A/N: Next week being Thanksgiving here in the US, I don't know if I'll get a new chapter posted. So, here is an extra long one - enjoy

/News/Current Events/17.06.98/London, England: The Home Department has issued a public information announcement regarding the strange phenomenon currently being experienced in the Americas. While the cause of the phenomenon remains elusive, it is almost certain that Central America and the southern and eastern United States are now in fact underneath the mysterious black shroud and that come nightfall, no stars or moon will rise for these regions. Scientists are predicting that the phenomenon will reach the British Isles late this evening, arriving in London town at approximately 3:46AM local time.

Martial law has been imposed in the United States in an attempt to keep panicked citizens from rioting, although certain areas of Los Angeles and Chicago have already experienced a severe uptick in violent crime. Johannesburg and other South African cities are also experiencing dangerous levels of unrest.

It is the Home Department's hope that such measures will not be necessary in the UK; for the safety of citizens, a curfew is being imposed within the city limits. With the exception of verifiable night shift workers, all citizens are required to be off the streets by ten o'clock tonight, regardless of age, class, or position. Any citizens found to be in violation of this curfew will be arrested without appeal./

Brigid and James traveled across the city to Southall two days after her appointment with Jack Simon, to meet the rest of Dillon's crew. He wasn't calling them the Cause any longer; according to Eddie, Dillon had given up on the Cause a couple of years after the disastrous bus depot mission, when the majority of the members had been either arrested or forced into hiding. But, the signing of the Belfast Agreement had inspired him to make another go of it. Eddie didn't know for sure, but he'd heard talk that rather than acting on his own as before, Dillon was now being backed by one of the larger, more militant of the IRA splinter groups, one that had no desire to abide by the peace.

Brigid didn't really care either way. She just wanted to see the job through, and make good on her deal with Simon. It would be a relief that she'd never dared hoped for to have her past finally wiped clean.

The meeting place for the crew was a nondescript townhouse on a nondescript street, a little two-story structure with a neat patch of garden in the back and tall brick walls hiding it from its neighbors. It belonged to Tim and Gwenith; Brigid knew Tim from the old days. They arrived just in time for supper, the smell of a proper Irish fry wafting out onto the street as soon as Tim opened the door.

"Bridey!" he exclaimed upon seeing her on the step. "Christ, Eddie was right - you haven't aged a day!"

Brigid laughed. "Sweet talking as always, Tim - you know it gets you nowhere, and fast." She leaned in to exchange kisses, then reached up to his shaved head. "What happened here?"

Tim gave her a rueful grin. "Grandad's curse finally caught up with me; I decided to bite the bullet and just hack it all off before it fell of its own accord." He winked. "Gwen doesn't mind."

Brigid introduced him to James, then Tim led them inside to the parlor, where a small crowd was gathered, beers in hand. It was a little surreal, seeing so many familiar faces again. Or at least, faces that had once been familiar, before long years of hard life had changed them. Dillon and Tim weren't the only ones who'd aged: Michael was stouter and more broad of shoulder than he had been before, and Brigid thought that she could see some gray peppering Kelly's blond beard. And him barely older than me, she thought sadly, wondering just how rough things had gotten after she'd left. Michael greeted her with a warm hug that made her feel a little ashamed at running out all those years ago, and even more ashamed at what she was about to do.

Patrick and Brent she'd met for the first time at the pub; then there was Eddie, who'd changed most of all. Tall and lean like his cousin, he was a far cry from the pudgy seven-year-old who'd tagged along after Dillon all those years ago. He sprang from his seat as soon as she entered the room and wrapped her in an enthusiastic hug, even though they'd just seen each other two weeks past. She kissed his cheek, laughing.

Introductions were made all around; then a short, chestnut-haired woman that Brigid didn't know but guessed must be Gwenith poked her head into the room and announced, "Vittles is up!"

"Where's your other lad - Dennis wasn't it?" Dillon asked Brigid as they moved to the dining room to eat.

Brigid took a seat next to James and helped herself to a large chunk of bread. It looked store-bought rather than fresh, but she wasn't about to complain. "He wanted to be here, but we needed someone to stay behind and cover the pub," she said. "Someone who knows the business. It'll look better if he's had a night or two of it on his own beforehand."

Dillon nodded in understanding. There was always a rendezvous set up for if things went bad after a mission, and always a second rendezvous in case things went worse. James and Dillon had already decided on the pub acting as the secondary meeting point; it made sense to have someone who was in the know stationed there, though Dennis hadn't been too happy about missing the main action. That, and she hadn't been able to include him in her deal with Simon; she wanted him as far removed from the game as possible.

Gwenith was an excellent cook and supper conversation was light and jovial, with plenty of jokes and laughter to go around. As there was a mix of old and new faces, Dillon kept the topics firmly on shared knowledge and experience, lest anyone feel excluded. The atmosphere reminded Brigid strongly of the days when the Cause was running strong, and it warmed her heart. She hadn't realized how much she'd missed the camaraderie.

James was fitting in splendidly, Brigid was pleased to see. His experience as a barkeep had given him excellent social skills, and when he made an effort, he was almost as good at keeping things running on an even keel as Dillon was. To her vast relief, no one brought up her former relationship with Dillon. She still hadn't explained the whole extent of it to James.

"I'm glad to finally have another woman round the place," Gwenith said to Brigid. "There's only so much testosterone I can take in a day before I go stark ravin'."

Brigid was about to answer when she caught the smirk on Dillon's face across the table. "What?" she asked suspiciously.

He raised his fork to his mouth. "Nothing."

"Out with it, Fitzgerald."

Dillon shrugged innocently and chewed his food; it was Michael sitting next to her who spoke up. "Well," he said, "as far as femininity counterbalancing us lads, I'm not sure Bridey goes very far."

"Rubbish, I'm plenty feminine!" Brigid said indignantly. To prove her point, she gave his arm a sharp smack.

"Sure and you could have changed these years," Dillon conceded. "I suppose you're quite the domestic goddess now: darning socks, knittin' tea cozies, slaving over the hot stove of an evening…"

She gave him a look, and was about to give him a piece of her mind, when James said, "It's true. She's quite good at shifting the takeaway from those little boxes and onto the china."

Brigid kicked him under the table. "Traitor," she said with a smile, as he gave her an apologetic kiss.

Dillon passed her an unopened beer, then raised his own. "To domesticity," he said. The others joined in the toast; Brigid opened hers and raised it as well, but only pretended to drink. In exchange for forgoing drinking and smoking completely and utterly, she'd made James promise beforehand not to mention her pregnancy to the others. No sense in making things even more complicated than they already were. There was an odd look behind Dillon's smile, as if he'd seen right through her facade but couldn't make sense of it. Uncomfortable, she averted her gaze only for it land on Kelly. There was such coldness in the blond man's eyes that it momentarily stunned her. But then the coldness vanished so quickly that she suddenly wasn't sure she'd seen it at all.

After supper, Brigid offered to help Gwenith wash up in the kitchen, to much ribbing about her skills, or lack thereof, with a scrub brush. She liked the other woman; despite all her complaints about having had no one but men for company for the past week, Gwenith was tough as nails and right at home with bawdy. And she was a good match for Tim, who Brigid had always been fond of.

Dillon and Tim came into the kitchen while Brigid was drying plates. As Tim pulled a bottle of whiskey down from atop the fridge, Dillon walked over to where Brigid was standing. His eyes held that mischievous twinkle that she'd always loved; it was a little frightening how little he'd changed. Except for James' presence, she could almost imagine that the time hadn't passed at all, and she had never left.

He didn't say anything except, "Budge over, love," and pressed up against her to reach the cabinet above her. It suddenly felt very crowded in the little room. She stepped quickly to the side while Dillon collected a handful of glasses from the cupboard. He gave her an amused look.

"Gwen, why don't you let me and Bridey finish up here," Tim said, giving Brigid and Dillon a sidelong glance. "Help Dillon take the whiskey out, then have a rest."

"Don't mind if I do," Gwenith smiled, and gave her husband a peck on the cheek. She and Dillon loaded the glasses onto a tray, which she carried out. Dillon followed behind her, gripping the neck of the bottle tightly and shooting Tim an unreadable glance.

"It's nice to see you settled and happy," Brigid said when they were alone. She finished drying the last of the plates and set to work on the frying pan, while Tim took over Gwenith's scrubbing of a pot.

He gave her a warm smile. "Likewise," he said, "though I admit it's a bit strange, seeing you with someone other than Dillon."

Brigid shrugged uncomfortably. "The past is past." She hadn't been sure how this supper would go at all; it certainly had felt strange, with Dillon and James, her past and her present, in the same room at the same time. Eddie had told her that Dillon hadn't been serious with anyone in all these years; it made her feel more than a little guilty. "Is he happy, then?"

"Happy enough. Better for you being here, sure. The first thing that I thought when Dillon told me his scheme was Christ, how in the hell are we going to pull this off without Bridey?" Tim grinned at her. "And now here you are, come flying in at the eleventh hour just like a guardian angel. I was there when Eddie brought the news that he'd seen you; Dillon was like a man transformed. Suddenly, all that old life and spirit that we'd all thought was gone sparked up again." Strangely though, Tim's smile didn't quite seem to meet his eyes.

"What is it?" Brigid asked.

Tim looked as if he was going to pretend to not understand her question, but then changed his mind. "I'd like to say that it's no business of mine," he said, "but this is a big job coming up, and it needs to go smoothly. We can't afford to have any doubt or mistrust in the crew."

"Agreed," Brigid said, wondering where he was going with this.

Water sloshed in the pot as Tim continued scrubbing, but it didn't seem as if he was really paying attention to the task. "You're serious about your new man, then? Because I've known Dillon for a long time; he hasn't been the same since you've been gone, and one thing I'm sure of is, he wouldn't say no to picking up right where the two of you left off. If you give him any kind of encouragement and there's a misunderstanding…well, things could get ugly. I don't want things to get ugly."

"I've been with James for four years, almost as long as Dillon and I were together," Brigid said defensively. "That's hardly 'new'. And I made sure that Eddie understood that before he ever said a word to Dillon. I've been perfectly clear; if Dillon can't understand that, that's not my fault." She wasn't too worried about it though; it wasn't very likely that Dillon was still carrying a torch for her after all these years; and even if he was, he was smart enough to not do anything to rock the boat until after the job was over. And by then, though he didn't know it of course, it wouldn't matter.

Tim shrugged. "Well, it needed to be said. And I've told him that, as well. You remember what he was like after we lost John?"

"Of course," Brigid said, her heart constricting painfully. John was Dillon's older brother; he'd been hit by a stray bullet during a run-in with the police and died on the scene. Dillon's grief had been all-consuming; for weeks she'd been terrified to leave his side lest he harm himself or anyone else. After that, their missions had got more and more violent. Less about helping their people and more about Dillon seeking revenge. It had been all that she could do to keep him focused on the original purpose of the Cause.

"Well," Tim continued, "he got like that again, after you left. Only it was slower, so gradual that it took the rest of us a long time to see it. You weren't at the rendezvous by the set time. Dillon supposed you just got held up, maybe someone was on your trail and you had to keep your head down. He insisted that we wait for you. Then you missed the next date, and the next. We left messages for you at all the usual places, but there was never a response. All we knew was that my dad'd had word that you were going to lay low in Europe for the time being. It was a coupla years before Dillon finally accepted that you weren't coming back. And he just wasn't the same after that. He started getting more and more reckless; it's a miracle that he's neither in prison nor dead this day."

Brigid didn't meet his eyes, and focused on her task. She had no answer to his unspoken question. Something had broke inside of Dillon when John'd died, something that Brigid hadn't been able to fix, try as she might. The incident at the bus depot had scared her badly - she hadn't been able to shake the feeling that it hadn't been an accident after all, despite all of Dillon's reassurances. Unable to face a potentially ugly truth, she'd run, and not looked back.

"Anyway," Tim said when it was clear that she wasn't going to speak up, "Dillon's glad that you're with us again; so am I."

It seemed to Brigid that there was still something that he was leaving unsaid. Then she remembered the cold look that Kelly had given her earlier. "You and Dillon are glad," she repeated slowly. "Are you sayin' that not everyone is?"

Tim looked decidedly uncomfortable now, and for a minute Brigid thought that she might have to bring out her verbal thumbscrews to get him to talk. But at last he looked up from scrubbing the pot.

"There was talk after that last mission," he said, "that maybe it wasn't a coincidence that the police had been there waiting. That maybe they'd been tipped off. Dillon wouldn't hear a word of it, swore up and down that no one in his crew would betray us; I didn't really believe it myself." He shrugged. "But…"

Tim's meaning suddenly became clear. "They think I -?" she burst out, outraged. She owed everything to the Cause; how could they think that she would betray them, betray Dillon? Then the remembrance that that was precisely why she was here now hit her full force. She put a hand to her mouth, suddenly feeling so sick to her stomach that she thought she might throw up.

Tim shook his head, misunderstanding her reaction. "No one truly wanted to believe it of you," he said reassuringly, "but the way you just disappeared, with not even a word to Dillon - well, can you blame them?"

"No," Brigid said quietly, still queasy.

"It was only a few," Tim assured her, but his words were only making it worse. "And Kelly'll come round - no matter what it looked like all those years ago, you wouldn't be here now if you'd had any part in any betrayal. We all know that."

"Thanks, Tim," Brigid managed. Unwilling to continue the conversation, she wiped her hands on a dish rag and left the kitchen.

~~~~o~~~~

The others were still gathered round the dining table, where a large street map of the city was now laid out between the glasses of whiskey. Brigid resumed her seat next to James, who put his arm across the back of her chair to squeeze her shoulder. Half the table's occupants had cigarettes lit and the room was filled with a lovely, smoky haze, but James wasn't saying a word about it; he couldn't make the rules in someone else's house, and he couldn't bring up Brigid's condition as the reason, not without breaking his word to her. She tried to inhale the second-hand smoke surreptitiously; it was better than nothing.

Dillon poured out a measure of whiskey and passed it to her, holding the glass in such a way that it was impossible for their fingers not to brush. She couldn't tell whether he'd done it on purpose or not; but she took the glass and held it as if she was about to drink. For some reason, it had been easier to give up alcohol than tobacco; maybe working in the pub for so long had finally inured her to it. Across the table, she saw Eddie raise his own glass to his lips.

"Eddie Corrigan," she said in astonishment, "you are not old enough to drink?"

Eddie almost choked on the alcohol. "Yes?" he said, as if he wasn't sure himself.

Michael grinned at her and slapped Eddie jovially on the back, sending him into another coughing fit. "Legal, and everything. And how old were you when you had your first, hey Bridey?"

Brigid ignored him, and sighed. "God, I feel feckin' old."

"Well," Dillon said, standing, "now that we've established that Bridey is officially a narky old woman - " she very pointedly raised her middle finger in his direction " - we can get started. Tim knows most of it already, we don't have to wait on him. Our target." He tapped the map with a butter knife. "One Canada Square, Canary Wharf."

Patrick, who Brigid was coming to know as a quiet, thoughtful man, frowned and said, "That's not government, is it?"

Dillon shook his head. "What's the point in hitting government these days? Business will be slowed for a day or two, but it won't change anything in the long run. No, we need to hit them where it hurts the most: the financial center of England. This building -" he tapped the map again - "is home to Morgan Stanley, the Canary Wharf Group, New York Mellon, and dozens of others. If it goes, England will be more thoroughly crippled than if they lost the whole of Parliament."

It made sense, Brigid thought. But… "What about Ireland?" she asked. "Ireland depends on trade with England - cripple the English, and we cripple everyone."

"For a time," Dillon agreed. "But with the hit comes threats of more to follow, unless our demands for independent government are met. I have assurances from the Sinn Fein - and others - that there will be Irish push-back against the Agreement after this. Manufactured proof that the English knew about the plot but did nothing about it. Suggestion that they aren't living up to their end of the agreement, like. Eventually popular opinion will turn against them, there will be another vote, and Northern Ireland will be our own free country at last. But we don't need to worry about any of that; we just need to focus on this one job."

It was true then - Dillon wasn't acting on his own, but had been contracted out by what sounded like a large, powerful group. Brigid tried to stuff down the worry that she felt. Dillon's choices were his own; if he wanted to be indebted to someone to whom it wasn't a good idea to be indebted, well, that was none of her business. It would all be over once MI-6 arrested him, anyway. Her stomach turned a little at the thought.

"So what do you have in mind?" she asked, ignoring the guilty feeling as best she could.

Dillon smiled. "It's simple. The DLR line has a station right at the base of the tower, here. We load a lorry with some explosives, park it under the station bridge, and that's it."

Next to her, James shifted uncomfortably, while Brigid stared around the table. No one else was speaking up; they didn't even look surprised. Dillon must have already spent some time working them, convincing them that they were on board with violence before they'd even heard the scheme. But how could he possibly think that she would ever be okay with such a plan?

"Are you out of your mind?" she burst out angrily. "Do you know how many people will be hurt?"

He frowned at her. "Sure, an' we need them to sit up and take notice - that's the whole point. Those little jobs we used to pull just aren't going to cut it anymore; not that they ever really did."

"God damn it, Dillon, I thought the point was to cripple the financial industry - we can do that without killing people!"

"Bridey's right," Tim interjected from the kitchen doorway. "You an' I talked about this. There's got to be a better way."

James spoke up then. "Didn't the IRA already try this exact same thing, a few years back?"

Brigid looked at him blankly. If they had, it'd been when she was still out of the country; she hadn't heard a word of it.

"Yeah," Brent laughed. "Ninety-two. Eejits parked on a double yellow line and got themselves found out before they could set the bloody thing off."

"And they had problems with the detonator," Dillon said. "The whole thing was a bust. We'll be smarter about it. We've got Brent to run interference with the police, Michael will take care of security; Tim, Gwen, and James can run diversions, and Bridey, of course, will work with Patrick on the device." He grinned at her. "You're our good luck charm, love, as always."

Brigid turned to Patrick, ignoring Dillon's comment. "You know explosives?"

He smiled, and gave her a salute. "Army bomb squad. Though I admit to being much more adept at taking them apart than putting them together - definitely glad to have you on board, lass!"

Damn, Brigid thought to herself. She could easily rig the bomb to fail, but not with Patrick's eyes on it. She'd have to push Dillon in a different direction.

She shook her head. "I can't. Not when there's such a big risk of people getting hurt."

Dillon was looking at her as if she was a particularly slow and stupid schoolgirl. "We have to do it in the middle of the day; parking it under the bridge at night when the building's empty will call too much attention to it. Besides, Michael works days; we don't have any people in the night security team."

"I could swap shifts, maybe," Michael said slowly. "Though it's generally not done. Might raise a few eyebrows."

"It's too risky to draw attention to ourselves like that ahead of time," Dillon said emphatically; she got the sense that it had been a long time since anyone had seriously disagreed with him. "Casualties are unavoidable during a war, and that's what this is! We have to be prepared to accept that, just as before."

"No," Brigid said, just as emphatically. "That's exactly what you said after the bus depot - people died because of a bomb that I built! That's not going to happen again! We never used to have to worry about casualties, because we never tried blowing people up on purpose!"

"What if we evacuate the area ahead of time?"

They all turned to James, and he continued, "Say there's a gas leak and the whole street has to be blocked off, surrounding buildings evacuated, that sort of thing. Instead of a lorry, we load the explosives in some kind of gas company maintenance van; as soon as the place is clear, it goes off."

"That would be much more complicated," Dillon mused. "Not as splashy. We'd have to nick the van, con the city planning office; the timing could get tricky." His words made him sound less than optimistic, but Brigid could see the light in his eyes. He liked it. It was exactly the sort of scheme they'd both loved to pull in the old days. She could feel her own pulse pick up in anticipation of the adrenaline rush that came with a smart job well-run, and squeezed James' knee appreciatively.

Then, Gwenith spoke up for the first time since supper. "Is it really going to matter?" she asked quietly. "After tonight, like."

"What do you mean?" Dillon said blankly.

"Because of the stars. You heard the telly this morning - South America, southern Africa, half of the United States have all gone dark. London and the rest of the UK are due to get hit later tonight, by whatever it is. So, will it matter?"

"That's right," Tim said. "Tonight's curfew might be extended, for who knows how long."

Dillon waved the concerns off. "If the curfew sticks, it'll just mean that we have to do the job during the day, like we're planning already. And it'll be even more important that we strike next week, rather than later - the more chaos and confusion, the better."

They set to work discussing the nuts and bolts of the plan. For the most part, things went smoothly; the only time disagreements arose was when it came down to assigning roles. Brent and Michael were sorted: Brent was on the Metro police force, and Michael worked security for the tower. Kelly, who had been their man inside Operation Banner in the old days, was on the army's quartermaster staff now and thus had access to all the materials that Brigid and Patrick would need for the bomb - with a little help from a black market source that Dillon knew.

"Who's driving the van, then?" Tim asked, cracking open a beer. "Have to be Bridey, Dillon, or Eddie. The rest of us will be plenty busy."

"Eddie and I'll do it," Dillon said. "Two'll be best; one to park, the other to set out the cones and make certain the area's clear."

"Absolutely not!" Brigid said, aghast at the idea. "Eddie's too young, I'll do it."

Eddie frowned at her. "What do you mean, too young? I'm nineteen! I've done jobs with Dillon before."

"Jobs like this? Eddie, if you get caught, it's prison for life!" She'd wanted to keep him well clear of the whole thing, same as Dennis. She'd never forgive herself if Eddie was arrested by MI-6. He still had his whole life ahead of him; he shouldn't be making the same mistakes that she had.

Dillon gave her a wry smile. "Sure, and it's the same risk we're all taking, isn't it? Besides, how old were you when you joined up and pulled your first job? Sixteen?"

"That's a bollicks argument, and you know it, Fitzgerald! I was a feckin' eejit at sixteen, and you're a feckin' eejit for encouragin' him! He can be on crowd control, with James. I'll drive the van."

James leaned in and spoke to her in a low voice. "I thought we agreed that you would stay out of the more dangerous work. Keep behind the scenes, and let Eddie drive. Better yet, I'll do it."

"Just because I'm pregnant doesn't mean I'm bloody helpless!" Brigid snapped. There was a stunned silence, and she realized what she'd just said. Eddie's mouth gaped open. Tim and Kelly both wore shocked expressions; Gwenith smiled politely, while Dillon's face had gone completely blank.

Michael cleared his throat. "Congratulations…" he began, but Brigid stood and pushed her chair back with a loud scrape.

"Oh, stuff it!" she said, and strode from the room in embarrassed anger.

~~~~o~~~~

Brigid let herself out through the garden door. She took a deep breath of the night air to help calm her nerves; goddamn James and his goddamn ban on cigarettes. She exhaled slowly, then wandered through the garden until she found a secluded patch around the side of the house. Even in the dark, she could tell that the garden needed some work - the hedges were all overgrown, and there was a lilac bush threatening to overtake some haphazardly-planted petunias. Brigid leaned against the wall and absently rubbed her thumb along the cross on her rosary; she still hadn't found a new feather to replace the one that she'd broken the other night. There was a lumpy brick jabbing into her back, but she didn't care enough to move.

She heard the patio door open and shut, and a pair of boots hesitate before striking out into the garden. Dillon. James knew better than to bother her when she was upset, but Dillon had never been able to just let things be. He rounded the corner and, spotting her, walked up to lean one shoulder casually against the side of the house. There was an expectant look on his face; Brigid ignored him. She wondered whether it was Tim or Gwenith who looked after the garden; she could give them some advice on trimming the lilac.

"Suppose that explains why you haven't touched a drop of whiskey all night," Dillon said at last. "Were you going to tell me?" There was only a touch of reproach in his voice.

"Wasn't any of your business."

He hooked his thumbs in his belt loops, an old, familiar gesture. "Isn't it? I know you're with James now. I don't blame you for moving on - sure, it's been twelve years, we all of us have moved on. But after all that we two went through together - I still care about you, Bridey. I care what's happening in your life. Time passed doesn't mean we can't still be friends."

"I know," she admitted with a sigh, turning away to gaze into the dark garden. "It's not that I didn't want to tell you; I just…didn't know how. I know how you feel about people havin' babies; I didn't want a sermon." That wasn't the reason why she'd wanted to keep it from him, but it made for a good excuse.

Dillon cleared his throat in an uncharacteristically awkward manner. "I've got a kid now, you know."

Brigid whipped her head around to face him. "What?"

"Boy; lives in Belfast with his mother, so I don't see him much, myself being persona non grata in that fair city." He gave her a mischievous grin, then his expression turned thoughtful. "She wanted to name him John, but I said no. Must be eight or nine years old by now. Christ."

"Who's the mother?"

"Jealous, are we love?" he said with a smile, and tweaked her chin playfully.

She swatted his hand away. "You aren't answering the question."

"Katie Connell."

Brigid remembered Katie; a girl about her own age who'd joined the Cause shortly before that last mission. She'd started making eyes at Dillon from the very first; Brigid had had to threaten her with a cake fork in the ladies' room of a restaurant once, though Dillon had remained oblivious. It was unreasonable of her to expect that he remain celibate after she'd left; she certainly hadn't. But the idea of him having a child with another woman was hard to stomach. Especially a woman that she'd known.

"Well, you always did have a thing for gingers," she said grudgingly.

Dillon laughed. "No, I always said that you should've been born a ginger," he said, reaching over and running his fingers through her pale hair; her traitor heart beat faster at his touch. "That's hardly the same thing."

"Whatever happened to it being 'the most grievous of sins to introduce an innocent life into a world of tyranny'?"

He shrugged, taking his hand back. "She kept it from me until it was too late to do anything about it; she didn't understand, not like you. At least, I thought you understood."

Brigid bristled at the accusation in his voice. "I did understand," she said. "I still do. But times change. People change. I didn't want a kid then; I do now." Except, she had wanted one then. It would have been a complete disaster, her and Dillon as parents at that age and in that life. She could see that now, and didn't regret her decision for one minute. But it had still hurt, at the time. She hadn't been brave enough to tell him then, and there was no point in telling him now.

"Me, a father, and you a mother," Dillon said with a grin. "What in the bloody hell is the world comin' to, hey?"

Brigid didn't answer; she couldn't think of a thing to say. They stood in silence for some time, each contemplating their own private thoughts. Dillon took out a pack of cigarettes and started to remove one; then looking sideways at her, he closed the pack again with a cardboard snap and shoved it back into his pocket.

Eventually, he said quietly, "Why didn't you come back?"

She'd been dreading that question, dreading it for twelve years. It took her a moment to organize her thoughts, though she'd gladly have taken another twelve years. "After the safe house was raided and we split up, I got wind that MI-6 was on my trail," she lied. "Europe seemed like the safest place to lay low for a while, but it was a long time before I felt sure of getting back. Only then I didn't have funds, so I worked a little longer, traveled a little farther; time flew before I knew it."

"Time flew? Time stopped, for me. Not knowing where you were, if you were even still alive - it was very nearly the death of me."

The obvious pain in his voice twisted her heart into an impossible knot, and she remembered Tim's earlier words about Dillon's state of mind after her disappearance. The last thing that she'd wanted to do was hurt him. Which was why she'd run in the night instead of walking out, like a coward.

"I left word with Charlie," she said softly, turning her head away.

"One note, then nothing. I waited two years. Christ, Bridey, I'd've waited ten years, twenty, for you." He took a step closer to cup her cheek and turn her face back towards his; his brilliant green eyes were almost black in the night. "If you had no intention of coming back, why didn't you at least say?"

She could feel her lower lip quivering, and cursed herself for it. "I was afraid that you would hate me," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Never," was all he said.

He would hate her, she knew, if he ever found out that she was working for the English now. Working to betray him in order to save herself. His hand was still on her cheek…she ought to brush it away, but she couldn't bring herself to move. Such large hands. He'd always cupped her cheek like that, when she was upset and needed comforting. It made her feel like a teenager again, young and so optimistic for the future despite a lifetime of letdowns. He'd always had that effect on her.

Gently, he brushed a strand of hair off of her face, then let his fingers trail down her neck, to rest on top of the jasmine blossom tattooed over her heart. She tried unsuccessfully to suppress a shudder at his touch. He noticed, and slid his fingers further down, round beneath her breast til he reached the fifth blossom hidden beneath her shirt; the last that she'd gotten before she'd left.

"Do you really have seventeen now?" he asked, voice heavy. She could smell the whiskey on his breath.

Her pulse quickened, and she lifted her hand to his wrist, to push him away. But instead of doing what she ought, she laid her hand over his and guided it down her body in a sinuous curve down her ribs, along the contour of her waist, finally coming to a rest on the inner ridge of her hipbone, prominent beneath her black leggings.

"Sixteen," she said. "Just here. I've plans to get the seventeenth in a couple of weeks." Except she was going to cancel the appointment, because she'd promised James that she would.

Dillon leaned his forehead against hers. "And where's that one going, then?" He slipped his hand under the hem of her shirt and tucked a finger inside her waistband. He made a circular motion on her skin, as if tracing the outline of a five-pointed flower blossom. "Here?"

"Mm-mm," she said, unconsciously pressing her hips slightly forward to meet his hand. "I was thinking of starting a new branch. Otherwise, it might get a bit too…disrespectful."

His lips briefly brushed hers, the slightest of touches. "Disrespectful? We wouldn't want that, would we now."

She struggled to keep from kissing him, and might have managed it if he hadn't continued speaking.

"D'you know why I didn't let Katie name the lad John?"

"Why?" Brigid asked, her voice weak and breathy.

He placed a hand on the side of her face, his other hand moving yet further down. "I was always saving the name for the son I'd have with you."

Her lips parted with a little whimper, and his mouth was suddenly on hers, warm and needy. She kissed him back, softly, savoring every second; he tasted like whiskey and cigarettes. The scratch of the stubble on his cheek against her skin was so familiar, and so maddening. He was kissing her harder now, mouth sucking at her lower lip. Her arms were around him, hands reaching up and gripping his hair, he was pressing her back against the bricks. The feel of his body against hers was weighty and reassuring, his hands easily finding the exact places where she loved to be touched, fingers working expertly. She deepened the kiss, and he made a hungry sound in the back of his throat.

She felt time slipping backwards, the years blowing away as if they were a house of cards in a storm. Back to when the only things that mattered were Dillon and the next job, and mundane concerns like where the rent was coming from was something that only other people cared about. Back to when the police would be searching the streets of Belfast for them, and they'd be holed up in an empty flat with nothing to do but make love until they were too exhausted to do naught but sleep; then sleep, to wake up and make love some more.

The slam of the door being flung open jolted Brigid back to the present. She broke off the kiss, gasping in panic as merry voices spilled out into the garden, but Dillon's hand remained where it was.

"Stop," she whispered, then bit her lip to keep from moaning aloud as his mouth moved to the shell of her ear. James could walk around the corner at any second, and then Tim's fear of things turning ugly would be all too real. Dillon was too self-confident to ever feel jealous, but even the most innocent of glances could set James off.

"I said stop," she hissed, and shoved Dillon hard. He stumbled back, surprised.

She slipped out from between him and the wall before he could react, already missing the warmth of his hands and hating herself for it. She'd never cheated on anyone before; she would lie, yes, and steal, certainly - but not cheat. She'd been so sure that she was over Dillon. After twelve goddamn years…it scared her more than a little how easily she'd given in.

Well, in a week's time it wouldn't matter. She just had to see this job through; then she and James would be in the clear, and finally be able to start a real life together. A life without their pasts hanging over their heads like the blade of a guillotine.

…but was it cheating, if it was Dillon?

It didn't matter. One more week.

Her chest was heaving; she tried her best to slow her breathing, and rounded the corner of the house. She couldn't tell if Dillon was behind her or not, and prayed that whatever else, he'd keep that kiss to himself.

The others were gathered in the center of the garden, beers and whiskey glasses in hand. Brigid spotted James and joined him, leaning her head on his shoulder to show that there were no hard feelings from their earlier argument. He wrapped an arm possessively around her waist, and she pressed in closer.

"What's going on?" she asked, suddenly wishing to be back at home, in their flat above the pub. But because of the curfew, they would be spending the night - what was left of it - here.

"We're waiting for the stars to fall, of course. Telly said 3:46 AM, remember?"

Brigid turned her face to the night sky. The waning moon had risen a fair way above the southeastern horizon, and a smattering of stars could still be seen despite the city lights. She'd known some of the constellations, once; her grandmother had taught them to her. But it had been so long ago, the only one that she could remember was Ursa Major. She tried to find it now, but she wasn't even sure where to start looking.

Dillon joined the group, hands in his pockets and smiling easily. He threw an arm around his cousin's shoulders and said, "Turn off the porch light, Gwen; help us see a bit better."

Gwenith turned off not only the patio light, but the other lights in the house as well. All along the street, Brigid saw, homes whose occupants were still up were switching off their lights, people gathering out on the sidewalk or in their gardens. Brent and Tim's bantering died down, and the others quieted as well. The city held its breath.

"Look!" Eddie exclaimed. They all followed his extended finger.

At first, Brigid couldn't tell what he was pointing at. But as she watched, a particularly bright star in the southern sky suddenly winked out of sight. She blinked, wondering if it was just a trick of the eyes; then another winked out, a little to the northeast of the first. They were all disappearing, she could see now, as a blanket darker than the night itself rolled slowly and inexorably eastwards across the sky. Bit by bit, the blackness swallowed even the moon, until not even the faintest sliver was left.

She was viscerally reminded of her collapse the other night and that weird vision of the stars changing and the moon being gone. James rubbed her back as she shivered a little.

"What happens now?" Eddie asked in a worried tone.

Despite the darkness, Dillon's eyes were bright. "The world changes."