Stone of the Heart
The Last Supper
Michael Westen's feet pounded along the pavement. He used the time to think, grieve, and truth be known, hide. The anonymity of a lone runner, the moisture on his face easily dismissed as sweat, the physicality of pushing himself beyond limits, all gave a temporary outlet for his despair. His run lasted much longer than usual. He wished he could run forever, escape the hell that he found himself in. Love nothing and nothing can be used against you. He had broken that commandment and now he would suffer the consequences. She was no longer an asset, no longer an operative. She was leverage. However much he wanted to deny the inevitable, Card was right - he needed to leave.
Some people greeted love with open arms, comforted in its embrace. But love for him, rather than being a romantic sonnet was more akin to an Irish ballad, soulful and filled with regret. It hadn't worked even within his own family. He 'loved' his mother but instead of demonstrating his affection with cards and visits, he spent years trying to protect her, mostly from his own father, often with consequences to himself. During his adult years, he avoided her. A part of that action was operational; keeping apart increased her chances of remaining untouched by his chosen profession. But another part, the part Michael Westen was loathe to acknowledge, was that it kept him somewhat free of the past, free from emotional entanglements. He 'loved' his brother, which usually consisted of keeping him out of jail, trying to remedy one of his hare brained schemes. And now there was Fiona ... It seemed that the only way that Michael could show his love was by protecting those he cared about, by keeping his distance, by refusing to acknowledge that he had needs of his own. All that sacrifice eventually makes a stone of the heart.
Michael had opened his heart to this woman, something he had avoided for most of his life. Now, he wished he had not. The temporary joy did not outweigh the endless loss. It only made him feel it more keenly. After this was over, the spy determined not to be lured into this trap again. He would return to being the Michael Westen that existed before this mission in Ireland, before his heart knew real love, an efficient operative who used logic and skill to succeed in the field, whose life was his work and who did not need a personal life to interfere with his calling. It was a hard way to live but there was a cold logic to it.
Those were thoughts for the future, however. It could not help him now in his present situation. He needed to concentrate on the next few hours. He weighed his options, none of them were ideal.
He could tell her the truth that his time here had come to a close. He could watch the light fade from her eyes, knowing he was the cause. It would likely lead to slamming door, angry words, a physical confrontation that may end with both of them in bed but little happiness or satisfaction at its conclusion. Of course, with Fiona, it was always possible it would end with a bullet as well as a kiss. The positive point of that outcome is that she could inform her associates that she uncovered his deception, took care of the problem herself. It would smooth the way for her to develop a future business relationship with the Ukrainian when he arrived.
He could invent another 'emergency' that would necessitate a 'temporary' exit. It did not guarantee that Fiona would act any differently as she would likely remember the last time he had used that excuse. She would probably overreact especially as he had promised there would be no more lies between them.
The American recalled that awful dinner, the one he thought would be their last together, the one before he left for Dublin and she discovered the truth. He had been distracted, somewhat brooding, as he pretended all was as it should be, his mood telling a much different tale. She was anxious, annoyed at his aloofness, wondering at the cause for this distance between them. He remembered the fear that this unhappy scene would be his last memory of their time together, the profound sadness of the moment after so much joy. He was determined not to repeat the incident, determined that it would be her smile that would be forever etched in his memory.
Neither scenario could prevent the pain from their impending separation. So, he pondered a third option. He could pretend all was well. He could show her how much he cared, how much their time together meant to him, how he wished he could be someone else, someone who could stay by her side and create a joined life. He could once again lie, deceive her. After all, he was a spy. That's who he really was. At the end of the day, would she really be surprised?
The longer he mulled over his choices, his certainty grew. He would paste a smile on his face, cover the pain within, and make their last hours together as normal as possible. He realised this plan was self-serving. He wanted a last day with her filled with joy and passion, her eyes alight, the hope of a future burning within them. He would seal these last images to memory, the time he had loved, the time he had her. Michael Westen, former Army Ranger, CIA operative, was about to face his most difficult undercover assignment yet. He steeled his resolve, pushing aside regret and remorse, and mentally prepared himself for the mission ahead.
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His feet were leaden as he made his way back to the cottage, his chest tight. He stared at the structure catching a glimpse of her in the window. He shuddered slightly, then took a deep breath, and steeled himself for what was to come. He buried himself as much as possible, transforming into Michael McBride once more, carefree and romantic; this time without a lilt to his speech. A final use of the cover ID he had created, one that would be soon discarded along with the new life he had created here in Ireland. He strode to the door with purpose and regret.
"Well, there ya are. Ya took quite a long run. I was beginning to think ya weren't coming back." Fiona greeted her partner upon his return. Michael inwardly winced at her words.
"Just needed the exercise. We've been cooped up here awhile." Michael grabbed a water and moved closer. Her nose wrinkled as he approached. "And now I need a shower." Fiona nodded in agreement as Michael moved toward the bath. He turned round, a glint in his eye as he reached the doorway, and posed a question. "Care to join me?"
Fiona looked somewhat surprised. It was the type of overture that she usually made, more unusual for him to be so spontaneous. "Suppose ya need someone to scrub yer back?"
Michael nodded, his smile wide and inviting. "Among other things." Fiona soon joined him, her grin as broad as his own. She looked at her lover thinking about how far their relationship had come, how despite the way it began it had grown into this: a life shared, intimate on so many levels. The moved in unison toward the bath. The last day had begun.
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The rest of the day passed by in a blur. The minutes passed all too swiftly, Michael wishing that he could somehow slow the passage of time. He suggested an outing to a nearby gun range citing the need for practice, not wanting his skills to wane through lack of practice. Fiona jumped at the opportunity. Her partner was often reluctant to demonstrate his expertise in this area. He feared that others might take notice and question exactly how he came by such proficiency. But, at this juncture, the point was moot. He would be gone by tomorrow, so he could indulge in an activity they would both enjoy and give them a focus that did not rely completely on conversation, fearing his words may give him away.
Wagers were placed on their marksmanship, the two often competitive about their skills. The winner may claim bragging rights, but the truth of it was that the type of prize demanded by the victor would be thoroughly enjoyed by both parties. At the end, Fiona topped the competition and vowed to collect her due by night's end. Michael, of course, would comply. After all, there would be no other opportunity to reward her victory. The morning was already spent.
A local market was in full swing as they made their way back to the cottage, Fiona anxious to stop and pick up some fresh produce for the evening meal since her partner preferred to dine at home. Michael was still insistent they keep a low profile, or at the very least stay away from town. He did not mention that he did not want to share her with the world, not tonight of all nights.
"Thought I'd cook tonight, if that's alright with you?" Michael pushed the question as they strolled along the stands filled with the bounty of the season.
Fiona pursed her lips as she mulled over his suggestion. "That depends. Are ya planning a meal that comes out of a jar or a carton?" She had her fill of yoghurt during their self-imposed isolation.
Michael shook his head. "No, a real meal, my favourite, in fact." His smile turned wide belying his tortured soul.
"All these weeks and this is the first I'm hearing about the fact that ya can cook? Ya guarded that secret more than the other. What else are ya keepin' from me?" She winked before grabbing some lettuces and tomatoes. Michael felt a surge of guilt and quickly began scanning the produce, anything to avoid her eyes, giving himself a moment to recover. "And what will ya be making for 'dinner'?" She used the word purposefully now, a small gesture of acceptance of who the man was and where he was from.
"Tuna with tahini. Learned how to make it when I was in ... some other country." Michael was still circumspect with the details of his past.
"I suppose ya made it for yer asset there." The woman probed, unsure if she really wanted to know the answer.
The spy satiated her curiosity. "His name was Waseem and I think the only meal we shared consisted of dates and some tea." She smiled shyly as she slipped her arm through his and they wandered through the market, gathering ingredients, nibbling on samples, enjoying the waning hours of the afternoon. The hours were dwindling as they made their way homeward together for the final time.
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Dusk fell, the growing darkness matching Michael's mood though he disguised it well. They worked side-by-side, sipping wine, as they prepared the meal, the last one they would share. Fiona acted as sous chef, prepping ingredients, following Michael's directions.
The spy managed to conceal his distress, her easy banter and laughter urging him on to continue his deception. Nothing would eliminate tomorrow's anguish, but at least they had tonight.
Fiona noticed that her partner seemed more relaxed throughout the day as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. She attributed it to the satisfactory resolution for at least a portion of his mission. Hannon was no longer able to ply his trade. His main distributer on the continent was in cuffs. There was only one loose end, but from the man's ease she wondered if he had received more information that he had yet to share. She decided to broach the subject hoping it would not alter the mood of the evening. "How long do ya think we need to keep a low profile? I was hoping to go into town soon."
Michael plastered a false smile on his face. "Coupla days. Should be fine."
"Have ya heard about Marchuk, then? Is he not coming?" Her voice was hopeful, wondering if this last impediment to happiness was no longer a threat.
"Whether or not he comes, well, it's irrelevant now." Michael smiled, allaying Fiona's concerns. She assumed that he received news from his contact, news that the threat had been neutralised.
"So, tonight, tis a celebration of sorts?" Fiona slipped her arms around his waist, hungry for more than tuna tahini.
"Of sorts." Part of that statement was true. He wanted to celebrate their love, this woman who had given him a chance at normal, regretting that their time together was far too brief, and far too complicated. He wished he could somehow change the course of time; arrange to meet her in thirty years, if they were still both alive. He would like to grow old with this woman, but some wishes can never be granted.
Fiona asked her next question hesitantly. "What now? Will they send ya somewhere else?"
The spy skilled at deception shrugged his shoulders. "They still want info about the IRA, about where the guns will go. Luckily, I have an asset that may be able to help me in that arena." He kept his tone light, a grain of truth planted within the lie.
Fiona leaned against his shoulder and raised a glass to toast the statement. "Touché."
The meal was soon prepared. Michael had even set the table with care. He picked a few blossoms from the garden, knowing Fi's fondness for flowers. He gathered a few of the candles she had scattered about the cottage and placed them on the table. They ate by candlelight. Fiona believed it to be a romantic gesture. Michael planned it as a tactical manoeuvre, the weak light disguising his increasing unease, the shadow that was descending upon his face.
Michael poured wine liberally, drinking little himself, but if Fiona noticed, she made no mention of it. They talked about a variety of subjects. The American told a few stories about past humorous encounters in the field, both operatives laughing at the ineptitude of others. It was a conversation he could have with few others, especially with a woman, but this woman was so like any other.
Dinner, the last supper, was over all too soon. Fiona rose, picking up the empty plates. "Well, that was delicious. I'll do the washing up since ya did the rest."
Michael stood up quickly. "Leave it." He took the dishes from her hands, set them down, and reached for her. "I'm always up earlier than you. I'll do them in the morning. It will be spotless, like this never happened." A pang of remorse accompanied this line of truth.
His lips sought hers and their passion ignited. There would be no hurried lovemaking on this night. Michael wanted these next moments to last forever; these would be the memories to sustain him through all the lonely nights that were to follow. Their bodies and their hearts moved in synchronicity. Fiona did not need violent foreplay with this man. Their very relationship provided that! There was tenderness and abandon. And when restraint was no longer possible, or desired, there was release.
His arms encircled her, savouring these last moments, the last seconds before the ultimate betrayal. Soon, she would drift off to sleep. He needed to act before that happened. The spy slipped from the bed, soon returning with bottle of champagne and two glasses. One of the flutes had been prepared for something other than toasting, a strong sedative spread along its interior, odourless, tasteless, and unexpected. "I almost forgot." Michael popped the cork, a bit of the bubbly escaping onto the duvet.
Fiona giggling like a love struck teen moved quickly and reached for the glass her lover had prepared for her. "Well, aren't ya full of surprises today."
"You have no idea." He held out his glass.
"Ya have to make a toast, ya do, after all this." She stared at him wide eyed, refusing to drink until he complied.
Michael's throat was constricting. He was barely holding it together but she was not to be denied. "To new beginnings."
"New beginnings." She repeated the words. Glasses clinked and the American chugged the drink. Fiona followed suit. Michael needed to avoid any type of conversation now. He could feel his heart breaking; words were impossible, and pointless. No explanation could ever undo his actions. He fell into her arms one last time and let the world slip away once more.
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It was well past midnight. The moonlight filtered into the bedroom so Michael was able to study her face. Her breathing was deep and heavy. He monitored her pulse for any signs of distress, but she seemed to be handling the sedative. He could avoid his task no longer. He freed himself from their coupling, the warmth of her embrace, and stood immobile watching to see if she would stir. She turned slightly, her hand instinctively reaching for him, but she touched only air.
The American spy set about his task, to wipe away his presence, to make it appear as if he had never been in this place, to be naught but a spectre. He packed his few possessions, clothes, toiletries, any paperwork he had devised. He wiped down all solid surfaces with a bleach mixture. He returned the cottage to its original purpose: a personal retreat for a solitary female. A part of him hoped that this place would find joy within its walls once again, that its owner would find a love that was more steadfast and permanent. He knew that he would not.
He glanced outside the window. The sky just was beginning to lighten. He could delay no longer. His task complete, it was time. He returned once more to the bedroom, nearing where she was sleeping. A sad smile graced his face as he gently stroked her cheek. A last touch. A last glance.
All was ready for his final departure. Michael Westen closed the door firmly behind him and erased himself from her life.