/NOAA Office of Satellite Operations, internal report 1.17a.14.06.98: Goiania, Brazil. 00:01:01 local time, lost contact with satellite D1937bx approx. 62 min. Feed restored 01:02:58. Cause of glitch unknown; possibly due to interference from increased solar activity.

Of note: reports coming out of Goiania claim that beginning shortly after midnight, the moon appeared to "vanish" and has not been visible for the past three hours. Last confirmed visual was approx. 00:02:00; waning quarter, altitude 36 degrees at heading 97 degrees E. Observation stations at Fortaleza, Brazil and Cordoba, Argentina, report nothing unusual; all systems functional./

Brigid had just closed the last set of blinds when she heard voices in the back hallway. The group of men were exiting the office. The two who Dillon had brought, she didn't know; behind them came Dennis, a friend of James'. Bringing up the rear were James and Dillon. They were talking together, and their smiles looked amicable enough, she saw with relief.

"Bridey!" Dillon turned his broad smile on her when they reached the bar. "Aren't you a sight!"

God, how she'd loved that smile. Seeing it again drove Jack Simon's visit straight out of her mind. Laughing, she threw her arms around Dillon. He lifted her off her feet, and squeezed her so tight that she thought her ribs might crack. The feel of his arms, the scent of his aftershave, flooded her with a torrent of memories of warm summer days and even warmer nights. He kissed her cheek and set her back down. His hands remained affectionately on her waist.

"Gorgeous as ever, love." Dillon reached up and fingered the material of her sleeve, and his musical, Ulster-accented voice took on a more somber tone. "Still in black, then? How many is it, now - seventeen?"

He remembered even better than she did. Her voice caught in her throat, and she nodded, aware of James' eyes on them. Brigid took a couple of steps to the side, away from Dillon's touch and closer to James.

Dillon didn't miss her meaning. "I like your boys here - but you were always a good judge of character. Why didn't you come join us? I was waiting for you," he said with a significant look that she pretended not to notice.

"Last customer just left," Brigid said. She put her hand on her hip. "You took your time getting here, Dillon Fitzgerald - are you going to just walk out the front door now, in plain sight?"

He shrugged easily. "No worries, love. Sure, and we were careful on the way down; no one saw us."

No one needed to see you; he was already here waiting, she wanted to tell him. Wanted to, but couldn't.

"Bridey, this is Patrick Reynolds and Brent Davis," Dillon said, gesturing to each of his friends in turn. "They used to run with Charlie's crew - you remember him, sure? He's locked up down in Dublin now, of course. Patrick's sister Gwenith married his boy, Tim. Tim's with us too, you'll see him again, when you three come down t'Southall."

Brigid smiled. One big family - it seemed nothing had changed. She nodded at Patrick and Brent. "Glad."

Brent gave her a wide grin. "We've heard a lot of you, Brigid."

God, what's he said? She laughed lightly, and tucked her arm around James'. "Stay for a pint, will you?"

To her relief, Dillon shook his head. "'Nother time, Bridey. I've got business to attend first thing in the morning. We'll have time to catch up later." He gave her another look, then said, "Come on lads."

The three men took their leave with friendly nods and goodbyes to James, Dennis, and Brigid. James removed Brigid's arm from his with unexpected stiffness, and locked the door behind them.

"Damn," Dennis said, "this is the real deal, innit. I'll take that pint, Bridge, if you're still offering."

"Sure." She returned to her place behind the bar, and filled a glass for him. James followed and took a whiskey glass from the shelf. "How'd the meeting go, then?" she asked carefully.

James poured out a measure from his favorite brand of whiskey, the one that he reserved for close friends, special occasions - or when he was, as she called it, 'in a mood'. Dennis had an eye on him as well, she noticed.

"You sound Irish all of a sudden," James said, then took a drink.

She raised an eyebrow. "Well I am Irish. You know that. So're you."

"I mean, you sound Irish."

She realized then that she'd not switched back to her London accent after speaking with Simon. It had felt so natural with Dillon that she hadn't noticed. Had she ever used her native speech with James? She must not have…she'd been using the false accent when she'd first met him; he'd been raised in South London, and there was only a trace of Irish in his voice.

Dennis jumped in then. "The meeting went well though, didn't it. Brigid, you told us you'd known Fitzgerald, but you never said how important to the organization you were!"

Brigid smiled, and went back around the counter to sit next to Dennis at the bar. She tried to ease back into a London accent without making it appear that that was what she was doing. "Did he say I was important? I wasn't, not really. I just ran interference on some missions, and helped build a bomb or two."

"Is that all?" Dennis laughed. "He told us some stories - you were in the center of it, the real center. On the streets of Belfast, fighting for freedom from the English, giving as good as you got - God I wish I'd been there!" His eyes had that fevered light that Brigid had seen so many other young men's eyes: full of glory and honor. Fantasies.

James' expression, on the other hand, was only growing darker. She thought she saw what was bothering him now. James, Dennis, and a few of their friends had been part of a small Nationalist group in London several years ago when they were students. They had done more talking and arguing than acting. When they did finally decide to act, they weren't prepared, and it went wrong. A police officer was injured; James had been positively identified as being involved, and a warrant was put out for his arrest. He hadn't been willing to go to jail for his ideals, so he'd changed his name and quietly moved to Chiswick to start over.

She'd gotten the confession out of him late one night, when they'd all had a round after closing. He and Dennis had started reminiscing about their glory days, and how much they detested the peace talks and continued English presence in their homeland - the homeland that none of them had ever seen, being of Irish-Catholic descent but born in England. Brigid then admitted to her own involvement in the Nationalist movement in Belfast, but she downplayed it to the point where her experience was no different from theirs; all she'd been looking for was a way to connect with James. They were both idealists, outlaws on the run but in no real danger. It was romantic. And safe.

He must think that she'd been looking down on him all this time, because she'd actually done what he and his friends had only daydreamed about.

"Sure he made it sound more exciting than it was," she told Dennis.

James was pouring out another measure of whiskey; he kept his eyes fixed on the glass. "Seventeen," he said.

Brigid and Dennis both looked at him blankly.

"Seventeen," James repeated, and took a swallow of the strong liquor. "He was talking about your tattoo, wasn't he. You've got sixteen now, and you're going to go get the seventeenth in a couple of weeks, even though Dr. Holmes said that you shouldn't."

Brigid's hand drifted to the neckline of her shirt, which bared the top of her breast and most of the pink-tinged jasmine blossom that was tattooed over her heart. "He said that it wasn't harmful, so long as it doesn't get infected - we've already had this discussion."

"He said not to do it! And we have had this discussion, but this isn't what I'm discussing! You say you haven't seen Fitzgerald in over a decade; how does he know exactly - exactly - how many of those flowers you have?"

Next to her, Dennis stepped down from the chair and quietly made his way to the door to let himself out. Brigid didn't blame him. "He took me to get the first one when I was seventeen," she said, trying and failing to keep the anger from her voice. "And I added one every year he knew me. It wasn't hard for him to guess that I keep getting them - he was counting years, is all."

James set his glass down so hard that whiskey sloshed out. "But why? Why do you get one every year - I ask, and you never tell me. You never tell me anything - what your family was like, what you were doing all those years before you showed up here, that you built bombs for the Cause or were - and still are, obviously - a close, personal friend of Dillon Fitzgerald!"

"Because that's all in the past!" Her voice was barely less than a shout. "None of that matters anymore!"

"It does, though, doesn't it?" As her voice rose, his dropped dangerously. "It does matter, or you wouldn't still be getting those tattoos, putting both yourself and our child at risk. It does matter, or you would talk to me, instead of running straight into his arms!"

"It's been twelve years! You stay apart from me for that long, and maybe I'll do the same when I see you again!" She regretted the words as soon as she'd said them. He wouldn't actually leave her, would he? She never should have stopped to talk to Eddie at the Tube station.

Brigid took a deep breath. This could be good; if James had a problem with Dillon, she wouldn't have to find a way around Simon. She continued in a more level tone, "If it bothers you that much, we'll just tell Dillon 'no'. I only thought that you and Dennis would like to join up because of all your talk, but you don't have to -"

"'Course I don't have to!" He slammed his fist down on the counter. "D'you think I'm afraid to risk myself? D'you think I want my kid growing up thinking that his father's too much a coward to fight for a future he believes in?"

Brigid snapped.

She seized the whiskey bottle from the counter and threw it as hard as she could. It sailed over James' head (he ducked; too late, if she'd been aiming for him) and hit a row of liquor bottles with an echoing crash and shattering of glass. Clear and amber liquids leaked from the shelves and dripped onto the floor with a patter like summer rain. "Damn you and your pride, James Rafferty!" she shouted.

She caught only a glimpse of his shocked face before she turned and stormed down the hall to the staircase at the back. She didn't dare look back, lest he see the tears that were forming in her eyes.

~~~~o~~~~

Above the pub was the small flat that Brigid and James shared. It had been a bachelor's pad when she'd first arrived: shabby, secondhand furniture, bare walls, ashtrays and cigarette butts everywhere. Now, she trudged in and kicked off her shoes underneath an antique hall tree that she and James had found at a flea market two years ago. In the winter, the tree was covered in hats, scarves, and overcoats. This time of year it held only Brigid's light jacket and a polka-dotted umbrella that was just big enough for them both to squeeze under.

She couldn't hear James on the stairs behind her; no doubt he was cleaning up the mess that she had made, to give them both time to cool down. They didn't fight often. James' volatile temper would lead to an angry explosion that would dissipate as quickly as it had come; it was when Brigid's usually calm composure slipped from her grasp that things would escalate.

The mirror of the hall tree had been broken during one of those fights (she couldn't remember who had thrown the glass, but it probably had been her). Brigid had replaced it with some cheery decorative paper, and in the center of the space she'd hung a framed photograph from their pretend wedding. In the photo, she and James stood with their hands clasped, wearing a borrowed dress and suit. It was the only time that Brigid had voluntarily worn something other than black in more years than she could remember.

They'd done it because the previous owner of the pub, a traditional old gentleman, had been reluctant to sell to James unless he could prove that he was stable enough to run a business on his own. She and James were the only ones who knew that the wedding was a fake. They told each other that it was only for the business. James didn't want her to feel like she was tied down, and she didn't want to make a commitment that she couldn't honor - she had been on her way to the south of Spain. For over a year, she'd been on her way to the south of Spain.

Brigid flicked on the lights and entered the living room. The dirty ashtrays were all gone, except for a decorative one that Abs had picked up for her on holiday in Greece. The sofa was still the old one that had been there when she'd moved in, but now the shabby fabric was hidden beneath a clean, pinstriped white slip cover and bright pillows. James had sanded down the worn coffee table and refinished it; resting on top of it was a glass vase that he had bought to hold the roses that she cut fresh every week. A cool breeze blew in from the wide window that looked out onto the busy street fronting the pub, framed by billowy blue curtains.

Curtains. Four years ago, she never would have imagined herself hanging curtains. Mrs. Broad, their next door neighbor, had helped her sew them.

James' guitar - his father's - was hanging on the wall next to the television. She paused to stroke the smooth, polished wood. It was the guitar that had first brought her to James.

She'd been wandering down the street in the general direction of the railway station on a crisp autumn evening four years ago. She didn't have a particular train to catch, because she didn't have a particular place to be, but railway stations were often good for finding a place to spend a night out of the wind. A small rucksack was slung over her shoulder; it was light, but she'd been carrying it for almost longer than she could remember, and she felt the weight of time with every step.

There were tell-tale signs of a pub up ahead: bright, warm light spilling out onto the street from tall windows, a small cluster of people talking and laughing near the open door. As she got closer, she heard the familiar strains of The Wind that Shakes the Barley, an old Irish ballad that her grandmother had loved, drifting out into the street. She hadn't planned on stopping anywhere, certainly not any place that would separate her from the paltry sum in her wallet - yet she found her feet carrying her inside, drawn by the melancholy tune.

In a chair near the door, a man with short-cropped, curly brown hair sat bent over an old acoustic guitar. He didn't seem to be aware of the small crowd around him, so intent was he on his music. A cigarette burned between his lips. There was no emotion on his face, but there was such sadness in the phrases that he drew from the instrument that Brigid stood transfixed in the doorway. The other people in the room faded from her awareness. It was just her, the music, and the memory of the scent of jasmine in the air.

The guitar player strummed the final chord, and the lingering notes seemed to bridge the space between them. He looked up; their eyes met for the briefest second, and for that second she could swear that her heart stood still. Then the others who were gathered around him clapped and called for another round of drinks. Brigid expected him to start up another song; but to her surprise the man set down his guitar, jumped behind the bar, and began filling orders.

Brigid took a seat at the counter and ordered a whiskey, neat. She didn't try to engage him in conversation; instead, she sat and watched. The way he held the bottle as he poured; the way he bantered with the regular patrons and never passed up the offer to join in a toast; the cross look that passed over his face when a customer broke a glass and the speed with which it vanished behind genuine concern for a cut finger. The shyness with which he looked away every time she caught his eye.

The pub's business quickly picked up, and before long the musical bartender was being run ragged trying to keep up with the orders. At one point, he was on the other side of the room attempting to iron out a disagreement between two groups who wanted to watch two different football matches while a cluster of thirsty patrons fretted at the bar. A woman, well on her way to being stone-cold drunk, shouted for service and started riling up the crowd. There was a look of utter frustration on the bartender's face.

On impulse, Brigid tossed her bag over the counter, then slid off her chair and walked confidently through the crowd and behind the bar. Without delay, she grabbed a clean glass, poured the ale that the woman was demanding, and served it up. Seeing someone tending bar again, the mood of the room lifted instantly.

The bartender finished up at the television and resumed his place at the counter, but there was more than enough work for them both. They quickly fell into a work flow as comfortable as if they'd been tending bar together for years - though they'd not even paused to introduce themselves. Occasionally a patron would ask the bartender who she was; he'd jerk his head and say, "New girl." When someone wanted her attention, they'd call out, "Oi! New girl!" and she'd smile and go see what they wanted.

At two a.m., the bartender escorted the last of the inebriated patrons outside, then shut the door and hung up the "closed" sign with a tired sigh. Brigid leaned on the counter and helped herself to one of the cigarettes in the pack that she'd found resting on a lower shelf.

The bartender joined her behind the bar, and reached up to the top shelf. Pulling down a bottle of expensive whiskey, he grabbed two glasses with his other hand and poured out a measure in each, then handed one to her. She took it with a smile, the wooden cross on her wrist clinking against the glass.

He raised his glass to her. "Give you joy," he said. "You really saved my life. Our waitress quit two nights ago, just in time for the weekend."

Brigid returned the salute, and they both drank. "Been a long time since I had a whiskey this good," she said. They said nothing else for several more minutes. Brigid passed him the cigarette; he took a couple of puffs and passed it back. Finally, he finished his drink and went to the register.

Brigid rested her chin in her hand, and watched him count out some bills.

"Well earned," he said, handing her the cash.

She pocketed the money, downed the last of her glass, and stooped for her rucksack. "Thanks for the drink."

He eyed her bag and threadbare sweater. "Are you new in the neighborhood?"

"Just passing through - on my way to the south of Spain. I'd thought to see an old friend, but turns out she's moved."

"If you want to stick around a few days," he said hesitantly, "I could use some help here. Until my boss sees his way to hiring another waitress, that is."

Brigid had been hoping for such an invitation; she needed funds to make her way south, where she wanted to spend the winter. London had been an accidental detour. "Sure," she said, "I could stay a few."

A look of pleased relief crossed his face.

She slung her bag over her shoulder. "See you tomorrow then?"

He nodded. "'Round noon's about time I start getting things set up."

"Noon, then." She was halfway to the door when he spoke again.

"I'm James, by the way."

She looked back, and brushed her long hair out of her face. "Brigid."

"D'you have a place to stay tonight, Brigid?" There was a sweet touch of shyness in his voice.

"I'll find a place; I always do."

He rested his hands in his pockets, and addressed his next words to the space just over her shoulder. "I have a sofa. Upstairs. I live upstairs." He gestured vaguely at the ceiling, then continued on hurriedly. "I don't mean - I'm not trying to -"

"That would be fine," Brigid interrupted with a smile. "A sofa is better than anything I'd expected to find tonight." She met his warm brown eyes with her own amber-colored ones. "But if you did mean….that would be fine too."

He smiled back at her. He had such a sweet smile.

She'd followed him upstairs; and four years later, she was still there.

Brigid lifted an apple from the bowl on the kitchen counter as she passed; she could kill for a cigarette, but her only pack was downstairs, and James had surely found it and tossed it in the bin by now. She didn't bother turning on the lights in the bedroom, but with the ease of long practice navigated around the lumpy yet somehow comfortable bed and out the back door onto the narrow balcony.

It was a cool, clear night, typical for mid June. She shivered a little in the breeze, and stood at the rail overlooking the small patio and garden behind the pub. Pale light from the waning moon illuminated her rose bushes growing along the garden fence. They'd been nearly dead when she'd first moved in, but she'd managed to nurse them back to health and now they were flourishing. The garden was cluttered with pots and containers full of flowering plants that she'd grown up from seeds herself, encouraged by her success with the roses.

Her favorite was the star jasmine. She had initially planted it downstairs by the patio door, hoping to train it to climb up the wall. It was just beginning to spread when some idiot drunken customer had poured an entire pitcher of beer onto its roots. She'd managed to save it, but just barely - now it lived in a pot with a small trellis on the balcony, and was slowing gaining back some of its old life. It was flowering now - the delicate five-petaled white blossoms filled the little balcony with the sweetest perfume.

Brigid breathed in the scent of the jasmine, then crunched into the sour apple. Annoying as it could be, she loved the way that James reminded her to eat one every day - full of folic acid, he'd tell her. Good for the baby. They hadn't planned it, the baby. But sometimes they ran out of condoms, and one night it just…happened. She'd been afraid to tell James when she'd first realized it, afraid of how he'd react - he'd never brought up the subject of having children. Not after their fake wedding, not when friends joked about it with them, not even when it had become clear to them both that she wasn't ever going to leave, for Spain or anywhere else.

But he'd been ecstatic with the news, and for the first time in years she felt like she was truly home.

And now that damned bastard MI-6 agent wanted to take it all away from her.

Her first instinct was to run, leaving a brief warning for Dillon. She still had friends, scattered across the UK and Europe. She'd already spent half of her life on the run, after all, what was a few years more? James would surely go with her; he wouldn't abandon her, or the baby. He wasn't like that.

…he'd go with her, but it would mean him giving up on the dream he'd always had, of making a difference in the world. Would he resent her for taking him away from that? Before tonight she hadn't realized just how vested he was in joining up with Dillon and the Cause. Him and his damn pride. Would he think her a coward, if she told him that she wanted to run instead of fight? What if he didn't go with her?

That last thought seized her heart in an iron grip. She had to hold onto him, no matter what. She couldn't raise a child on her own; she'd be her mother all over again. Brigid knew herself well enough to know that that was a future that she couldn't avoid - not if she was alone in the world, and she'd been alone for too damn long.

She could run, and hope that James could forgive her enough to go with her; her only other option was to let MI-6 arrest them both. And lose her only chance at having a real family.

Brigid tossed her apple core down into the garden and gazed up at the sky. With the bright moon and the scent of jasmine in the air, she could almost imagine that she was back at her grandmother's house in Carrickmore, in the County Tyrone. There weren't enough stars here though - in Carrickmore, the stars had lit up the night.

As she stared up at the stars, her mind drifting back to the past, she felt a sudden chill run through her, a cold that buried itself deep down in her bones. It hurt. The stars swam before her eyes, as if she had double vision, but it wasn't, because suddenly the moon was gone and the stars were all…wrong. She raised a hand to her pounding head, the feathers at her wrist brushing her cheek.

"What's wrong? Are you hurt?" An intense, worried voice came as though from far distant, barely cutting through the fuzziness in her head. Strong arms were wrapped around her. She was lying on the ground, her head cradled in the crook of someone's elbow. The scent of sweat and dirt and vegetation surrounded her.

"…Hei?" she said weakly.

"Hey what? Christ, Brigid, what happened? Are you alright?"

She looked up into James' worried face. Beyond him, the moon and stars were back exactly where they'd always been. She tried to lever herself up into a sitting position. Her hand was in a pile of soil; she'd tipped over the jasmine when she'd fallen. James helped her until she was resting her head against his chest.

"I don't know," she said. That cold feeling was gone as if it had never been. "I just got dizzy, I suppose."

"Why? Is it…?" His hand pressed tentatively against her stomach. She wasn't showing yet - it was only just the end of her first trimester - but both James and she fancied that they could feel a slight swell around her middle.

"I don't know," she repeated. "I feel fine now." The chill was back, but this time it wasn't that bizarre, otherworldly chill - just the ordinary fear that something had happened to the baby.

"I'll call an ambulance, just to be safe." When she didn't let him go, he tried to remove her arms from around his neck himself, but she just held on more tightly. "I need to go get the phone, love."

He couldn't leave her; she wouldn't let him. "You were right," she said. "I'm sorry."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm still living in the past. I need to think about the future - our future." And there was only one way for her to secure it.