AN: I want to thank everyone who took the time to read the first chapter of my story. I appreciate folks giving me a chance and trusting me with their favorite characters. I also want to thank those of you who left such wonderful and informative reviews. It is so nice to have readers who comment on the things they like or don't like about my stories. Those reviews give me insight into whether my writing successfully portrays the real intent of my ideas. So thanks for all the lengthy & well-thought-out reviews…please, Please, PLEASE, keep it up. If something doesn't make sense or seems out of place for the characters, please let me know! Also, for those who pointed out my misspelling of Westen, thank you! I guess I've attended one too many medical conferences at a Westin hotel or resort, LOL! I knew I had made that mistake once or twice, but thought I'd corrected them all. Thanks for keeping me on my toes!
Now for a note or two about this next chapter. This chapter is from Michael's POV. Apparently, I did a very good job of portraying Fiona's current state of misery. Some of you aren't too thrilled with Michael right now, LOL! Hopefully, I can redeem his character and restore a little of your faith in him with chapter 2. As I noted in a previous author's note, there are always 3 sides to a story: hers, his and the truth. I think this chapter might bring a few of you back into the fold. That said, this chapter will not answer all your questions, you'll have to come back for that! (Evil Grin)
'**********'
Part 2
By far the most dangerous foe we have to fight is apathy – indifference from whatever cause, not from lack of knowledge, but from carelessness, from absorption in other pursuits, from a contempt bred of self-satisfaction. – William Osler
Most human beings have an almost infinite capacity for taking things for granted. – Aldous Huxley
'***'
…Releasing a gasp barely louder than a whisper, she turned to flee…
Padraiq momentarily froze in his kneeling position, shocked by Sarnait's brisk escape. Collecting himself, he reached to collect the white rose she had abandoned in her urgent retreat.
"Wait," the knight called out, running with the swiftness of a fine steed.
Sarnait took a moment to glance behind her and found Padraiq in quick pursuit. He was gaining ground rapidly, unencumbered by such heavy garment as she. She hoisted her skirt closer to her knees and cut a path through the wildflowers. Breathing feverishly, she pressed on making every effort to escape the magical powers of the Elfin Knight.
"Please, Sarnait, I beg thee allow me to swear to you the truth," he followed her through rows of flowers, his garment taking on petals, leaves and burrs, as he flew through the field. Broken stems whipped at his legs, creating angry welts in their path. Finally, as he drew close, he reached out a hand to grasp her. He took hold of her arm sending both of them tumbling though the sea of flowers. Careening to a halt, he searched frantically for the maiden. He found her curled in upon herself as a baby crying uncontrollable.
"Ssssh, my lovely maiden," he tried to soothe, brushing the flowers and clover from her hair.
"Bring no harm to me, I pray thee," she pushed back, tunneling deeper into a patch of Sea aster. "If you would but let me take my leave, I swear upon my heart and the grave of my mother, I will never tell a soul."
He gazed at the beautiful young woman before him. Dress covered in leaves, hair fallen about her shoulder in disorderly waves of curls, her cheeks rosy and shiny with tears. He swore in all his life he had never seen such a lovely sight.
"I promise not to harm thee, fair lass. Not a hair on your head or a ribbon from your dress." He reached out to her, offering his hand. She pulled away in a vain attempt to gain ground between them. He graced her with a kind smile and nodded, holding his perch among the clover.
Wrapping her arms around her torso, she shivered in the cooling air. Eyeing him with a gaze of pure dread, she spoke is a hushed whisper, "What is it thou wantest with me, sir?"
He removed the jeweled-broach from his coat, dropping it into a leather satchel bound to his waist. Withdrawing the green velvet cloak from about his shoulders, he offered it to the maiden adding an extra layering to her warmth.
She accepted the cloak, wrapping it tightly around her lithe form. Glancing back with a blush to her cheeks, she offered the faintest hint of a smile and whispered, "Thanks be to thee, sir, for your offer of kindness."
He bent low at the waist and nodded. Looking back with tentative eye, he implored, "I wonder if I might request but a moment of your time for the telling of a tale from mine heart?"
Sarnait nodded in affirmation, feeling her fears begin to assuage, "If you wish, sir."
He nodded back then settled in for the telling of the story. "There was a young lad a long time yore. He had a mortal soul, a mere child born and drawing breath just as you. One autumn day much as this," he waved his hand about their idyllic setting, "…his grandfather took him on his first hunt. They travelled across fields and streams seeking a wild boar to present as the lad's first trophy for the celebration of the Samhain of All Saints' Day. The lad grew tired and hungry, so they paused to rest in their pursuits. After partaking of a lunch of loaves and cheese, the pair became heavy with sleep. When the young lad awoke he was deep in the forest and his grandfather was nowhere to be found. The Great Fairy Queen, Morrigan, had placed a spell upon the child. Morrigan, the Great Queen and Deity of War, commanded on that very day lo years afore that the young lad should grow to be strong of frame and quick of hand. So the boy grew in stature and strength, learning his warrior skills at the knee of the fairy hosts of the Great Queen, Morrigan. Upon his day of adulthood, he was christened by the Fairy Queen with title of The Elfin Knight."
Sarnait sat listening captivated by Padraiq's tale. Upon hearing the young lad's title, Elfin Knight, her eyes grew wide with wonder. She leaned forward, placing a dainty hand on his. "You? You are the young lad placed under a spell?"
The Knight bowed his head to her then answered, "It is I, Padraig O'Kelly, who was born a mortal child just as yourself. Lo all those years ago, my family was lost to me in order to serve at the behest of the Great Fairy Queen."
Tears welled within Sarnait's honey-colored eyes and dropped onto her cheeks. Padraiq reached forth and caught the glistening drops one by one and dried them each with his gentle fingers. "Do not cry, fair maiden. This curse of mine tis not your fault."
"I know, Sir Padraiq, but I still weep for all you have lost. Do you at any time take leave to your family?" She grasped hold of the hand stroking away her tears and pressed his palm to her cheek.
"Nay, not in my elfin state." His thumb stroked over her crimson lips, "Oh my dear Sarnait, my only yearning, nay mine heart's deepest desire is the chance to come back, to be a mortal again and live in the realm of the living man."
Upon hearing Padraiq's sad tale, Sarnait grew heavy with sadness and her tears rushed forth. He wiped them away, imploring her not to be forlorn at his fate.
"My dearest Padraiq," she wept, "...is there a chance, no matter how small that your heart's wish might come true?"
"Only one, but if it should fail, I shall never be granted another."
"Please tell me, my love, what chance may there be?" She rose on bended knee and placed a hand over her heart, "I swear an oath to thee and God above to give my sincerest help in achieving your quest."
"No, I pray thee my dearest Sarnait, I wilt not allow harm come to you, for Morrigan is the most powerful and evil of the fairy queens and her minions order high in number."
"Please, my dear Padraiq," she reached out softly touching his cheek, "…I shall not ever find peace until you are again a mortal!"
Padraiq held her hands within the strength of both of his, as he laid his heart bare in the sharing of the secret of his remedy. "Tonight on this night of great harvest feast, the Samhain…"
'***'
Monday Morning
October 23, 2017
The CIA Offices
American Embassy
24 Grosvenor Square
London, England
Michael trudged into the office two hours late after a particularly rigorous physical therapy session. His shoulder was killing him. The surgeon had reconstructed the damaged tendons and ligaments, but the resultant scar tissue had caused a severe adhesive capsulitis. He'd been undergoing intensive therapy for the last few weeks trying to regain his full range of motion and strength. He raised his right arm to shoulder height and grimaced under the pain. He could only lift about 15 pounds of weight, which was an improvement, but still a long way from 100%. He looked around his office and sighed, he couldn't wait to get away from that desk and back out into the field. He wasn't cut out for a paperwork gig.
He let the satchel on his left shoulder drop onto his desk with a thud. He'd spent the weekend reviewing case files. The CIA had suggested he consider other career options, which was just another form of legal jargon for "chained to a desk." There was no way he was going to spend the rest of his life pushing papers!
He headed out of his office in search of hot coffee and an ice pack for his throbbing shoulder. His assistant, Cynthia, who was attached to her phone as usual, tried to hand him a large stack of correspondence, but he declined with a shake of his head and motioned toward his office. There was no way he could handle a cup of coffee, an ice pack and that huge stack of "soul-sucking deadwood" in one trip. Well, maybe he could, but the deadwood could wait until he got back behind that "career-ending desk," before he had to shuffle through it.
All right, that's enough self-pity he chided. At this point, he was damn lucky to still have a job. Jonathon Simpson, his old handler, was out. And the way he'd slipped up the last few months, he was literally hanging by a thread. He figured the only reason he was still employed by the agency was because they couldn't kick his ass to the curb before they gave him a reasonable chance at rehab, but he'd be damned if he was sticking around to just push papers back and forth all day. In his earlier years with the agency, he'd figured he'd go out in a blaze of glory. Somehow he never imagined himself behind a desk, maybe a handler or trainer when he was old and gray, but not a freaking desk jockey. He rotated his right shoulder again and gasped. Placing the ice pack over the joint, he reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of Advil. Downing a couple of tablet with a big gulp of coffee, he began shuffling through the correspondence his assistant had so kindly deposited on his desk, along with a mountaintop of messages.
Halfway through the stack of paperwork, he came to a large Express Mail envelope and pulled it out from the heap. Glancing at the return address on the mailer insert, his stomach lurched when he noticed the name of the best divorce law firm in Miami. He pushed the black coffee aside and rummaged through his top drawer for a roll of antacids. Popping a couple of the chalky discs into his mouth, he chewed and swallowed hard, before ripping open the Express Mail envelope. He pulled out the thin stack of legal-sized paperwork and threw it onto his desk then retrieved the bottle of plain water he'd grabbed earlier in the morning.
Skimming through the first paragraph, he continued reading until he reached the line about the party of Fiona Glenanne. He couldn't say he was surprised, he'd been dreading this possibility for months now. Somehow they'd stopped getting along, so it became easier and easier for him to just stay away. It wasn't that they fought, because they rarely did. They just didn't communicate and interact with one another anymore.
"Communicate," he laughed out loud, who would've ever thought he, Michael Westen, would invoke that term when speaking about a relationship, and a married one at that. There was a time when the mere mention of the word "communicate," by either Fiona or his mom, would send him screaming from the room. He remembered his mother dragging him to counseling sessions when he first landed in Miami with the express purpose of "learning to communicate." He glanced down at the divorce documents and sighed humorlessly, maybe if he'd spent a little more time communicating with his wife, rather than running away, he wouldn't be losing her now. It wasn't like he wanted to run or even avoid spending time with her, truth was he missed her dearly. He just couldn't stand to peer into those disappointed eyes of hers anymore, especially knowing he was the cause.
He reached into his middle desk drawer and withdrew a framed photograph. It was a picture of he and Fiona taken a few years prior. Ruth and Charlie had come to Miami for a brief visit with the intent of Charlie remaining acquainted with his other family. Maddie had thrown a big picnic for everyone she'd ever known, so she could show off her only grandchild. Poor Charlie had quickly grown tired of all the welcome and fuss from people he didn't know. Fiona had ridden to his rescue with a popsicle and a lapful of love. He found the pair sitting off in a secluded corner of the backyard sharing the frozen treat. Totally mesmerized by the engaging view of his wife and nephew, he stood transfixed and staring in amazement at the beautiful pair. He'd never seen Fi with such a young child before, and he found himself engrossed by her loving attention and care. Thinking back on it now, he wasn't sure why her actions surprised him. He'd always known her to be tender and kind with those she loved, but there was just something magical about observing her with the small child. He found himself drawn to the captivating duo, wanting to be a part of their private world. His mother had captured them on film unaware, Fiona with Charlie in her lap, head dipped close to the toddler's ear, and he kneeling beside, his arms encircling his family, as he placed a kiss on Fi's cheek. Maddie proudly presented him with the prized photograph a few days later. He'd given Fi the smaller snapshot, but not until he had a larger print made for himself. He kept the framed picture hidden away in his office desk, buried at the bottom of a drawer, along with other of his favorite Fiona mementoes. He'd once told Fi he didn't like clutter, but that wasn't really the truth. He wanted to savor those precious memories in private, away from the teasing eyes of friends and colleagues. He'd spent his entire childhood learning to hide his real emotions from others for fear of harassment, retaliation and pain. He'd even found success in a career where that ability to portray detachment wasn't just important, it was essential to his survival, even if it worked to the detriment of those he loved.
He stared at the photo in his hand, running his finger over the smooth glass surface, tracing the outline of her beautiful face. He was lost in the moment, wanting desperately to have it all back. Just one more chance. A litany of maybes and if onlys marched through his head. Maybe if he'd spent less timing hiding and more time showing those emotions, or maybe if he'd spoken up and "communicated," he scolded himself. Maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't be losing the person he loved most in the world. He shoved aside the messages and teetering correspondence, placing the frame central on his desk. A dull thud echoed loudly through the room, as his right elbow intersected with the desktop sending intense rockets of pains shooting through his shoulder like fireworks in the night sky. He welcomed the ache in his muscles, as it overwhelmed and masked the one in his heart. Agitated fingers gripped and pulled at his hair, as he tried to silence the cacophony of voices shouting blame in his head. He reached for a pen with his left hand then tossed it aside, as his heart screamed out, DON'T SIGN! Taking a deep breath then another, he sought to clear the angry voices, delving deeper for an alternative solution, another way out. If only he had another chance, he swore he would do things differently. He glanced back at the photo, studying her every detail and struggled to go back in time to that precise moment when everything went wrong. The blush of her cheek, the curve of her leg, the smile breaking ever so softly across her lips.
Back in the beginning, after Anson, he'd felt guilty for all her loss. He had singlehandedly ripped from her all the things she held most dear. First it was her country and family, through his unyielding determination to regain his former life, then came her freedom, when he fought with blind rage to topple the instigator of his pain. Finally, it was her livelihood and biggest source of joy, when he threatened to cast off all principles of honor and integrity in search of his quest, those very ideologies, which tied her heart to his. He'd tried to tell her from the very beginning it was best to stay away, but she refused to listen, instead giving heed to her heart, and now all his initial doubts and misgiving had proven to be true. He had placed her in danger, and even worse, neglected her love.
Ever the cool and collected spy, he'd never once considered marriage until Anson came along. He just wasn't good at relationships; an excuse he oft told himself, schooled from a young child that they only brought responsibilities and pain. Once Fi had signed her contract with the CIA and was released from jail, he'd requested the first assignment out of town. He had stuck around just long enough to ensure her comfort and safety in the loft, but then he was gone. He didn't want to spend hours discussing the fallout from Anson, nor did he want to watch the FBI confiscate her arsenal of weapons and artillery. The evening she was released, he'd awoken in the middle of the night to find her sitting upstairs on the couch softly caressing a pistol. It was her HK USP with the silver slide. She must have found it in his desk drawer hiding among his things. He wanted to climb the stairs and comfort her, but she looked so despondent and lost he couldn't make himself move. So like the weakling he was when it came to emotional attachments, he released a stifled cough and turned over in bed. The noise was enough to rouse her from her private musings. She stuffed the gun back in his drawer and tiptoed back to bed. Once she was under the covers, he blindly sought her out, pulling her close to his chest. It was the most reassurance he could force himself to offer and he knew in that moment he needed to get away. The very next afternoon, he was flying to Europe, while she was meeting with the FBI. Fi arrived home that evening to an empty loft and a note left on her pillow. He knew it was the coward's way out, but he just couldn't look at the emptiness reflected in her eyes.
He returned to Miami several months later, hoping Fi was over the worst of her loss. He suggested dinner that night and proposed to her with an engagement ring secured via an old asset in Antwerp. He hoped her favored setting would say everything his beleaguered heart could not. They were married a few days later at city hall, just the two of them, with county workers serving as witnesses. He wasn't sure why the idea of marriage felt so urgent; he just knew he couldn't risk losing her. And if marriage was to be their eternal bond then he reckoned it was best to hurl caution to the wind and tether her to him permanently. She tried to portray contentment during their phone conversations while he was gone, but he could detect the sorrow-ringing hollow in her voice. Perhaps that was the impetus for his abrupt change of course, or maybe it was the guilt, he hadn't been able to decipher between the two. Of one thing he was certain, he loved her and had from the very start way back in Ireland. He allowed himself to lose her once, but had no intention of allowing that catastrophe to recur.
He'd thrown himself into married life whenever the opportunity of proximity allowed. He never wanted her to regret her commitment to him. She'd once told him his job made it hard to be with him, so he did everything in his power to really "be there" when he was home. The first couple of years had been relatively simple. They bought a house, moved in and made a home. Life went on. They were truly happy. He worked hard at fulfilling all those day-to-day moments Fi told him were so important.
Then the pregnancy came….
The whole thing had been a surprise to both of them. They'd never discussed having children. He just assumed they both agreed it wasn't an option in light of their unconventional life. Besides, they weren't getting any younger, he laughed, and tossed that worry aside. Of course, they'd taken the necessary precautions, which was why he was so shocked when the idea suddenly "popped" into his head. He had come home after a short assignment in a war-torn country to find her moody and drawn. She blamed her sullen behavior and emotional outbursts on his absence, hence the reason he didn't understand their persistence more than a week back into their routine life. He was visiting with his mother a week later, when he mentioned Fi's foul mood. Not one to find fault with her daughter-in-law, Maddie had immediately inquired about what "he'd" done to upset her. His reply of "nothing" had been equally swift. He went on to describe Fiona's exhaustion and poor appetite, blaming it on her schedule at the shelter and overall stress. His mother sauntered into the kitchen from the dining room and bent down with an emotionless mask of expression, before breaking out in a huge smile the likes of which, if he had too admit, rivaled the morning sun.
"Michael, don't you understand what's going on?" His mother ribbed, all the while chewing on her lower lip to stifle her joy. He knew she was up to something, but wasn't sure what.
"Obviously not," he groused from under the kitchen sink, groaning in pain when the rusty adapter gave way, catching his finger between the pipe and his wrench. He dropped the wrench on the floor, sucking his finger into his mouth and peered out from between the cabinet doors. "If I knew what was going on, don't you think I'd fix it? You know Fiona, she's hell on wheels when she's in one of her moods." He laid his head down on the cabinet floor and had just picked up the wrench, when he bellowed back, "And it's not my fault! I haven't done anything to upset her," he cut off his mother's smart retort before she could add her two cents.
Maddie giggled like a small child with a wicked secret, "Oh, but it is, my boy!"
"What are you talking about?" He spun out from under the cabinet and dropped the old disposal on the kitchen floor. "She was like this when I got home, and I've been very careful not to upset her. I've taken her out for dinner, gone shopping and even apologized for things I didn't do!" He threw up his arms in frustration, catching his mother's eye with an annoyed scowl.
"Still your fault," Maddie teased back in a singsong voice.
He rolled his eyes heavenward, before reaching for the new disposal and disappearing back under the cabinet again. "If you say so," he muttered under his breath.
"Well, who else do you think got Fiona pregnant? I seriously doubt she managed it all by herself," Maddie chuckled with delight.
"I don't know…" his voice petered out, as he gasped for breath. "PREGNANT!" He shrieked, rising up so fast, he knocked his forehead on the cabinet frame. The disposal fell from his hand with a thud, followed by a string of expletives as the heavy object came down hard on the same hand as before.
Maddie knelt down with a broad knowing smile, happiness dancing in her eyes. "Yes, pregnant," she couldn't stop the ecstatic giggle, which escaped her lips. "I take it Fiona didn't mention the possibility?"
"AH…NO," he grumbled, rubbing the angry welt forming on his forehead. He stared at his mother for a moment then shook his head with an arrogant smirk, "No way, that's not possible. I mean we've…well, we never…we couldn't…" He stumbled over his words trying to find the right excuse.
"Don't tell me you never," Maddie stood upright, arms akimbo, "…I've seen the two of you, when you think no one is looking! So don't you 'never' me, young man," she threw in a wag of her finger for good measure, cigarette ashes hitting the floor.
"Moooom," Michael immediately intervened, "…don't go there."
"Well," she tossed back with a confrontational glare.
Michael paused in his movement, staring off into space, "You don't think…." The pipe came loose from the sink and smacked him in the head. "Daaaamn!"
"Michael," Madeline yelled, "…come out from below that sink, before you kill yourself, then go home and talk to your wife!"
When he arrived home, he found Fiona at the kitchen table cautiously sipping a cup of mint tea. He'd debated with himself the whole way home how best to broach the subject. The last thing he wanted to imply was that she was difficult, sickly looking, or even worse, fat, but when he saw her gingerly sipping tea, all his plans flew out the window.
He blurted out, "Fiona, are you preg…?
"Michael, what happened to your head?" She interrupted before he could ask his full question.
He reached up to finger the bump, which was already turning black and blue. "I hit my head on the cabinet, while working under mom's sink."
"Well, you need to be more careful!" She jumped up to retrieve an ice pack, but quickly stopped, clenching her eyes shut, as she wobbled in place. Throwing out her hands to break her fall, she stood perfectly still waiting for the dizziness to pass.
"Fi, what's wrong?"
She threw a hand over her mouth and another around her waist. "Dizzy," she moaned, all the while trying to control her dry heaves. He wrapped an arm around her waist, supporting her weight, until she stopped shaking.
"Feeling better now?" She nodded her assent. Helping her back to her seat, he pushed the teacup within reach. "Here, maybe this will help." He waited until she swallowed a few sips then reach out to push a strand of hair from her face.
"Fi," he began nervously, "…this 'thing' you have…."
"I don't have a 'THING', Michael," she tried to push him aside, but he held steady trying to appease her. Softening his voice, he tried again, "Um, I've been thinking…is there any possible chance you might be…pregnant?"
"That's such a guy thing to say," she jumped up, shoving him out of her way, "…blame every emotional outburst and argument on a woman's…." She stopped mid sentence and stared blankly up at the ceiling.
"Ohhhh!"
"Fi?"
She marched out of the kitchen toward the bedroom with Michael trailing in fast pursuit, his eyes veering to and fro at every doorway, as he planned his best path of escape. Fi tugged open the top drawer of her nightstand, pulling out a calendar. Leafing backward several pages, her hand flew to her mouth stifling a groan. Throwing the calendar aside, she fell back on the bed, arms covering her face.
"It didn't even occur to me," she muttered, shaking her head in disbelief. "We've been so careful."
He sat down beside her, pulling her into his embrace. "So Fi, are you saying?
"Yeees, Michael…yesss! That's exactly what I'm saying!" She stuttered out the words, before bursting into tears. Michael stared on in horror, unsure of how to take her reaction.
They performed a home pregnancy test, more than one actually. They'd even purchased several different brands, each claiming to be more accurate than the next. All turned positive. Fi still called the doctor from the women's shelter under the pretense of an emergency.
When Michael questioned the validity of the call, her only response was, "Well, at least it was to us!"
They were seen the very same day. Neither looked at the other all the way to the clinic. Once the doctor confirmed the results, he sent the bewildered couple on their way with a bottle of prenatal vitamins and a recommendation for follow-up with her OB/GYN within the week. He explained the pregnancy was considered high-risk, since she was an "elderly" primigravida. Fiona was none too thrilled to be christened with the title of "elderly." They drove home in stunned silence, both too afraid to inquire about the other's thoughts.
Maddie called later that evening fishing for news. It was the first time either of them acknowledged the disturbing results. Maddie was over-the-moon with excitement about the baby, while Michael and Fi remained perplexed. It wasn't until they finally settled into their bed for the night that Michael decided to broach the subject of the rather large elephant in the room.
"Fi?" Michael turned on his side, amused to find his wife applying lotion to her muscularly toned abdomen.
"Mmmm?" She murmured back, deep in concentration, as she studied the label of the concoction she'd picked up earlier at the drug store. The advertisement plastered in bold letters across the front of the tube claimed to be a "miracle cure" for stretch marks.
"What'cha doing?" A bemused smile spread across his face, as humor danced behind his eyelids.
"If you must know," she huffed, shooting him a warning glare, "…I'm trying to prevent the stretch marks, which are all your fault!"
"My fault?" His mouth gaped wide, as he feigned insult.
"Yes, your fault!" She tossed the tube of miracle lotion at his head. He caught the tube mid air and studied the ridiculous assertion emblazoned across the front in large black capital letters.
"Does it work?" He tried valiantly to hold back the laughter, which threatened to burst forth at her expense.
"Michael Weston!" She fumed, throwing her body dramatically into the mound of her pillows. Her arms instinctively crossed over her face, as she tried to hide her embarrassment.
He chastised himself for finding pleasure in her, rather their, predicament. Rolling closer to her side, he lifted up the cotton top of her baby doll pajamas and peeked briefly toward her face. She was busy eyeing him from a slit between her arms. He popped open the top of the miracle cream, squeezed out a sizeable dollop and began massaging it into the tanned skin of her lower abdomen. She scowled at his motions, as she tried not to laugh when he found a particularly sensitive spot.
He leaned closer still, a few inches from her skin and whispered, "Hey, little one, try not to be too hard on your mother's body, or she'll kick my ass from here till Tuesday."
Fiona released a jittery laugh, which rapidly deteriorated to a sob. Michael pulled her into his arms trying to soothe her raw emotions. She burrowed her face in the hollow of his neck, avoiding his gaze. Rubbing a hand up and down her back in a gentle caress, he whispered words of comfort until her cries relaxed to shudders and slowly ebbed away.
"I'm sorry," she mumbled into his neck, refusing his attempts to draw away.
"It's okay," he whispered, nuzzling his cheek against her hair.
She pulled back slightly, ducking her face from his view, "I don't know what's come over me."
"I do," he hooked a finger below her chin, attempting to lift her head.
She fought his efforts, "I'm sorry, Michael," she sighed in frustration at the repeated phrase. "I don't know why I keep saying that," she shook her head, causing his finger to drop away. She lifted her hand to trail a finger down his breastbone then rested her palm flat against his chest.
He scooped her up, as he relaxed back against his pillows, her head coming to rest over his heart. Running his fingers lightly through her hair, he tried again. "Want to talk about it?"
She drew in several breaths, a slight tremor racking her body with each inhalation. "I know this wasn't what you wanted, but honestly, I didn't plan…."
"Fi," he sternly interjected, "…I never thought you planned this, and who said I didn't want it?"
She looked up at him chagrinned, dropping her chin onto the hand on his chest, "But we never talked about…."
"I know," he gentled his voice, "…just because it wasn't planned, doesn't mean it can't happen, unless…" he voice drifted off, as his wrinkled his brow.
"Unless what?" She hung on his every word.
"Well," he shrugged, "…I didn't ask if you wanted…I mean if you don't…." He clammed up buckling his lips together.
"If I don't?" Her brow furrowed deeply, as she looked up in question. Her eyes suddenly grew wide, "Michael, you can't possibly think I would get rid…."
He shook his head nervously to and fro, "No! No, I mean…."
"Michael, just so you know, I'm having this baby, whether it fits into your life or not!"
"Good!" A smile grew across his face, as he drew her close again. His feisty Fi was back, that one he knew well.
"Good?" She questioned, her lips hovering over his.
"Good," he whispered back, his eyes gazing into hers until the very moment their lips touched. When they separated, he placed another feather light kiss on her forehead then tucked her safe and sound atop his chest.
Neither uttered another word, although they both stared out into the empty darkness of the room for hours, contemplating the complexities of their future. Weeks went by, as each busied themselves with preparations. Neither offered much in the way of opinions or suggestions, about their plight. Whether happy, contented or dismayed the other never really knew. It was just taken for granted they'd plotted a new course in their unconventional life. Fi settled into planning a nursery and shopping for baby things. She occasionally queried him about potential names, baby equipment, themes and colors. He acquiesced to all her decisions, afraid to upend their tentative truce.
A few weeks after learning of their life changes, Michael was deployed to parts unknown. They settled into their customary phone contact, upgraded now to weekly, but still devoid of specifics and locale. She updated him on medical appointments, scheduled tests and progress of the nursery. He'd been gone a month, when his handler unexpectedly called with news to contact his mother. When he was finally able to reach her, Maddie tearfully explained the situation regarding Fiona's medical complications and pregnancy loss. She rambled on about surgery, female things and procedures to remove dead tissue. Halfway through the conversation he tuned her out save for the most important detail, he needed to be with his wife.
He caught the first flight back to Miami, the mission placed on a temporary hold. He stumbled up the aircraft stairs with great difficulty, as exhaustion and emotional baggage weighed him down. He dropped into his first class seat sending a prayer of thanks to his handler. The flight attendant's gravelly voice blasted on the overhead dispensing the usual instructions and precautions given on every flight. He swore he could quote them from memory, but at the moment all he wanted was for her to shut-up. An hour into the flight, the same attendant circulated among the first class passengers offering free drinks and beverages. A strong scent of alcohol consumed the air combining with the stale smell of airline food, and his stomach began to lurch. Jumping from his seat, he flew to the front lavatory only to find himself at the back of a steady line of fellow travelers. When the bathroom door finally opened, he pushed himself ahead of the others, hand clamped over mouth, as he muttered his apologies. As the door locked behind him, he wretched over and over again emptying the sour contents of his stomach. Leaning heavily on the small sink, he rinsed cool water over his face and stared back at his pale reflection in the mirror. His detached spy façade slowly began to crack. He fell backward onto the toilet, releasing deep, soul wrenching sobs over their loss. He hadn't realized just how dear all the possibilities of their future had grown. His dreams of a daughter with her mother's beguiling eyes and quick wit, or a son with his persistence and fortitude crumbled into ashes on that small bathroom floor.
He silently cracked open the door to her hospital room at two the next morning, exhausted and emotionally spent from his long journey home. Sliding his duffle bag into a chair near the door, he tiptoed over to her bed and watched her sleep. Slivers of soft moonlight filtered through the blinds of the large window, allowing him to take in her delicate facial features long since tattooed on his heart. The chalky paleness of her skin was obvious to him even in the dim light. Her face blended into the stark white pillow beneath her head, offering a sharp contrast to the halo of dark curls spread out beside her. His eyes drifted downward to the mound of her body covered by a sheet, and he marveled at the smallness of her lithe form in the expanse of the hospital bed. Tears prickled at his eyes, but he sniffed them back, needing to be strong for her. He reached out gently caressing her cheek with the back of his fingers, when she stirred he pulled back, not wanting to rouse her from slumber. Her eyes blinked open and closed, adjusting to the faint light of the room, as she noted his silhouette in the shadows. She knew it was him even before he spoke, so accustomed to his form and scent, the beat of her heart called out in anticipation.
"Michael?" Her voice was faint and raspy, as she reached out for him.
He stepped closer still, his knees abutting the mattress. Reaching out to grasp her hand, he whispered back, "I'm here, Fi."
"Michael," her voice broke on a sob, as she tugged him closer, pulling him onto the bed. He toed off his shoes, sitting beside her on the mattress. She kept tugging his hand, rolling onto her side, until he was spooned behind her. He gingerly wrapped her in his arms, careful not to inflict more pain.
She clutched to his hand, pulling with all her might, tightening his embrace. Tucking her face to his hands, she kissed his skin. He could feel the dampness of her tears, as they dropped into his palm. He peppered the crown of hair with light kisses, not knowing what to say. They laid there as the minutes passed; the moonlight dancing in curvy lines across their intertwined bodies.
"It was a girl," she finally broke the engulfing silence of the dark room. Inhaling a deep shuddering breath, she cried out, "I'm soooo sorrrrry." She rolled into his chest, grasping at his sides.
"Sssh," he whimpered back, "…nooot yourrr fault."
They clung to one another, neither offering additional words of sympathy, seeking only the comfort of the other's touch. The footsteps and soft echoes of the hospital ward filtered in around them, creating a bizarre sort of lullaby. He pressed his lips to her hair in a running refrain timed to the odd music. Just has he felt her relax into sleep, he caught her breath in a whisper against his skin.
"What Fi?"
Her speech slurred as slumber nipped at the edges of her consciousness, and he had to cock his ear closer to her lips just to hear her sad prose. "Never know how…much…want…something…'til gone." He tightened his embrace at her heartbreaking words. "Really wanted…this…."
He closed his eyes to stifle his tears, as he whispered back, "I knooww."
Early the next morning the obstetrician came by making his rounds, a computer rover tethered to his side. Michael stepped out of the bathroom drying his face on a scratchy, hospital-issued white towel just as the physician had finished his exam and was lowering Fiona's gown back over her legs.
The doctor stood up, took a few steps toward Michael and peered over his glasses. Taking in the young man before him with a frown of disapproval the white haired gentleman finally spoke, "Well, it appears as if the happy wanderer is finally home. I was beginning to think you were just a myth," extending his white-coated arm, the physician introduced himself to Michael, all the while casting a light-hearted wink in Fiona's direction.
Michael bristled under the older man's stare, before deflecting his eyes in embarrassment. He wondered how many fathers the doctor actually met ahead of the delivery in the hospital. Before he could finish his thought, memories of Fiona's exasperated words echoed through his head chastising him for missing her recent ultrasound. Momentarily disconcerted, Michael excused himself to replace the hand towel back in the bathroom, while the older man flicked through the various windows of patient information on his portable computer screen.
Michael returned to the room in time to hear the doctor sigh, "Well Fiona, I'm afraid I won't be discharging you today. I hoped your repeat blood count would be better, but you're still very anemic. Even with the D&C, you still hemorrhaged more than I would've liked."
Michael drifted to Fi's side, reaching for her hand, "Is she going to be all right?"
The older gentleman nodded then cocked his head to the side, "Yes, she should be fine in time, but her blood count is a bit worrisome for now. We could try to wait it out and start supplemental iron, if you'd like, but it will take weeks before you notice any difference. Fiona, I'm afraid you're going to be quite exhausted." He glanced back to the computer screen and frowned again, "And your blood pressure is still rather low while you're laying flat, not to mention sitting up or standing."
"I'd really prefer to go home," Fi spoke out, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears. Michael reached for her hand giving it a squeeze.
Looking back to the obstetrician, Michael asked, "Is there any other way to get her home?"
"Well," the doctor rubbed a spot on his chin, "…we could give her some blood like I suggested last night. That would give her a boost, until the iron kicks in."
"Fi?" Michael gazed at his wife, not aware of the physician's previous recommendation.
Fiona dropped her head, "I didn't want…."
"But if it gets you home," he reached out to caress her cheek, raising her face in the process. She nodded her assent to the transfusion. Michael stared into her sorrowful eyes a second more, before turning back to the doctor. "Once she's had the transfusion, how soon until she can come home?"
The doctor typed in the orders as he spoke. "The nurse will be in shortly to obtain blood consent. It will probably take an hour or two to type and cross for the packed cells. She should receive the units this afternoon, but I'd like to keep an eye on her vital signs through the night. If there's no significant bleeding, her blood pressure stays up and her hematocrit is better tomorrow, then I'd say she can be discharged tomorrow morning." He closed the computer screen and motioned for Michael to follow him into the hall.
Fiona clutched at Michael's arm, none to happy to be left out of the conversation. He leaned forward to kiss her forehead then whispered, "I'll be right back," before stepping out of the room.
Once outside, the doctor gave Michael a list of instructions Fiona needed to follow, including having someone by her side for the next couple of weeks and inquired as to whether that was possible. Michael assured the physician there wouldn't be a problem. The elder man then offered his sympathy for the couple's loss. As the doctor turned to walk away, he pivoted back with an empathetic look. He explained to the younger man that it was unlikely they would be able to carry another child to term due to Fiona's age and history of bleeding. Michael nodded his understanding, his eyes drifting sadly to the floor. The doctor lifted a hand to Michael's shoulder and squeezed, as he uttered a soft apology.
When Michael came back into the room, Fiona immediately asked about the conversation, but he deterred her with the doctor's instruction of not being alone and needing help for the next two weeks. She pegged him with a look of doubt, but he smiled back, assuring her he wasn't going anywhere. As the morning progressed, Fi napped off and on, until lunch arrived. She turned up her nose at the hospital food. Just as the nurse had started her blood, Fi noticed Michael yawning from the adjacent chair. She convinced him to head home for a nap with instructions not to return before evening. He declined the suggestion until his mother arrived and offered to be his stand-in. As he gathered his things, Maddie stepped out to grab a cup of coffee, giving the couple a moment of privacy.
"Michael, can you do something for me," she whispered in a broken voice, as he leaned in for a kiss goodbye.
"Anything, Fi," he wiped away a tear as it broke free from the swell of her lashes.
"Clean out the nursery," she choked on the words.
"Fi," he couldn't hide the tears in his own voice.
"Please Michael," she played with the buttons of his shirt, "…I just can't come home to that room, knowing there will never be…."
He pulled her into his embrace, murmuring his reply, "Whatever you want, Fi. Whatever you want."
"Give," her voice quivered thick with emotion, "…give the thiiiiings…awaaaay to…charrrrity." She couldn't form another word.
Hugging her tight, he kissed her cheek, "How about the women's shelter." She nodded her agreement, and with one final kiss, he was gone.
He arrived home to a house that was way to quiet and empty without Fi there chattering about life in his absence, as she bustled about in her daily activities. He ditched his bag by the front door, as he watched the taxi pull out of the drive. Wandering through the front rooms, he took note of the stack of mail toppled sideways on his desk. He walked into the kitchen and flicked on the lights. Reaching into the fridge, he retrieved a cup of yogurt and a spoon from the nearby drawer. He trudged over to the French doors, his footsteps heavy with fatigue and stared out into the expanse of the backyard. The pool was crystal blue and shimmering in the afternoon sun. He caught sight of some newly planted flowers drooping in the Miami heat and made a note to water them before heading back to the hospital for the night. As the first bite of yogurt hit his tongue, his stomach churned in discontent. He walked back to the sink and washed the rest down the drain, setting the spoon onto the counter. He trekked back to the master bedroom to change into jeans and a t-shirt, as knowledge of his afternoon chore weighed heavy on his shoulders. He veered on his path to the closet for a quick shower hoping to revive some energy.
Finally clothed and standing outside the nursery, he peered around the cracked door. Fiona had wanted to keep it a surprise until finished. She had shared tidbits of information about the general design with him in their weekly phone calls, but no real details. He hadn't known what to expect, but the overwhelming emotion of his endeavor crushed at his chest, nearly stealing his breath away. Shaking his head in defeat at all the loss they'd endured over the last 10 years, he closed his eyes and pressed forward through the threshold. He stood absolutely still in the middle of the room, eyes still clenched tight, waiting for the dread to pass. Opening his eyes a few seconds later, he was immediately blinded by the rise of tears, as the details of their baby's room came into view. The walls had already been painted their base coat of warm cream, anxiously awaiting the mural Fiona was to select once they knew the gender of their child. A beautiful wooden crib was partially assembled in front of the expanse of double windows overlooking the backyard. Bookcases had been added on a sidewall and already held children's storybooks, a teddy bear and a smattering of snow globes. He wandered toward the glass balls taking note of their childhood theme of nursery rhymes. Opening a nearby closet, he found stacks of tiny diapers, small t-shirts and sleepers folded neatly among the side shelves and on the floor sat the two boxes of his old toys, a model airplane perched atop. He turned away from the treasures, which would never be used by their child. In a corner of the room was an old antique rocking chair, already sanded and refinished. He recognized the relic from their days in Ireland. The chair had belonged to Fi's grandmother. Sean had carefully restored the old heirloom, before shipping it stateside for another generation of Glenanne babies to be rocked off to sleep. Fi had mentioned the gift on their last phone call. He stared at the old rocker wondering when he'd become so sentimental. His thoughts drifted to his old trainer at Langley, and he chuckled thinking of the lecture he'd receive if the guys only knew. He cast off the thought as soon as it came; there was something to be said for ties of attachment and welcomed greetings on your arrival home. The now quiet house spoke volumes as to the despair of the alternative. He ran a finger over the soft finish of the old wood and set the chair to rocking. All it needed, he sadly mused, was Fiona gently singing as she nursed their child to sleep.
The ringing phone roused him from his thoughts. He pulled the cell from his pocket and took note of Sam's name and number. He clicked the button on to hear his friend expressing his deepest regrets and sympathies. As soon as Michael told him of his task, Sam offered a helping hand and disconnected before Michael could refuse. Between the two of them the bedroom was quickly cleared and loaded into the truck Sam had brought along. Waving goodbye with promises to return in a few days, Sam drove off to the shelter. Michael returned to the nursery to retrieve the remaining treasure. Lifting the rocker into his arms, he started off for the attic. There was no way he could part with the chair figuring Fiona would want the heirloom in her keeping, even if it was a long time in the future before it saw use.
He glanced at his watch, taking note of the time, as he headed back to the bedroom. He'd checked in with his mother only to learn Fi was still resting. He figured he had time to grab dinner from her favorite place, before heading back to spend the night. Packing a small overnight case with his essential toiletries, he rounded the doorway of his study in search of his keys. Opening the middle drawer of his desk, he found a thin wrapped package with his name affixed by a bow. He pulled out the gift immediately recognizing the insignia of an exclusive children's boutique stuck to the center of the ribbon. He debated with himself whether to open the gift then finally deciding it was best, as Fiona would be home the next day. Sliding a finger under the gold seal of the insignia, the paper simply fell away revealing a pink onesie with the words "Daddy's Girl" emblazed across the front. He stared at the tiny garment trying to imagine a life so small. Fingering the delicate weave of the cotton, his legs began to shake, before completely giving out. He fell to the floor, garment clutched in his hand, as his emotions crested and rolled over him in waves of never ending despair.
Fiona had been discharged as planned. Over the next few weeks, she was weak and clinically depressed. She took to spending hours and then days in bed, feigning exhaustion and loss of appetite. He remained supportive, taking over the household tasks, cooking, cleaning and shopping, all the while arranging a caseload he could easily handle from home. His superiors expressed dismay, clearly not happy with altering their plans for collection of intel. He reminded them of his dedication throughout the years, despite being abandoned, as well as, his efforts to bring down their fiercest foe. He listened to their ongoing complaints and threats, all the while, declaring his wife came first. As he watched over Fi in her fragile state, he thought it best not to mention the conversation with her physician or to remove all thoughts of hope. He just quietly went about day-to-day life never wallowing in his own pain or feelings of loss, except in those rare moments away from his wife. He never wanted her to feel guilt or any personal responsibility for their loss. Fate had spoken and a life they'd never consciously chosen had been cut off. As the weeks passed, they slowly and meticulously extinguished all utterances of words like baby, pregnancy and loss from their daily conversation.
Eight weeks after the miscarriage, Michael was dispatched to D.C. to serve as a local trainer for the next few months. Figuring it was much closer than worlds unknown, he jumped at the chance. Fiona called him out of the blue and announced it was time to start trying again. They were not getting any younger and her pregnancy would remain high-risk, her excuses fluttered like butterflies across the line. He couldn't bring himself to shatter her dream, so he dutifully traveled home for weekends and short day jaunts. Their lives turned into calendars, schedules and "ideal" times. Long awaited romantic interludes were cast aside in favor of spurts of duty and responsibility. Their relationship took another hit as intimacy and love gave way to fertility demands.
Suddenly six months into the process of trying to conceive, it dawned on him he hadn't received his monthly phone call. He arranged for a week's vacation, his arrival home completely unplanned. He found Fi napping in the middle of the day or so he thought. She was reclined on her chaise lounge, blinds drawn and bedroom nearly dark. He deposited his luggage in the master closet and was about to leave the room, when he heard her soft cries.
"Fi?" He called out, circling back to her side.
"Michael, what are you doing here?" She cleared her throat and fumbled to wipe the tears from her eyes.
"I took the week off to spend with you." He sat down beside her. "I hadn't heard from you in a while."
Her gaze dropped to a small pink blanket clutched in her hands. "There wasn't a point," she mumbled softly and turned her head to look away.
"What do you mean?" He reached up to caress her cheek, but she pulled away.
"I saw a specialist last week," she drew in a shuddering breath, "…it's not going to work out for us." She caught his stunned look from the corner of her eye and grasped his hand, hurrying on in her explanation. "About the pregnancy…a baby…it's never going to be."
A tear slid down her cheek and he gently dabbed it away, "Oh Fi, I'm so sorry."
She shrugged, fighting back her emotions, "It's wasn't you…it's my fault."
He drew her into his arms, hugging her tightly, as she cried, "It's okay…it's okay…." He whispered in a quiet refrain.
When the last of her tears had died out, she pulled away and flashed him an unconvincing slight smile, "I guess you can't mourn what you never intended to be."
He graced her with his own weak smile and nodded a stilted reply, "Guess not." His hand brushed against the pile of the pink baby blanket. He lifted the corner of the coverlet stroking his thumb over the soft satin edging. "What's this," he asked, confused by its presence. He was sure he had collected all the treasured baby items after that horrible night.
"Nothing," she hopelessly feigned ignorance, all the while drawing the soft cloth from his hands.
He reached out to halt her frantic movements, "It's okay, Fi. It's just that I thought I got all the babbbb…," the word died on his tongue.
"It wasn't hers," she rushed out on an anguished gust of soft air, tucking more and more of the blanket against her chest. "Please don't take it!"
"Fiiiii, I'm not going to…wait, who's is it?" His thoughts changed course with his vacillating emotions. He suddenly took note of initials embroidered in white thread on the corner covered by her hand. Small rosebuds, leaves and vines intertwined and wrapped round the three cursive letters. He squinted in the dim light, but all he could clearly discern was the delicate script of a "C" and an "A." Her fingers splayed out obscuring the details from his probing eyes, as she finally wrenched the blanket from his grasp.
"It was Claire's," she gushed, before he could probe deeper. She held the pink blanket to her cheek, absorbing the tears as they fell.
He sighed his understanding, lifting a finger to stroke the wisps of dark curls from her eyes. "I guess," he ducked his head trying to capture her gaze, "…it only makes sense that all the recent events would remind you of other losses."
"Yeesss," she closed her eyes, as her tears continued one by one.
He sat with her for several minutes, running his fingers through her hair, until her tears subsided and she yawned, exhausted from all the emotional turmoil.
"Tired?" She nodded her reply. He was about to suggest a nap, when he took note of the time. "Have you eaten today?" Her "no" was barely audible. He stood up and leaned forward, kissing her cheek, "How about I make you a cup of your favorite tea and a sandwich?"
"Grilled Cheese?" Her eyes momentarily lit up in anticipation. He nodded with a grin; it was one of her favorite comfort foods.
As he turned to walk away, she called out, "Four kinds of cheese and Irish butter?"
"Always," he chuckled, "…I know just how you like it!" And he did! It was one of the first "delicacies" he had mastered back in their early days in Ireland.
As he milled about the kitchen, his mind wandering back to her declaration of finality in pursuit of their baby dreams. He was determined not to allow her to accept fault. It didn't matter who was physically responsible for their new reality; he knew deep down he was as much to blame as her, maybe even more. If only he'd brought her with him from Ireland, committed to her sooner, or been man enough to raise the question of her desire for a family all those years before. She was right in her slurred assertion on that miserable night, you don't know what you want, until the possibility is gone.
Flipping her sandwich onto the delicate china plate she so loved when feeling ill; he reached for the matching cup and saucer and arranged them all carefully on a wicker bedside tray. He added a Waterford goblet filled with her favorite spring water and topped with a slice of lime, then went in search of their finest Irish linens, all wedding gifts from her folks. Finding the desired linens scattered among their silverware, serving pieces and other dining paraphernalia in the large buffet, he clumsily folded the napkin into something resembling a bird. Or maybe it was a reptile. He laughed at his futile attempt then grabbed a place setting of their best silver to complete the effect. If anyone was in need of special pampering, it was his wife. He lifted the tray from the counter and headed back to their master suite. He found her sound asleep in her favorite chair, pink blanket nowhere in sight. He sighed in disappointment, as he stared down at his gourmet feat of love. Placing the serving tray aside, he tugged a cashmere throw from the foot of their bed and placed it over her small form. He stood there in amazement, as he gazed at her in the dim filtered light. She always looked so small and delicate when sleeping; it was hard to reconcile that current childlike form with her larger-than-life persona while awake. He kneeled down to trace a fingertip over her cheek then followed it with the softest caress of his lips.
"Sleep well, Fi," he whispered, as he carried the lunch tray from the room then added those rarely spoken words, "…I love you."
During his week of vacation, Fiona became more withdrawn and despondent, spending days in her favorite chair in the bedroom. He suggested speaking with her physician or a counselor from the shelter. She refused claiming no need. Small disagreements escalated unnecessarily to wars. On the rare occasions they communicated without having words, he noticed the life had gone out of her eyes. And his guilt further spread, germinated and grew. The day before he was to travel back to Washington, he received a phone call from his handler. He was being dispatched on an assignment to Western Europe. He argued his case to stay close to home, but his words no longer held weight. He was ordered to go or suffer disciplinary action. When he related the information to Fi, she offered nary a word of complaint, simply tuning him out in favor of her private world of torment and hell.
Attempts to engage her in discussion during rare phone calls, failed miserably. He often found her hard to locate during convenient moments, suspecting she was screening her calls. Their frequent hits or misses, eventually turned into infrequent attempts to maintain any form of communication. He felt guilty as hell for leaving her, and even more, for her current plight. The end of her family dreams was the fourth major loss attributable directly to him, or so he believed. As worries about her increasingly consumed his thoughts, his focus on the assignment waned. He was reprimanded for being cavalier and disjointed, as key mission details were ignored or missed. His base of operation was shifted from the Baltics to Venezuela, as they tracked the sale of Soviet arms. It was while strolling down the streets of Porto La Cruz his worst nightmare came true. He was busy courting his most recent contact, the niece of the arms dealer in question, when they bumped into Fiona. His quick response was the only thing, which saved the mission, but he paid for it in spades. He swore the look of betrayal in Fi's eyes would haunt him to his grave.
He'd been unable to get clearance long enough to contact her, until a break in the case some fours days later. When he arrived home just before 2 a.m., he felt decidedly uncomfortable invading her personal space until he'd had a chance to explain. That decision was followed by an unfortunate encounter the following morning, which placed them both on edge. He'd offered to fix breakfast while she showered and changed. They spent a few tense moments at the table, before fate stepped in and offered them a second chance. Despite their loving reunion, they were nervous and uncomfortable in the presence of the other. He resorted to sleeping in the guest room more nights than not, as he was consumed with guilt and the need to regain her trust. Three weeks later he was gone again to parts unknown, neither of them confident in the stability of their marriage.
The next eight months away were even rockier than the six before. His handler was riding his six at every turn. They were so close to gaining the confidence of the man at the top. A 2 year endeavor to break a major international weapons ring and he couldn't keep his head in the game. He'd only had contact with Fi twice in the entire eight months. Calls placed to Sam and his mother had confirmed his worst suspicions and worries. Fiona had closed herself off from most of her family and friends. Sam was the only one able to maintain contact, by feigning the need for assistance with Elsa's care. Michael felt terrible troubling his friend with their problems, especially since Elsa was now terminal, but he couldn't seem to devise any other way to keep tabs on his wife. Sam shrugged off all Michael's apologies, due to his own concern for Fiona's well being. And from that point on, everything else in Michael's life spiraled out of control.
'*'
Michael shook away the jarring cobwebs, which had taken over his mind. The ice pack on his right shoulder was long since thawed and warmed. He rotated his arm trying to relax the taut muscles, before the pain of movement screamed back. Trips down memory lane tended to leave him tense and unsettled. He reached into his bottom desk drawer retrieving a dog-eared file. Opening the front flap, he read over the single-spaced first paragraph of the document printed on official 8-1/2 X 11 government paper:
The intensive uncertainty and pressures surrounding Agent Westen's personal life directly lead to his inability to properly gather and interpret facts and data garnered from his own procured source. Failure of Agent Westen to follow agency hierarchy and protocol placed both his coworkers and himself at lethal risk, and directly jeopardized the successful completion of a two-year covert operation.
The words in the after-action report didn't do justice to the frightening sequence of events, which transpired on that hot August day in a New York City warehouse. He'd failed to properly vet the allegiance of his contact. The team had been caught unaware, as gunfire rang out from a rival gang of weapons dealers. Thankfully, he'd been the only one seriously injured. He'd survived, but the mission had nearly been lost. As it was, it was going to take his replacement months to regain the necessary trust of the weapons cartel. He had been reprimanded and placed on desk duty pending further investigation. His handler had been fired for his lack of supervision in failing to recognize Michael's precarious emotional state, as well as, for leaking Fiona information.
"Fiii," his voice echoed within the confines of the small windowless office, she had been the party most harmed by his lack of self-assessment and control. He could still see the pain in her eyes as he threw her out of his hospital room, shouting obscenities and innuendoes. She understood his need to preserve his cover and apologized for her role in the disaster, but her eyes still betrayed her shattered emotions. And par for their course of late, he'd compounded their misery by lying all blame for his failures at her feet. To that current day, she still had no idea of his tenuous status with the agency. His guilt had become so unbearable, he couldn't stand to gaze at her sad countenance or broken eyes anymore. He'd jumped at the chance to transfer to London, knowing she'd be unable to follow him there. He had prayed every night for the last month, asking God to grant him more time and with it, the healing of their relationship. He remembered telling her once, if she really cared about him, she should damn well want what he wanted for himself. She'd given him her full support just as he demanded. He had managed to find his way back to the agency, to the "life he wanted for himself," but just what had that gotten him or them and most especially her? She'd lost her country, her relatives, her freedom, her livelihood and a chance at a family. Not even remotely a fair trade in his jaded estimation.
He tossed the action report file aside and lifted the divorce papers off the desk. Flipping to the last page, he recognized the scrolling details of her cursive signature. Briskly rubbing the fingers of his left hand across his forehead in a vain attempt to quell the burgeoning headache, he shuffled through the top desk drawer in search of a pen. Writing implement poised with tip to paper, he just couldn't make himself sign his name to a document declaring the end to all their dreams. Frustration then took hold, as he sought another way to reach her, to repair their life. He refused to give up on the woman he had loved for most all of his adulthood. Throwing the pen across the room, he shoved the papers aside, toppling the entire contents of his desktop onto the floor. As paperwork and correspondence rained down upon him, he reached futilely to collect the mess. It was then he noticed a folded manila envelope leaning against the far wall, separate from the rest. He wheeled his chair to the spot and retrieved the envelope, immediately noting Fiona's unique script. He stared at the word written in big letter across the front. Is that what she thought? He derided himself for remaining silent. All his attempts to hide his guilt only led her to believe he didn't care at all.
"Apathy," he spoke the word out loud. Apathy? She couldn't be more wrong!
He checked his watch realizing it was almost noon. He'd spent nearly two hours lost in his trip down memory lane. Calculating the time difference, he figured Fi was probably up. Pulling the cell phone from his pocket, he quickly hit number 1 on the speed dial. Their home phone began to ring, but quickly went to voicemail. Disconnecting the line, he hit number 2 for her cell, receiving the same response.
"Damn," he mumbled under his breath. He didn't know if she was preoccupied or screening her calls. He tossed the cell onto his desk and headed out to the general office, in search of more coffee. He nearly collided with his assistant, as he exited his door. Another expletive escaped his lips. Clearly his agitation was getting the best of him. He quietly apologized for his outburst and stepped aside, allowing her to enter his office with yet another stack of paperwork. He rolled his eyes wishing the day would just end. As he arrived in the kitchenette and reached for the coffee pot, his hand began to shake. He realized his current stress level was already heightened due to his urgent need to reach Fi and opted for bottled water, instead of more caffeine.
As he dropped back into his chair, he took note of the most recent updates by Interpol to their "Wanted Persons" list sitting atop his ever-growing pile of papers. He lifted the stack of posters and slowly thumbed through the pictures of the usual suspects. As he reached the bottom page, he took note of a new name and face. The criminal had escaped confinement just three days prior. He jumped to his feet spilling the posters onto the floor. Reaching for his phone, he frantically dialed the first two numbers of his call list in rapid succession. Fingers began tearing at his hair, as he tried again and again with no answer. The sting of tears burned in his eyes, as fear etched deep on his face. He threw the cell on his desktop, and dropping his face into his hands, he screamed one name at the top of his voice.
"Fi!"
'***'
To be continued…
'**********'
AN: I know I've written Michael as being very reserved in his outward demonstration of emotions. With his childhood history of abuse, I think that portrayal is accurate. He learned from a very young age to keep his emotions to himself, and that lesson would have been reinforced in the military, and most especially the CIA. I have family members who came from abusive homes. The one unique feature I find common to them is the internal "need" or "drive" to be reserved in both their verbal and physical emotional displays. That's not to say they can't be expressive, but often times, it takes someone else making the first move, before they feel comfortable enough to reciprocate in like kind. I'm not sure if it's due to a fear of rejection, because rejection was something they certainly experienced during their childhood. With my family members, for example, I make sure I ALWAYS say, "I love you," when we end a phone conversation. They will usually reply in like kind, but there is often a surprised delay in their response, ("Ohhh…I love you too!) I have no doubt they are VERY SINCERE in their love, so that isn't the issue. In their childhood, they were brought up rarely hearing or saying those words, so those important 3 words (I LOVE YOU) are rarely the first things off their tongue. They certainly mean them when they say them…their actions demonstrate that! But it is still hard for them to say "I love you," hence my desire to end our calls in that fashion. I think everyone should hear those special words from their loved ones. We never know when it might be our last chance. I don't want to miss my last chance to express my love, nor do I want those close to me to ever regret missing out on their chance to do the same.