You never did say why you were really here. Surely, it isn't because you make it a habit to go around harassing lonely women?"

"Only you," he replied, with a grin. "Only you." Picking up the whiskey decanter from the bar, he held it to the light for a moment admiring the cut of the crystal.

"Have a drink," she offered wryly, even as he finished pouring a glass of the sparkling amber liquid. Turning and raising the decanter, he offered to top off her drink as well.

Mutely, she shook her head.

"Sure?" he asked. "You always did have extraordinary taste in liquor."

"You would know," she said sardonically, eyeing the glass in his hand. "Thanks, but no. I think I would prefer to have all my thinking faculties in full working order around you."

Tilting his head back at that, he roared. "Really, Alex, if I didn't know better I'd think you didn't trust me."

Shifting on the sofa, she pulled her over-sized ivy colored sweater over her jeaned knees. Leaning her head back, she raked a hand through the fiery locks and looked straight into his pale blue gaze and replied, "I'm not so sure I do."

"Is that the truth, Alex?" he asked, abruptly sober.

For a moment, she simply stared back at him, only to finally drop her own gaze, uncertainty evident in her green eyes. "Good question," she whispered huskily. "The truth is, I don't know exactly what to think. Let's just say you make me more than a little wary, Mr. Coldsmith-Briggs."

"Fair enough," he sighed, rubbing his chin. "I guess I deserve that, coming from you." In silence, he paced over to the bay window, limping somewhat as he did so. The bullet wound he'd taken on a mission several months back was still plaguing him and he was beginning to wonder if it'd ever heal.

Between them, the tension grew like a brewing storm, before he finally found the words to answer her earlier question. "The truth, Alex. I came for the truth. I want to know what really happened over there in Menongue."

"Read the report I filed, Michael!" she snapped, the uneasy truce between them abruptly broken. "I don't have the inclination or patience to play twenty questions with you!"

"I read the report, Alex," he gritted through set teeth, barely managing to control his rising temper. "Just why do you think I'm here?"

"To be quite honest?" she asked, her tone like honey. At his answering glance, she spat, "I really don't care! You sent us over there, Michael and the only thing it accomplished was getting Gavin killed. How do you expect me to feel about you?"

Shoving a trembling hand through her long red hair, she jumped up from the couch to pace the length of the cabin. Twice, she paced the length of the room before she turned on him like a caged lioness. This time though, her voice was frighteningly empty and flat. "All I know is Gavin is dead. Isn't that enough for you?"

"No," he stated baldly, mourning his friend. "And I would hope that isn't enough for you either…" he continued, feeling suddenly ancient as if he'd seen far too much of life.

"I'm sorry, Alex," he said, shifting his weight off his injured leg. "You must surely know I never meant for Gavin to be hurt, much less killed."

Mutely, she stared at him, her soul in her eyes, wounded and needy. Wordlessly, she begged of him some token of comfort and inner peace.

Unable to offer her any, he had to turn away. "The fact of the matter is," he stated not looking at her, "I came to ask your help." Uneasily, he waited, the firelight glinting on his sun-streaked dark blond hair.

"My help?" she repeated, in confusion wariness in her eyes. "For what?" Idly, she wondered when the silver had started to thread its way in among the darker strands. Surely it hadn't been there when last she'd seen him. Yanking her thoughts back to the present, she asked him again. "For what, Michael?" this time though the hostility that had been in her tone before was gone, replaced only by a cautious curiosity.

"I'm going to Angola, Alex," he replied. "I need someone who's been in Menongue before, someone who can help smooth the path. To ease the way, if you will…"

"Ease the way??!!" she yelped. "You've got to be kidding! The only thing the insurrectionists would consider me good for is target practice. Not exactly the skill one usually seeks out in a diplomat."

"I need you, Alex," he said quietly.

"Well, I don't need you, Michael," she stated emphatically. "I'm not going!"

Limping back to the sofa, Michael sat down heavily and downed the rest of his drink in one gulp. Leaning back, he rested his head wearily on the back of the sofa cushions as he stared up at the ceiling with world-weary blue eyes.

"The government there is in the throes of being overthrown," he stated emotionlessly, his voice as impassive as his words. "Our embassies there have already been ousted and quite a few of out agents there killed as traitors to the government."

Feeling vaguely ashamed, Alex whispered, "I'm sorry," reaching out to touch his arm with a comforting hand.

Oblivious, he continued. "It's kinda ironic if you stop to think about it. Traitors to the government, and yet, there is no government. Rather hard to betray something that doesn't exist, I always thought."

"So, what is it that you think I can help you do?"

"Find out where the leak is in the embassy, or what passes for it these days. Someone there is selling us out wholesale. Killing off more than a few members of my department in the process."

"How many?" she asked, having to ask, yet hating herself for doing so.

"What difference does it make?" he bit out, suddenly as angry and defensive as she had been. "Even one is too many."

"Giselé is there, isn't she?" Alex asked, a horrible premonition filling her.

"Was," he said flatly. "She died during the revolt."

"Oh, Michael," she sighed, letting go of her own anger towards him for a moment. "I'm so sorry. I know how much she meant to you."

For a long moment, the ensuing silence stretched between them, the only sound that of the rain pouring down outside. Despite her own anger and anguish, even Alex could not deny that Michael had suffered. Numbly, she searched for the words to say to him.

But before she could find them, Michael spoke again. "They killed her as an enemy of the state. And as such, lined her up and executed her before a firing squad - after they had "questioned" her. Truth be known, at that point it was probably a mercy."

Hurt by his cold words, Alex had to nonetheless acknowledge the truth in them. All too well, she remembered how the insurrectionists "questioned" prisoners of state. Even now, she could not suppress the shudder that ran through her at the memory. No matter how indifferent Michael might seem, she knew he had not been spared any of the details of her death.

For a long time, the room remained silent. Gradually, the evening shadows and chill crept in from the corners of the room to slowly fill it with a darkness even deeper than that which they both held in their hearts. The only light that remained was the pallid flickering of the flames in the fireplace as it too gradually died in the darkness.

"All right, Michael," she sighed. "You win. I'll go with you."

Complete silence greeted her words, dragging out until at last she wondered if he'd even heard her. Then, just as she was about to rouse herself for a second painful attempt, he spoke. "I'll contact you with the details as soon as they are finalized." And then, acting as if nothing of any real importance had taken place, he rose to his feet to leave, levering tiredly to his good leg as he did so.

Saying not a word, he limped to the door, pausing beside it for a moment before he finally opened it. "Thank you, Alex," he whispered hoarsely, bowing his head and then he was gone.

Trying to sort out her own jumbled thoughts, she wearily massaged her temples. Already, second thoughts were setting in with a vengeance. Did she dare trust Michael? It all seemed so strange… Giselé dead. Thinking of her arrogant confidence, she found it hard to believe. They'd never been close, but she'd had a healthy respect for her anyway. And she couldn't deny the pain she'd seen in Michael's face tonight.

Whatever their differences, the past couple months had been difficult on him too, she had to admit, if only to herself. Even now, she could still see the glimmer of the firelight highlighting the silver that was beginning to thread its way through the slight wave of his dark blonde hair. Surely, that hadn't been there before Angola, had it?

"Oh, Michael," she sighed. "Why did you have to come back into my life? Why?"