True Believer

by Jedi's Pal

"I believed from my first day of training with the CIA. I thought all they stood for was right, even after they burned me. I gave up everything – and I wasted my life for a lie." What happens when Michael Westen is pushed to his breaking point and beyond. First two chapters written in collaboration with Amanda Hawthorn.

9. Chapter 9

A/N: Oh, wow, kind of terrifying that it's been over three years since we last updated this annual tradition of checking in with Michael and Fiona on the anniversary of the series finale of our beloved Burn Notice. The boards are sadly very quiet these days. Life has changed so much in the last three years, it's kind of hard to fathom. As such, this might be a good time to re-read the entire story before this chapter, since it takes place immediately after the prior one and it is still January of 2016 as far as heroes are concerned. After several chapters of buildup regarding Michael's long buried PTSD roaring to the surface, we didn't want to waste the opportunity (since it's now been three years!) to have a bit lighter yet still angsty romantic vignette along the way to solving his problems. So here it is, the final version of what we'd planned to post in 2021.

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TRUE BELIEVER – Part 9

The popping and crackling of the cold gravel under the tires of the Defender distracted Michael momentarily from the myriad of thoughts swirling around his overloaded cranium as he maneuvered the large vehicle into the parking lot of their lodgings for the weekend in the sleepy little hamlet of Crookhaven, a tourist town in the height of its off-season in the dead of winter.

It was a short ride from the Harbor to their room back at the Galley Cove House when reckoned in actual minutes but far too long when it came to the liking of the two passengers in the lumbering heavily armored SUV, each having their own reasons for their anxiousness to return.

He wanted nothing more than a hot shower and some alone time… Preferably spent sleeping wrapped around his wife with a gun under his pillow… Fighting fatigue was nothing new for the former spy in another lifetime and yet he couldn't recall a time when this type of bone-deep weariness hadn't also been accompanied by some level of physical exertion as well.

Fiona was out of the vehicle and behind him before the dark-haired man's boots could hit the tiny stones. She stepped into his personal space and wrapped her arms around his waist.

"Are you okay?"

Despite every instinct borne of decades of training and tradecraft screaming at him to do otherwise, her husband returned the embrace behind the still open door of the auto. Michael kissed the top of her head and skipped his usual response of 'I'm fine' because they'd both know it was a lie in any event. Drawing a deep breath, he released it on a slow sigh.

"Let's get back ta tha room."

They peeled their outerwear off quickly as the Irishwoman had left the heater going when they'd left earlier, and the room was quite toasty despite the drizzly winter weather outside that they spent the day in. Michael was sitting on the edge of the bed in the corner under the window removing his Wellies when he paused in the task.

"Am gonna ring Claire and see how Charlie is getting on."

"Aye, why donnae ya check on ham," If it would ease Michael's mind, she was all for that. "I think a soak in a tub would do ya some good taa, me luv. Ya must be chilled ta the bone nar."

"Whotever ya like," he replied amiably, seemingly in genuine agreement as opposed to resigned acquiescence. His wife took that as good sign and went off accomplish the deed before he could change his mind as well as his clothes.

The tub and shower unit at the hotel was a more modern model, albeit 1950's modern rather than the 1900s model they had at home, and somewhat smaller too. She judged that they would probably be cramped on top of each other. But a hot bath and Michael's naked body next to hers was not a bad thing in any universe, even if they did have better arrangements elsewhere.

When they first arrived at their secluded new home in the country, Fiona had laughed when she saw the old claw foot tub. Slightly larger than the one back at the loft, she was expecting a different reaction when she showed it to him. His expression was guarded, that smile that Mr Westen frequently used to hide behind when he didn't like what was going on firmly in place

But then his features had softened and her husband promised her he'd make it right.

But whatever fantasies she'd had back then about them spending intimate time in the bathroom had gone straight out the window for quite some months afterwards, even after it was fixed.

As she fiddled with the controls, coaxing some hot water out of the pipes, the redhead remembered how one of their first trips into town had included a stop at the hardware store, where Michael had purchased everything he'd needed to add a shower head, a curtain ring around the top and enough kits to re-porcelain all the enamel surfaces in their cozy cabin.

Mrs Donahue sat on the toilet long enough to slip off her boots and then padded across the thick carpet back to the sight of her man lying awkwardly on his side in his boxers, undershirt and socks, the phone on the nightstand barely back in its cradle, as if he'd fallen asleep as soon as he'd finished the call to check in before he could even properly finish undressing.

Taking in the exhaustion clearly writ on his insensate features, the former freedom fighter tipped Michael over on his back into what she hoped was a more comfortable position and covered her husband with the thick comforter she had previously removed from the bed.

Pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, Fiona decided not to waste all the water and went back to the en-suite to hastily remove the rest of her clothing, leaving her Walther within easy reach in the pile of garments before sliding into the hot liquid scented with some pedestrian bath salts.

Letting all the tension drain from her muscles, the Irishwoman let a low throaty sigh of satisfaction as the wet warmth did its job. Dipping her head back until her mid-shoulder length hair was thoroughly saturated, Fiona began to apply the shampoo, while wishing it was her husband's hands working in the lather. Her exhalation had an entirely different tone as the lithe former redhead thoughts turned once again to how the conversation might have gone between Michael and Father Conlon. She was desperate for some details, but knew she was highly unlikely to get them from either man.

Fiona dunked her head and then again, watching the colored bubbles mingle momentarily with the bath salts, thinking back on the foamy waves back the Harbor as she had walked away, her eyes turning repeatedly over her shoulder to the fishing trawler growing smaller in the distance. It had been gamble setting up the high strung former covert operative for a fishing trip with a man of the cloth that Michael had only marginally known before without her man's consent.

"Thar will be nae a quick fix, me darlin' girl. Ya know thot. If things ar' as ya say, then whot's happened ta yar man dinnae happen overnight and twill nae be finished on tha morrow, regardless o' me amazing skills as a counselor an' all prayers offered up in tha name o' tha blessed Virgin," the family priest had cautioned her as the arrangements had been made for the day's activities. "God is a miracle worker fer certain, but even He needs a bit o' cooperation."

That remark had had many layers. Liam Conlon was well acquainted with the famous Glenanne temperament. He'd had a very limited success in trying to turn her from her wrath following Claire's cold-blooded murder in the street of Belfast and had said nearly the same thing to her at the time. The ex-guerilla acknowledged with a wince that she would have indeed saved herself a good deal of trouble if she'd not taken up with Tommy O'Neil to try to circumvent her brother.

And her beloved was surely a match for her pigheadedness when it came to wanting to handle things in his own way on particular topics… Michael could take obsession to frightening places.

"There's no line when it comes to you!"

The memory of the dark-haired spy's declaration that he was willing to sacrifice his colleagues, to burn them, rather than let her go to prison was quickly supplanted with another far worse.

"You do what you think is right," she told him. Glancing at the seething face of Sonya for a second before she had looked back at Michael once more, not sure whether she had gotten through to him or not. "If this is what you want, then the man I love is gone."

Fiona snatched up the soap and scrubbed furiously at her limbs, attempting to simultaneously remove the dirt from the day and purge the ruinous recollections from her mind. The Irishwoman quickly completed the task of washing up and then slowly sank back into the bath.

Damn James Kendrick, damn Sonya Lebedenko and most especially damn Andrew Strong!

Michael had as much baggage as she did, or probably even more if she was being honest, and likely more red in his ledger. Where they differed was how they handled their hurts. He kept so much locked up inside… She just now coming to appreciate how deep his pain ran.

"Am nae sayin' ya forget, but ya need ta let it go fer yar own sake. Holdin' bitterness in yar heart is like drinkin' poison an' expectin' tha other fella ta die, me girl. Donnae forget who ya ar' an' whar ya come fram, but donnae let tham continue ta hurt ya by givin' tham a home in yar heart."

Of course, she in her own stubbornness had not wanted to hear it either… until the priest had hit her with the words of Herman Hesse about the revenge-minded needing to dig two graves…and it had taken awhile admittedly to penetrate her own thick skull, but she had learned eventually…

If the good father could get through to her, then hopefully he would be able to help Michael heal.

Distracted from her sulfurous thoughts about the people and circumstances that had nearly broken her beloved beyond recovery, Fiona noticed the water was no longer pleasantly warm.

Climbing out of the tepid bath, she quickly wrapped herself in a thick towel she'd brought from home, because even in her new life, the former Ms Glenanne was still not fond of threadbare when it came to terry cloth and linen alike. With her hair and her slender frame appropriately covered, the brunette eased her way back into the adjoining room before perching gently on the side of the bed where her husband continued to slumber.

She took a moment to observe his slack profile and the deep circles around his shuttered lids before giving in to the urge to touch him, combing her fingers lightly through the tousled hair.

Michael stirred, momentarily disoriented by his surroundings, but quickly focused on her face, her smile as gentle as her touch. He encompassed her delicate digits with his larger hand, pulling it to his lips to kiss her knuckles.

"I can't believe I slept that hard."

If she was disturbed by the slip in his accent, Fiona did her best not to let it show.

"Twas apparently whot ya needed, me darlin' man. Would ya be wanting yar bath nar? Tha water's gone cold, so I'd have ta draw ya a new one in any event."

Michael kissed the back of her hand again, then used his hold to urge her closer. "How long befer we have ta get ready fer dinner?"

"Long enough," she whispered, the slim siren settling under the covers he had pulled aside.

But if Mrs Donahue was expecting a repeat performance from their honeymoon, she was quite mistaken. Her husband turned on his side and pulled her back into his chest, surrounding her with his arms in an almost uncomfortably tight embrace. Gentle kisses to the exposed back of Fiona's neck just below her hairline morphed into his quiet breath lightly caressing her throat and not a more ardent press of his lips. Michael had apparently fallen into another deep sleep.

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"So, then Father Conlon had come fer a visit. Mind ya, this wa' when we war living on the Falls Road, twas right befer Junior wa' taken fram us. Mam tells me ta go an' call ham in as she had tha tea ready. An' so I find ham out tha back having a smoke," Mrs Donahue declared.

That was the only thing that was missing, Michael decided. The ever-present fog of cigarette smoke that permeated the pubs he remembered from his first days in the Emerald Isle that was now a thing of the past. In every other way, O'Sullivan's Bar was exactly what he'd expected: exposed grey stone of the exterior wall, highly polished wooden booths, brick surrounding the bar, the bright red rim covered with photos just below the white shiplap ceiling and brass lights.

"An' this one har marches up ta me, bold as brass so she wa' an' just barely thirteen at thot an' asks fer a drag." The priest could barely contain his laughter and Fiona joined in with him.

They were seated in the back away from the guests in the main part of the establishment, far away from the large plate glass window, where his wife had informed him she'd spent the day watching the harbor and enjoying a Murphy's to settle her nerves while awaiting his return. The cod they'd caught earlier had been transformed by an expert into a delicious beer battered fish and chip supper, finer than even the one served by their favorite chippy back at home, one of the few favorites they regularly ventured into town to partake of, and they were enjoying it in the private inner sanctum of the owner while the rest of the bar went on as usual.

"We war sharing a fag, talking about how much we both missed Da when wouldn't ya know it, guess who walks through tha back door, come to find out where we'd both gotten off ta?"

"I'll wager fifty punt twas yar namesake," Flann replied with a chuckle. "Tis tha only one o' tha family thot ever succeeded in puttin' tha fear o' God in this girl."

Fiona took a generous sip of her recently refilled glass, the foam lingering on her upper lip before she removed it with a quick flick of her tongue. Noticing her husband's lingering stare, the Irishwoman treated him to a wink before continuing the tale.

"Aye, twas hisself big as life an' home fram medical school. I nearly had a heart attack being caught out wit' a cigarette. But then the good father har saved me. Slipped it out of me hand, slick as ya please, took a lungful and blew it over tha top o' me head. Covered me hair wit' it an' then tells Liam thot he wa' givin' me a wee bit o' advice on being nicer ta tha sisters at school."

"O' course me namesake jus' glared at tha pair o' us an' told us ta come inta tha warm, as they war waitin' on me ta give tha blessing over tha meal."

Mr Donahue looked down at his own plate. Of the thick cut chips, garden peas and the long strips of fish cooked in a crispy golden batter little remained. He speared a few of the tasty green items, surprised to find them as delectable, even with the addition of the mint, as the rest of the offerings. He'd always detested the mushy mess that passed for peas as a kid.

"Befer we went in, Father slipped me one o' tha mints he always carried ta cover his own breath. We both had a good laugh. But then he told me it twarn't really a good habit fer so young a lady ta pick up, as none o' the boys would be wanting thar first kiss ta be with an ashtray."

The merriment continued around the table while Michael tried to keep his unruly thoughts in order. Images of his mother giving him nearly the same advice but punctuating it by putting out her own Marley in an overflowing piece of ugly ceramics Nate had made in art class competed with the ex-spy's admiration for the stealthy way in which Father Conlon had covered Fiona's tracks before the rest of the family could give her grief, particularly her own mother.

"I remember ya always war tha picture o' innocence, whot wit' yar long pig tails and big bows, tryin' ta linger about tha front parlor when thar wa' a meeting thot night, always at yar Da's side."

Fiona ducked her head and tried to cover her chagrin by taking a large bite of the fried cod.

"Aye, Flann, an' ya know full well yar own self thot appearances can be deceivin' particularly when it comes ta this lass." Father Conlon pulled a small envelope from his jacket pocket and after a momentary search produced a small, aged Polaroid. Two young girls smiled from the picture. Matching outfits, black and red velvet dresses covered in colorful embroidery and lace, white knee socks and black toe shoes, their golden red hair pinned up high on the tops of their heads and then falling in cascades of curls from the top, small tiaras nestled in the center.

The youngest surviving sister of the Glenanne clan wiped her hand on her cloth napkin before reaching across the table with a slightly trembling hand to take the photo. His wife held it up to inspect it with misty eyes before sharing it with the dark-haired man on her righthand side.

"I brought this and a few other family pictures with me when tha lass invited me ta come har."

A quick flash of irritation coursed through his body as the priest inadvertently reminded the one-time covert operative of the duplicitous way their meeting had been arranged. If she hadn't been so enthralled with the image of her eight-year-old self with her nearly five-year-old sister, his beloved would have no doubt seen the angry expression flicker across his face before Michael had been able to cover it. As it was, only the older men across the table caught the slip.

"Tis me an' Claire, dressed in our outfits fer tha Irish Dance competition. Me da took this. Twas tha year befer he—" Fiona trailed off. Everyone at the table knew and Michael could guess based on his earlier conversation with the man's best friend what she was referring to.

Despite his prior annoyance, Michael wrapped an arm around the brunette's shoulders and gave her a light squeeze. Clearing her throat, the Irishwoman continued her story.

"When she found out thot I wa' goin' ta tha competition, Claire wanted ta come along. I said she wa' taa young, but she cried an' screamed tha walls down until Mammy said she could go taa. Tha little church we went ta had ta help us fund raise ta get proper outfits fer tha local dance."

"No, lass, twas nae tha local contest," the priest contradicted, using his fork for emphasis.

Michael turned his attention from examining the old photo to the other man.

"Maeve made those right smart costumes the lasses are wearing in this picture herself. But they needed something a wee bit fancier for the regionals in Derry. Fiona hare could have gone on to tha regionals harself if she had nae let her temper get the better o' har."

"Whot happened?" the dark-haired man asked, although he had already guessed based on her grimace and what he knew of the Glenannes in general and his beloved in particular.

"I got in a fight backstage after me age group finished tha dancing with a cow from one o' tha groups o' older girls thot wa' waitin' ta go on. I won tha fight o' course, but it made a right mess o' me outfit an' me hair. Mammy went straight ta ninety after she worked so hard on thot dress an' they disqualified me."

"Aye, Maeven wa' fit ta be tied," the clergyman agreed with a hearty chuckle. "An' all har effort wit' thot curlin' iron an' tha hair spray gone ta waste. Fiona har war quite a sight, between tha black eye an' broken crown hangin' off har head by the benefit o' one bobby pin. Twas all Paddy could do ta stop har mammy fram giving tha girl the hiding o' har life right then an' thare."

Michael tried to stifle his laugh but failed miserably. "What was the fight about?"

"I donnae remember," she admitted sheepishly.

"Twas nae as bad as whot she did at wee Claire's baptism," Father Conlon cut in before taking a large sip and draining the glass of its contents.

Meanwhile, Mr O'Brien attempted to not choke from trying to finish off his fish while not guffawing too loudly at the same time. Patrick's daughter flushed bright pink before covering her face with her hands, grateful that the noise in rest of the bar was a full volume and they were very much alone and secure in their special space that no one save the owner entered or eavesdropped. Once it had been a place where the conversations held could potentially get a person arrested or executed instead of being merely a spot for a possible humiliation.

"Please donnae tell thot story," she begged, her mostly finished food now forgotten.

Her husband took his arm back, using that hand to pop the last chip in his mouth, chewing deliberately for a moment, waiting for her to return his gaze. When she finally turned his direction at last, his mischievous grin matched the amusement sparkling in his blue eyes.

"Whot's it worth ta ya, lass, if he donnae?"

Fiona turned a deeper shade of red before a look Michael well knew meant nothing but trouble for him glinted dangerously in her blue green orbs.

"Whot's it worth to ya, Mr. Donahue, if he donnae?"

And for a moment, they both forgot they were sitting in the back of a crowded bar with the Glenanne family confessor and a former IRA enforcer a tabletop away from them. The older men exchanged glances as the standoff continued, neither one of them willing to back down.

"An' how wa' the meal?" Mr. O'Sullivan inquired, showing up in the secluded room with a tray containing fresh pints for the clergyman and his long-time friend.

"It wa' a bit o' alright," Flann agreed. "Yer certainly a man who knows his way around a kitchen."

Eirian nodded, setting drinks down before their owners. "Thar's bread an' butter pudding taa."

"I think whot the rest o' this lot needs is another round."

"I think me an' tha misses are fine nar," Michael interjected. He had already let his guard down far too many times this evening without adding excessive alcohol consumption to his sins.

"Call me if ya change yar minds," their host advised, clearing away the dishes and departing.

The Irishwoman was more interested in the rest of the contents of the envelope that Father Conlon had brought with him and in spite of his own feelings about how the package had arrived, her American husband was equally intent, though for different reasons.

When he met her, she was an asset. Learning about her, her friends, family, enemies, strengths and weaknesses was all part of the job, facts to be used to accomplish his mission. After he'd belatedly realized that she was far more than an asset, inquiring about these same things felt like even more of a betrayal than he'd already committed. Both unwilling and unable to share his story, the spy and her lover couldn't bring himself to ask her for anything she didn't volunteer.

Now, despite the fact he was huddled with the woman he loved in a tiny pub in the westernmost reaches of her homeland and his finely tuned paranoia was screeching that this was all a tactical nightmare of epic proportions, Michael could not help but listen as she spoke whispered words about her family from her heart, of the early days of Clan Glenanne.

If sharing his past with his nephew had stirred up long buried business from another lifetime, then in this moment it seemed his beloved was having her own joyous albeit painful reunion.

The tragedies he knew about in an intellectual way, even more so since spending afternoon with the family priest, who added his own commentary to her reminiscences. But now he began to connect those facts, particularly the new ones, in a deeper, more human way, comprehending the emotional toll taken, the resilience required more thoroughly than he ever had.

"Aye," Flann added when Fiona had finished telling her latest tale. "Everyone always said thot har sister would be tha apple o' Maeve's eye, but young Fiona har wa' Patrick's daughter through and through. I was nae surprised tha day they told me thot she was fighting fer the Cause alongside her brothers."

"Sean definitely came ta appreciate me skills," she added with a slightly exaggerated bravado.

"I hope ya appreciate whot a fine lass ya have thar, laddie, and ta be able to have a new life."

Her husband nodded at the priest and sent his wife a small smile of adoration.

The more he'd tried not to compare his own past with the tales of home with the Glenannes, the more he found himself wanting to do exactly what his maritime counselor had called him out on earlier in the day. He wanted to slip into the skin of Michael Donahue and enjoy a fine meal in a grand pub, drinking the black and talking craic and thinking about nothing more than going back to their room that night and making love to his wife, Michael Westen's opinions be damned.

And so he did exactly that.

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It was the no-win scenario that terrified him the most. It had started, as it often did, with some mysterious figure kidnapping Charlie, but this time Claire and Eamonn's blood-soaked deaths added another layer of guilt. Then the nightmare morphed from his nephew being carried away into the shadows to losing Fiona, not her demise, but literally not knowing where she was or what was happening to her, gone as if in a cloud of smoke or a government sanctioned rendition. The climax was realizing he couldn't save his brother's son without abandoning the search for his wife and yet somehow he was crushed under the sure knowledge he would fail and lose both of them despite his best efforts.

His heart was threatening to leap out of his chest when Michael wrenched himself from the shifting stream of nightmare images that had assaulted him while he'd tried to sleep. Jerking upright in the bed, a cold sweat covering his naked form, the former spy attempted to use his training to get his breathing and his traitorous mind under control. It was just a bad dream!

Brennan was dead, Larry was dead, Tom Card was dead, James and Sonya were dead. None of them were around to perpetrate any evil nor to manipulate him into doing something.

Knowing that objective truth hadn't made those scenes of death and loss any less terrifying.

The disheveled dark-haired man looked over at his beloved to find her staring at him with that look he'd seen before. The one that said he was out of his mind and out of control, that he was chasing ghosts that didn't exist… except he'd been right. They were just waiting in the shadows.

Because it's not the enemy you see that gets you. It's the one you don't.

"Michael? Whot's wrong?"

This was seriously not the way she wanted to wake up this morning. After their night of passion, a thoroughly delightful affair wherein her man had taken his time in driving her completely insane before they had gloriously come together, Fiona had been hoping for a lazy morning in bed, wrapped in each other's arms skin to skin under some thick quilts, something they nearly never got to do in their little cottage in the woods with a rambunctious six-year-old about.

But she'd been the one who'd ask Michael to face down his demons, so it was up to her to help him do just that. Wrangling her own fear mingled with mild disappointment, Fiona sat up next to him, threading her delicate digits through the damp strands, kissing his shoulder softly.

At least this time she hadn't had to pry a H&K P30 out of his hands first.

"Another nightmare?"

He swallowed thickly and nodded, now embarrassed about his reaction. The part of him that hated not overseeing everything, the part that despised vulnerability and weakness was seeking its own solution to the problem at hand while the logical part was still getting its act together.

Her butterfly kisses on his salty skin were making it hard for him to concentrate.

To hell with it.

Michael turned and fell back on the lithe woman at his side, now peppering her shoulder, neck, cheek and lips with kisses that were anything but soft. His hands seemed like they were everywhere at once and his lover couldn't help but be reminded of their early days when mornings of erotic awakenings often followed evenings of frenzied sexual activity. It was a time she remembered with great fondness, especially after all the intervening years when their couplings didn't end quite as well. She had no objections to the return of this side of Michael…

"McBride…'

His lover couldn't have more effectively killed the mood if she had thrown a bucket of ice water on him. The man froze, suddenly more chilled to the bone than if he'd been standing outside in the freezing sleet that had pounded the windows the week before in his current state of undress.

Not realizing the whispered word had actually left her lips instead of running around her brain, the brunette was completely puzzled as to what had disturbed the troubled man so abruptly.

"Michael…?"

Once more, the parts of his soul were at war with each other, and he was caught in the middle.

"I need a shower."

He was out of the bed and into the en-suite before she could blink.

Hearing the water start up, Fiona scrubbed her hands over her tired features as she tried to discern what she'd done to upset him. In an intuitive flash, she understood what she needed to do more than she actually knew what had set him off or what was going on inside him right now.

And for the former freedom fighter, her instincts had always been good enough.

Fiona followed him into the bathroom, padding lightly across the transition from carpet to tile, pausing before she moved on into the bathtub. Michael was breathing heavily, whether from trying to get under the shower head too soon or for some other reason she really didn't want to ponder, the Irishwoman wasn't entirely sure. It unnerved her, if she was being honest.

Her beloved was a rock, sometimes a tower of strength and sometimes literally as hard and unyielding as stone. She had always hated it when he shut down his feelings as if he didn't have them. However, she'd been gravely mistaken. After all these years, his spouse was only now coming to truly appreciate that deep reservoir of pain locked behind his impenetrable façade.

Taking in a deep breath of her own, the brunette pulled the shower curtain open and stepped in.

It was a tight fit but that suited her purposes just fine. Fiona quickly put the plastic barrier back in its place, pausing for a brief second to consider her next move. But in typical Glenanne fashion, it was only a very slight hesitation before she forged ahead.

Wrapping her arms around his waist from behind, the determined Irishwoman hugged her husband tightly, pressing her cheek between his locked shoulder blades. Michael remained tense in her embrace. Pretending to be sighting a target through her favorite Hectate the ex-paramilitary held her ground, lightly brushing her fingertips over his rib cage and abdominals.

She wasn't sure how long they stayed like that, though it couldn't have been terribly long as the water coming down over their entwined frames remained quite warm. Only when she felt the stiffness leave his muscles did the love of his life finally speak.

"Yer mine…" she said simply. "Yer me husband, me lover and me best friend. I donnae care if ya call yerself McBride or Westen or Donahue, yer me Michael and ya'll always be me Michael."

And then she squeezed him with all her rather considerable strength for a woman her size.

Her partner let out a long deep stuttering sigh. She knew him, body and soul… after all the times he'd pushed her away, all he'd put her through, she was there for him, even when he didn't deserve it. He'd betrayed her so many times in so many ways. That reminder of how it all started, a deep-seated fear that one day she'd realize she'd never loved him, only his covers. But how could she know what her words had done if he never told her anything?

Yet somehow, Fiona had known exactly what to say and moreover she'd meant it sincerely.

As he turned in her hold, she saw the mixture of hurt and hope in his face. Once more, his woman knew exactly what was required. Anchoring herself on his shoulders as the spray cascaded over them, his wife pulled herself up on her tiptoes and kissed him, slowly at first but building in ardor and adoration as she deepened the contact of her mouth and her limbs.

"Whotever it wa' I said, Am sorry fer it. Ya can tell me all about it when yer feeling better."

Then she showed him just how much she loved him until they ended up at the bottom of the narrow tub with the flow from above turning cold but their joined bodies anything but chilled.

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Mrs Donahue had been campaigning for a return to her original plan of extended undressed cuddling at least until lunch time when her husband's stomach did what it often had after they'd done what they had this morning and so the brunette begrudging decided that they should go into town and have a proper Irish breakfast before engaging in some activities.

As they'd prepared to head out for the evening last night, Flann had offered to arrange for them to spend a day shooting, if they were prepared to wait a day or two. Despite Michael tensing up at the suggestion, she'd accepted the invitation immediately. The Irishwoman was planning to follow up on that today.

"Am just goin' ta ring Claire befer—"

"Leave it," Fiona advised as he reached for the handset. Now that they had bundled up to face the winter weather outside their lodgings, she was not interested in hanging about. "Tis taa early ta be callin' on a weekend. Claire will think ya donnae trust har. If anything wa' wrong, she'd have been tha one ringin' ya an' nae tha other way 'round.'

His hand hesitated over the phone before he relented. Shrugging into his waxed cotton overcoat, the former miliary man attempted to shrug off his anxieties.

This isn't worth fighting about… But that didn't make it any easier to put aside the fears his nocturnal imagination had caused.

Stepping out into the misty morning, she linked her arm through his as they walked gingerly over the slick gravel of the parking lot to their transportation. Then the Irishwoman paused.

"Donnae it make ya happy jus' ta be alive ta see such o' lovely mornin?"

Michael looked beyond the neatly trimmed hedges surrounding the car park out past the rolling grasslands to the Atlantic Ocean, the still blue gray waters reminding him of his activities yesterday. Expertly deflecting the unsettling memories, he turned to gaze into blue green of the skies over Irish Sea reflected in her eyes, firmly reminding himself just how blessed he was.

"Aye, tis beautiful," he agreed, continuing to look at her and not the scenery.

Their peaceful pause lasted long enough for them to get into the large SUV and start heading into town when the topic turned to what they were going to do after breakfast.

"I wa' lookin' a few o' tha tourist brochures they had lyin' about O'Sullivan's while I wa' waitin' fer ya yesterday. Thar's quite o' bit o' things ta see har abouts. Thar's a load o' Bronze Age field monuments in tha hills around Crookhaven, all marked on tha Ordnance Survey Discovery Series Map 88, or so it said."

Her lilting accent took on a sing song quality as she continued filling her husband in on the local geological wonders. "We can pass by tha old Roadstone Quarry on tha side o' tha mountain, which provided metaling fer tha roads of Wales until 1945 according ta tha pamphlet."

"I'll take a pass on thot, luv," he replied, a genuine smile on his lips at his own bad joke.

"Did ya know thot Marconi came hare ta try ta get his first radio message across tha Atlantic an' he fitted tha first telegraphic equipment ta tha Fastnet Rock Lighthouse ta communicate wit' tha passing ships?" She looked up at him with a faux earnest expression.

"Is thot all ya did wa' read tham brochures, Fi? Tis sounding like ya ate a few o' tham taa."

The petite ex-paramilitary smacked him on the shoulder but otherwise ignored the comment as they approached the edges of the Harbor. "Thare's tha Mizen Head Visitor Centre as well. Tis tha most southwesterly point in Ireland."

The dark-haired man was momentarily lost in thoughts of the southernmost point in Florida and as such missed the discussion about the English Market and the Fota Wildlife Park while they went past the Breakwater Cottages towards a little blue building near the waterfront.

"If ya donnae want ta go walkin' about, we can hire some motorbikes," Fiona continued hopefully. "Or mabbe some push bikes if yer wanting sommit in between?"

Michael realized as he parked the SUV near the seawall that he'd gotten wrapped up in reminiscing about Key West. Like every other memory connected with his youth, the good, the bad and the ugly were all merged together in an unpleasant amalgamation, and he really needed to start contributing to the conversation.

"We could hire out one o' those boats thot does tha whale sighting…" she offered, trying not to get irritated at his obstinance and not wanting to ruin the mood after this morning.

"We'd likely freeze befer we saw anything an' honestly, I've had enough o' being out on tha water fer nar," he countered, scanning all the places and faces surrounding them as they climbed out of their vehicle and headed towards the Nottages Restaurant, which was right next door to O'Sullivan's. If the latter was a quintessential Irish pub, then the former was a classic old seafront home, painted ocean blue and converted into a dining establishment.

They opted for a table on the second floor, a quaint cozier setting than the downstairs: a lower white ceiling, old-fashioned glass globe and brass lighting with smaller windows set into off blue accent walls looking out onto the bay.

Pleased to find they were alone upstairs, Michael visibly relaxed, but refused to get drawn into discussing anything but the vaguest of small talk while actually in the restaurant. He had let his guard down way too much over dinner yesterday and didn't intend to repeat that.

The former freedom fighter did her best to put her skills at waiting out her target to work but found her heritage working against her. Nonetheless, Fiona managed to enjoy the bountiful spread of Clonakilty Black Pudding, sausage, Irish pork belly, Gubeen chorizo, fried eggs, tomatoes, mushroom and freshly baked bread while remaining patient.

Afterwards, they decided to walk off some of Nottage's Mixed Grill Breakfast along the waterfront headed to the north, but soon came to a private drive where the road ended. Turning back south, they walked past O'Sullivan's and the General Store before turning more towards the Harbor and along the stone pier that went further out into the water.

"We should check in wit' Flann an' see if mabbe we can go shootin' today instead o' tomorrow."

""Ar' ya sure thot's such a good idea, Fi? I donnae fancy goin' out inta tha woods—"

"Michael, do ya nae trust me? I've told ya befer thot we have nothin' ta fear fram ham," the Irishwoman reiterated. "But if it'll make ya feel better, I'll have Father Conlon join us."

That doesn't really help, but he wasn't going to say the quiet part out loud, so the one-time ace operative decided to take a different tact as they settled on some weather worn picnic benches scattered around a little concrete square where the tourists and the locals alike could watch the boats to go by.

"An' whot sort o' experience d'ya have hunting?"

"Tis called shootin' har, me luv, remember? Huntin' is done on tha back o' a horse, shootin' is in tha woods or in tha fields wit' a good dog at yar side," she lightly scolded before continuing. "But ta answer yar question I've been on all sorts o' shoots, though it's been awhile, mind ya,"

"Have ya nar? Whot sorts would thot be?"

She thought about it for a moment. "Mostly birds and tha like, tha traditional ones I mean. Though I have been on a few big game hunts. Twas only because—"

Fiona trailed off, caught between her memories, realizing she was about to say too much.

Her husband pounced on the opening. "Only because whot?"

"Oh, twas a long time ago an' I dinnae care fer it."

"Then why d'ya go?" His blue eyes bored into hers as she attempted to look past him.

His beloved pretended to stare a sailboat for another few seconds before heaving a sigh.

"Twas one o' tha many pastimes o' tha rich an' powerful thot Armand introduced me taa… We'd come off a very large deal in Cape Town an' tha buyer wanted ta take us." The faux brunette's gaze dropped to the tabletop. "Nae thot I coulda refused even if I had known…"

"Who I was back then, when I was with him, I was another person… someone I'm not proud of."

Michael reached over as they sat shoulder to shoulder and took her hand, remembering her making a drunken confession that seemed a lifetime ago about her feelings over who she had been when she had lived with the international arms dealer. He was torn between not wanting to hurt her by bringing up the bad memories of her past but also wanting her to understand how he felt whenever his wife pushed him to revisit those times and places he had chosen to keep locked up tightly for very good reasons.

"I dinnae mind going on tha pheasant shoots so much. It dinnae seem so wasteful since whot we didnae want fer our own table, we gave ta tha beaters ta eat or sell ta tha local butchers," Fiona continued, seemingly now distracted by her own reminiscences.

"Armand seemed as if he wa' quite fond o' it actually…had his own Labrador Retrievers, highly trained too, and Spaniels, some really smart, very fast Brittany Spaniels they war. He kept tham at one o' tha properties in the Jura. Twas quite lovely thare, all wooded and rolling hills, ya know, not all craggy and rocky like the Alps. We'd go thare ta hunt during tha season. He even kept some falcons thar he hunted with, though mostly he sold tham or gave tham as gifts ta his larger Arab customers…"

She stopped then and shook herself as if suddenly feeling the bite of the breeze coming off the cold waters of the bay and then raised her sorrowful eyes back to his, returning to the present.

"Mind ya, hunting, shootin' and fishin' on tha fancy estates o' Ireland and Scotland ar' a lot less fancy than thot wa' and twill be far simpler still whot Flann will likely have planned fer us. Most o' tha local people in these out o' tha way areas make extra money either flushing game wit' thar dogs or beatin'… "

He gave her an odd look, waiting for her to finish the sentence. He wasn't sure if his wife was just talking to cover her emotions from her memories of another life or trying to make sure she finished selling him on the proposed activity before he had a chance to start objecting again.

"Ya know, beatin'…? Walking slowly across fields waving feedbags or tha like ta turn tha game ta fly over tha guns…" Fiona trailed off again and then smiled.

"Whot sort o' field sport experience d'ya have, Michael? Or did ya only wrestle alligators?"

"It wa' illegal ta mess wit' tha gators when I wa' growin' up," the American replied, feeling odd talking about his past in the South Florida swamps with an Irish accent. "I wa' more inta fishin' back then, though probably not tha fancy fishin' ya woulda been doin' on some grand yacht no doubt. Just me tackle box, me rods an' a good spot on tha pier or under a bridge…"

He stopped himself before he got lost in his own past once more, opting to tease Fiona instead.

"Mind ya, I have killed me fair share o' rattlesnakes. Taste like chicken," he added flashing a toothy smile at her horrified expression. "All tha venom's in tha head ya see. The rest o' tham is fine eatin' if ya get a big one...Though tis a right pain in tha arse ta clean, especially if yer tryin' ta keep tha skin. Sold a few o' them in me day but thare war better ways ta make money.""

The Irishwoman still looked highly skeptical about reptilian cuisine but let that part go.

"I remember ya sayin' ya acquired yar marksmanship skills at a fairly young age taa. War thot due ta needin' ta shoot tha snakes?"

His mood shifted, now pensive. After surveying the streets and finding them sparsely populated with no one apparently having any interest in the couple sitting outside, he answered her query.

"Me da got me a BB gun fer Christmas one year, I think I war about eight. Me mam went straight ta ninety, said I'd shoot me eye out. I think she wa' more worried about me brudder getting' a hold of it an' shooting his own eye out…Anyway, I shot a bird wit' it. I dinnae mean ta. I…I wa' jus' mess about, ya know? I hadnae figured out tha sights yet."

He swallowed thickly and then continued.

"Me da thought I meant ta do it an' he praised me fer bein' a good shot. I practiced fer hours wit' tha thing afterwards… I wanted ta make sure thot I'd only kill sommit if I meant ta do it."

They were both quiet, examining their joined hands atop the wood turned grey by exposure to the salt air and the Irish sunshine while the wind ruffled their hair and their scarves.

"I want Charlie to have a better life than I did," Michael Westen whispered.

Fiona leaned over and kissed him softly on the cheek.

"He will…he has us."

Her beloved sighed again, meeting her eyes with misty orbs of his own before blinking away the moisture there. His expression shifted and the Irishwoman saw Michael Donahue reemerge.

"Okay, so no big game, no falcons an' no horses tomorrow I presume? Just dinner, right?"

"Aye, just dinner, though ya might have ta help pluck it…"

Michael made a face and then laughed. "Wouldnae be the first time…" He stood up, stretching his arms over his head and then flexing at the hips. "Taa bad about tha horses though…"

His wife was taken aback while she took to her feet as well.

"Taa bad…? Really…? D'ya ride then, Michael?"

"Well, obviously nae in quite a while, but aye, I have. I think about it nar and again, when I've seen the riders hare an' thare around tha village back home an' tha ponies in tha countryside."

It truly warmed Mrs Donahue's heart to no small degree to hear her husband refer to the little hamlet adjacent to their small cottage nestled in the woods as home.

"Then I'll see if I can arrange it. If anyone knows whar thar's a riding school in this part o' tha world, t'would be Mr. O'Brien… mind ya, they donnae usually hire horses ta folks thot ar' nae regular customers, but I bet he could see ta it."

The ex-spy looked very skeptical and former PIRA guerilla just grinned at him.

"I keep tellin' ya thot he's a pillar o' tha community nar. Just another example o' a man wit' a terrible past successfully makin' tha transition ta model citizen."

"If ya say so, luv." Michael offered her his arm, which she took happily. Nar this wa' more like it.

They started to walk again along the grey stone seawall, listening to the seabirds call overhead while Fiona tried to figure out where would be the most likely place to find the one-time enforcer turned upstanding member of society at this hour of the morning.

"An' befer ya say anythin', yes, I did learn ta ride out on tha farm… bareback on an ol' plow horse thot wa' taa high fer me ta get on by meself, but that donnae mean I cannae ride."

However, her lover wasn't thinking about the conversations they'd had about Fiona's idyllic upbringing on the family homestead outside of Derry while they had driving away from said place, which had sadly fallen into a state of utter neglect and disrepair since Patrick Junior had moved them all into town and a semi-detached house on Falls Road in Belfast years ago.

"But I went ta plenty o' equestrian events back in tha day, races, show jumping, and tha like an' I rode on tha proper hunts as well as some, shall we say, informal contests…"

No, he was thinking about when he'd finally realized that she'd stolen his heart while making love on that old stone floor with nothing but a tarp, a few woolen blankets and a roaring fire to keep them from freezing in that drafty ruin in the middle of winter… that and the final release of all the blazing passion which had been building for months consuming them…

"I even played a wee bit o' polo wit' tha trainers, though thot wa' mostly betting on shots. After all those matches we'd been ta, I wanted ta try it fer meself, mostly because they said a woman couldn't do it, so—"

"So naturally you had to prove them wrong."

"Naturally," the Irishwoman agreed, resurrecting that cut glass English accent, the one with all the proper amount of condensation and arrogance, the one she'd learned attending all the polo matches with her international gun runner paramour by her side. "So, where did you learn?" She gave his arm a light squeeze.

"In the mountains… in a certain part o' tha world… in tha army at first." He chuckled at the memory. "I dinnae take ta it at first. Ya see, we never had any animals about growing up."

"No animals? Ar' ya havin' me on then? I know ya dinnae grow up on a farm, but no pets?"

His mind flashed from comforting Nate after another one of the stray dogs his younger brother had brought home 'disappeared' once their father found out before quickly refocusing on Captain Novak's lack of patience for his reticence to associate with animals back in the day.

"No pets, luv, an' when I wa' learnin' ta ride, it wa' fer work an' nae fer pleasure back then."

"Whot, no polo, then?" she smirked, trying not to let show how daft she found his upbringing.

He felt a slight dizziness as his memory carried him back to Rayna Kopec's scathing comments regarding his skills or rather lack thereof on horseback. He took a deep breath to steady himself, but his war time memories weren't quite ready to retreat from the surface of his mind.

The one-time military man turned spy and now civilian hadn't thought of his first Station Chief for quite a while. Of course, it would have been difficult to impress anyone who had ridden in buzkashi games, not only successfully hiding her gender but managing to play well enough to achieve the mission objective at the time. She really had been one of a kind…

"Not exactly…" The former Ranger pulled his thoughts back to the present. "Unless you count the games the locals played… more like tenth century polo…"

Michael could tell the moment she had put the pieces together by her expressions alone. The breeze ticked up and blew her short tresses across her face, only partially obscuring it.

"Buzkashi, is it?" Fiona's countenance finally morphed from vaguely horrified to mischievous as they finally arrived back at their vehicle. "Nar ya have done it, Michael." She smirked as she stood by the driver's door, refusing to allow him to drive without a fight. "Wa're goin' riding."

()()()()()()()()()()()()

And true to her word, whether Donahue or Glenanne, the Irishwoman was quite persuasive.

"Horse riding ya say?" he questioned. "I take it ya donnae mean a wee trek out wit' a guide?"

"I was thinking about sommit more private," the brunette countered, sitting in the backroom of O'Sullivan's once more, nursing a milk tea with honey instead of a fine stout. "Michael tells me thot he rode a lot at one point in his life. I've nae been riding for a few years, but we'll manage."

O'Brien sucked in his bottom lip as he stared at the younger woman, finally reaching a decision.

"I think I can get ya a couple o' horses. I know someone who hires tham out fer huntin'. He always has a few more than he needs... But they'll want ta see ya ride first..."

Flann rose, digging out his cell phone and then paused, turning his gaze first on Fiona and then her husband. "Yer sure yer both up fer riding alone? I donnae want ta be spending tha rest o' today chasing a couple o' nags around tha countryside or takin' tha pair o' ya ta hospital."

"Twill be fine," Patrick's daughter assured him. "Have ya ever known me ta get in trouble?"

"Donnae ask questions ya donnae want tha answer ta, lass," the older man grumbled and he dialed the mobile.

()()()()()()()()()()()

The drive to stables took Fiona and Michael inland along lanes that became narrower and narrower until the tarmac disappeared completely.

"Another chance ta test yar off roadin' skills, eh, me luv?"

Her husband chuckled softly. "Tis nae like we donnae do this back at home, ya know."

"Aye, tis true," and again it warmed her heart to hear Michael openly use the word home. "But donnae tell me ya donnae have every inch o' tha terrain around Ballinshannon memorized," the former freedom fighter challenged. "Tis taa engrained in yar brain fer a ya ta do otherwise."

"Well, I wa' a getaway driver once upon a time."

Soon, they were passing fields of horses grazing, each one covered in a thick blanket, some with only a head and legs showing, as it was so wrapped out for the cold.

The Defender's transmission and suspension were soon being tested as the farmer's tracks became more uneven, causing Mr Donuhue to concentrate on his driving and falling silent.

As she tried to get a feel for his true mood, his wife stole surreptitious glances at his profile. The morning had been strange indeed. Not only had her normally circumspect beloved been coaxed into sharing details of his past, but the former consort to an infamous international arms dealer had talked about her own history with said man far more than she had ever done before.

Mabbe if she could show Michael thot they could be who they war nar an' still be a bit o' who they had been… takin' the good parts an' leavin' the bad behind. It had always worked fer her…

As if the former covert operative had been reading her mind, the dark-haired man cleared his throat and took a chance on taking his eyes off the two parallel lines of hard packed dirt.

"Fi… uh… I know, I know ya said earlier… when ya war talkin' about yar time wit' Armand…"

That was literally the last thing the Irishwoman was expecting to be the topic of conversation.

Staring through the wind screen once more, focused on the twists and turns, he continued.

"Am nae tryin' ta pry, Missus, I jus' wanted… well, ya said thot ya dinnae like who ya war when ya war wit' ham. I cannae imagine ya bein' anything but yarself… but I wa' wonderin' if ya…"

Fiona's thoughts and emotions were awhirl. In all the years she'd known him, as friend or lover, he had never prodded into her past, assumably to stopping her from doing the same to him.

But she was willing to do whatever it took to help him overcome his demons, even if that included talking about a time in her life when she played a partner to the devil herself.

"Go on, Michael, jus' ask…"

"If ya dinnae like who ya war when ya war wit' ham, how did ya manage ta be yarself again?"

As much as he wanted to look directly at her, the drive up the last hill kept his attention firmly on the track in front of him. Clearing the height, their destination suddenly came into view.

"Uh, well, tis complicated…"

They pulled into the small yard with a large rambling farmhouse behind and a square of wooden stables off to one side. A young woman, dressed in a thick woolen jumper with jeans tucked into wellington boots, was approaching them.

Shutting off the SUV, her beloved turned quickly to look into her tumultuous blue green eyes. "Ya can get back ta me about thot later, Missus," he added before getting out of the Defender.

"Mr and Mrs Murphy?" their hostess queried, the fingers of one hand pushing tendrils of auburn hair back under the woolen hat on her head. She came around to the side where Fiona was exiting the auto and doing up her wax cotton coat.

"Aye, thot's us," Orla answered quickly, smiling at the alias. "Me Uncle Flann called ahead."

"Yes, me daddy's friend... Sorry, me da' had ta go out so I'll be seein' ta ya." She turned and gestured for them to follow her. "Me name is Patsy... Nar Flann told me ya can both ride and ya want ta go out on yar own, is thot right?"

"Aye, we saw some lads ridin' on our way inta Crookhaven an' thought it would be a nice change fer us both," Michael answered, still a bit nervous about the enterprise but also actually anticipating this more than he would have been willing to admit out loud.

They were in the stable yard now, eighteen stables forming a square around a cobblestone yard where four other young women were working at various tasks.

"Follow me ta tha office," Patsy requested. "I need ta outfit ya both wit' some boots an' hats."

Once the door had closed behind them, their host gave them both a long look from head to toe. Muttering to herself, she pulled out a few pairs of cheap rubber riding boots for them to try on and while the couple changed footwear, she took a selection of riding hats off a shelf.

Once Patsy was happy with the fit of their equipment, the younger woman led them back onto the yard where two of the other young women were now waiting, each holding the reins of a horse. The contrast between the two animals was striking and somewhat mirrored the differences between their prospective riders, the irony not lost on them as they approached.

The wind had died down while they had been in the office and the mid-afternoon sun made it warmer than it had been upon their arrival. The couple exchanged a look, each waiting to see if the other would back out. Michael nodded his ascent and Fiona beamed back at him.

The weather seemed to bode well for the outing… It would be more pleasant than riding out into the harbor on the deck of an old trawler… If he could just manage to stop worrying about potential sniper perches and hiding places for ambushes along their route, it would be fine.

"Nar, Orla, Am giving ya Siren." The girl holding the smaller of the two brought her charge forward. "She's a sweet little thing. We've nae had har long but she's proving ta be a hit wit' tha more experienced riders. If ya go wit' Sheila, she'll take ya ta tha school an' help ya get on."

As Fiona walked off alongside the little black mare, still smirking at her cover ID, Patsy turned to Michael. "Brian, Am gonnae give ya Goliath. Tell me nar if ya put off by tha size o' ham."

Michael studied the giant of a horse. Dark grey in color with a black mane and tail, the animal was broad and had hooves the size of dinner plates. "He used ta be one o' tha Duhallow Master's horses, but he knows his job an' donnae be put out by tha size o' him. His mammy wa' an Irish draught but his daddy won tha Irish Derby back in his day... "

The dark-haired man stared at the equine whose back he was unable to see over the top of, so different from the little rugged Afghani mountain ponies he had ridden while waging war in the rugged unforgiving terrain as a Ranger or the mixed Qatgani breed of his days imbedded as a CIA liaison with the Horse Soldiers post 9-11 or the fine boned Arabian he had galloped across the desert to save Akmet from meeting a horrifying demise. He hadn't ridden in over a decade…

Are ya feelin' alright thar, Brian? Flann did say ya could ride."

He turned his gaze from the grey to the woman staring at him and flashed her his most reassuring smile. "Oh, I can ride, missus. Tis just Flann never mentioned I might be needing ta bring a stepladder along wit' me."

Patsy laughed at the joke she'd heard more than once when a rider was first introduced to one of the most steady mounts her father had to hire. "Julie, take Goliath ta tha arena an' show Brian whare ta find a stepladder."

The stepladder turned out to be a sturdy set on wide stairs next to the wooden gate leading to a large training area filled with a sand surface. Fiona was already astride her mount, the black mare standing quietly while the groom tightened the girths holding the saddle place. She couldn't help but grin at the trepidation her husband couldn't quite manage to keep off his face as he settled onto the much larger equine. He'd warm ta tha challenge once he wa' ridin'…

"Take yar time, but I do need ta see ya at walk, trot an' canter before I can let ya go out. It would be grand if ya could pop over a couple o' tha jumps set up taa just fer me peace o' mind."

Once astride Goliath, Michael found his nerves settling down. He had never been afraid of heights and despite the mammoth of a horse being so big, he felt pretty secure. It seemed that the phrase back in the saddle again appeared to hold true. He urged the animal forward, learning how it moved and speaking lowly to him in the same tones he'd used when the former equestrian had originally approached the grey and looked into its dark eyes, stroking its face and offering a few carrots as treats that he'd nicked from the office as they were getting kitted.

As the couple rode around getting used to their mounts, their eyes frequently turned to each other. Walking, trotting and then cantering around the edges of the arena until, much to Fiona's surprise, her husband was the first to turn his horse's head towards a jump made up of a pole balanced between two overturned oil drums.

The heavy looking gray cantered slowly up to the obstacle and easily cleared it, speeding up as the former spy, rapidly gaining in confidence, turned to another fence, this one a little taller and constructed from two columns of old tires stacked one on top of another with a brightly painted pole between them. The one-time operative was pleased to see his skills weren't that rusty…

Not to be out done, the petite ex-paramilitary copied Michael's path, her mount proving more enthusiastic as it attacked each fence at speed, requiring little urging to go faster each time.

"Thot's enough." Patsy called a stop. "Unless ya want ta stay hare fer a bit longer, Am happy thot yer nae gonna lose me horses out on yar ride." She approached the duo rapidly; Fiona's mount was shaking out her black mane and dipping her head, eager to carry on her exercise.

Handing up to Michael a hand drawn map with various landmarks written on it, she continued.

"Go out ta tha road an' turn left, ya will see a gate a little way down on tha right. Ya cannae miss it." The younger woman pointed in the direction she wanted them to go. "Tha ground is fair torn up from tha hunt coming through last week. If ya stay on those tracks, thare's a couple o' walls ta jump an' a ditch or taa. Tha tracks might fade out when ya reach tha forestry but thot's whot tha map is fer. If ya follow it an' donnae get lost, ya should be back hare in two hours."

Guiding the horses out of the arena, Fiona quickly took the lead on Siren with Goliath behind.

"Oh, thar is just one thing, Orla," Patsy called after her. "Siren can get a wee bit giddy at times. But mind ya, thare is nothin' nasty ta har. Ya just need ta speak softly an' she'll calm down."

The couple left the farm and rode out along the long entrance and out onto the road in silence, both lost in their own thoughts as they found their rhythm with their respective mounts, the sounds of their breathing meshing with the creak of the saddles and sound of hooves on the hard cold ground. The snow had melted where the sun shone on the bridle path, leaving the brown earth exposed. The warmth felt good on his face but pulled his thoughts elsewhere.

As much as Michael was trying to stay in the moment, he couldn't help but think about all the hard lessons learned on horseback during his time in Afghanistan, which he had literally not given a thought to in decades. Forcefully refocusing, he turned instead to his time riding in the Middle East and the beautiful high-spirited Arabians.

Although the rolling hills of Ireland littered with patches of white and tan was before him, the beige desert sands between Abri and Wadi Halfa in a little place off the map called Kulubnarti was on his mind instead. It hadn't been the last time he'd ridden, but it'd been the wildest one.

Rescuing Akhom Talbot had left that spy in debt to the American operative, a debt he had collected not long afterwards when Fiona had managed to run afoul of the Libyans, the British government and Sam's SEAL team all in one go, hiding her in a local safe house belonging to Egyptian intelligence following a PIRA gun deal that had gone very wrong until her brother could arrive to surreptitiously return her to her family while he and Sam had handled the rest.

He urged Goliath forward, picking up the pace to come alongside the smaller mare now.

While their first two encounters after he had abandoned her in Ireland had been raw, heavily flavored with pain and guilt as well as desire, that time they'd spent together in their temporary sanctuary had been much more reminiscent of the passionate times they had shared in Dublin.

Mr Donahue looked at his wife's vacant expression as she took in the scenery and shook his head, wondering again what he done been so fortunate as to be married to the love of his life, before the fear that he could still lose what he'd worked so hard to have could catch up to him.

"This looks like tha place whare we turn," he said, turning his attention to the paper directions and then pointing to the open gate and the wide track of hoofprints scaring the land.

"Oh yes." Fiona reined in her mare before turning Siren in the direction he'd indicated.

"Whot ar' ya thinkin' on, me luv?" Michael asked. "Ya seem a bit distracted."

He wanted to return to his question from earlier but didn't want to spoil the mood if her thoughts were not on her previous adventures in equestrian sports with her prior paramour.

"It really reminds me o' tha farm, ya know…?"

The Irishwoman sighed wistfully. Since she'd left her childhood home near Derry, she had been an urban guerilla, an international arms dealer and a star on the black market. Until the lithe woman had returned to live in the hills outside of Ballinshannon, she hadn't seen many landscapes that reminded her of the two happiest times: growing up and finally connecting in body and in spirit with the man she was convinced was her soul mate.

But those memories were often bittersweet, beautiful but colored with subsequent bitter losses. However, Mrs Donuhue was determined as ever to live in the moment. She shortened the reins of her little mare and touched her heels to its side. "I think I need ta clear tha cobwebs."

The words were whipped away as she sent Siren off into a fast gallop. Her beloved was caught by surprise, having a moment of alarm as Goliath gathered himself and with a jolt that caused the former spy to grab a handful of black mane, the powerful horse took off in pursuit of its smaller companion.

The wild gallop lasted only a few minutes before Fiona, her face flushed and her brunette locks peeking in disarray from under her riding cap, slowed and then pulled her speedy mount to a stop before the remains of a stone wall, not having to wait long until Michael arrived at her side.

The structure was a mess. Standing nearly three feet tall, there were parts of it scattered all over the ground on either side showing the damage caused by what was likely to be thirty or more horses jumping over it. The pair of equines paced beside as their riders assessed it.

"There's taa much debris on tha ground." The dark-haired man tried but failed to keep the worry out of his tone. "I think we should look fer a gate or at least somewhare safer ta cross."

"Patsy wouldnae have sent us this way if it war nae safe, me luv," the fiery Irishwoman replied, as her eyes scanned the ground. "I believe tis doable." Before her hesitant husband could reply, his lover had turned the little black mare to give her a short run up before easily sailing over the obstacle. "Care ta join me, slow poke?"

Scowling, the former Ranger and spy allowed his own mount to find its own way over the wall, one hand still gripping hold of its short spiky mane. Why was she taking unnecessary risks?

Goliath landed then stumbled slightly before instantly correcting himself, pulling his rider forward. Righting himself, he glared at the tiny woman on the black mare. He could see a gleam in her eye, that twinkle which usually meant she was planning some devilment. With a saucy smile, she set Siren off again at a fast pace.

"Fi! Fiona!" he called after her, but in the end gave up and instead gave chase, finally letting Goliath truly stretch his long legs.

The couple raced side by side across two more fields, only slowing each time they were forced to negotiate the crumbling walls which marked the boundary of each stretch of land. Finally, the open ground gave way to more and more trees and they dropped down into a wooded valley.

They brought their hard breathing mounts down to a walk and allowed them to stretch their sweat stained necks. Fiona pulled off her hat and shook out her hair, running a hand through it, the excitement of the ride still shining in her blue green eyes and on her flush features.

"Doncha just love tha wind in yar face? Donnae it just make ya feel alive?" she enthused.

Michael took a moment to gather his composure before answering, patting the wet hair next to the black mane he'd had to grab one too many times on this ride.

"Aye, o' course, but ya need ta be more careful, Fi. We have Charlie ta think about nar taa."

The former paramilitary turned to her lover. It was on the tip of her tongue to call him out on his fears, but then at the last instant she stopped herself. Dinnae she spend years calling him out fer nae thinking o' tha people around ham taa…fer puttin' tha mission ahead of his friends an' family? And'if she wa' being honest, twas just as often tha pot calling tha kettle black as twere.

Fiona urged her mount closer to his and then reached out of the saddle to stretch her hand up to touch his cheek. "Tha sacrifices thot war made… war made so Charlie could have a life…but they war also made so we could have a life taa, Michael."

Her dark-haired beloved pursed his lips then half smiled. "Aye… but let's try find a way ta enjoy ourselves without riskin' our necks taa much, shall we? I wa' thinkin' thot comin' back saddle sore will be trouble enough fer today."

Mrs Donahue grinned back, giving his whiskery face another pat before dropping her hand.

"Ya know, Michael, ya shoulda really mentioned about bein' able ta ride befer. Think o' tha fun we coulda had long afternoons away fram home while Charlie was in school. Out in tha countryside, all thot fresh air." Her expression turned mischievous and she winked.

"If tis fresh air ya be wantin', me luv, then tha next time wa're at home an' yer fancyin' a bit o' –exercise, I'll make sure tha windows are all open first." He flashed her that smile, the one guaranteed to melt her knees and send butterflies into her stomach.

His wife looked around the woods briefly and decided there were better accommodations in warmer places instead of repeating that performance in the Slieveanorra Mountains in the dark on the run from the RUC after the spy had showed up with the perfect distraction to allow her and her crew of escape from the botched payroll truck robbery. No, been thare, done thot…

The brunette punched him on the thigh and pushed her little mare into a trot down a slope to pop over a fallen log. "Come on, Michael. We've only got these horses for a coupla hours."

They continued along the tree lined path, keeping their conversation light. But the wind was picking up again and the previously sunny skies had started to turn grey as the clouds gathered on the horizon. As much as he had enjoyed the ride thus far, the prospect of potentially slogging through a soggy morass in a sleet storm was not particularly appealing.

"We best be gettin' on befer tis spittin' rain, me luv."

"Aye," Fiona agreed. "I donnae fancy being out here if it starts bucketing on us."

Their journey quickly morphed from a leisurely ride to a determined march to beat the weather.

Ten minutes later, they came to a stop before a six-foot-wide ditch filled with water which had run off the valley. The other side of the ditch was close to four feet higher than where they sat. The bank had eroded away and looked slippery.

Fiona was aware of the difficulty facing them. She rode Siren along the edge, trying to stay clear of the mud while searching for a better path across but there was none.

"Whot d'ya think, Michael? Carrying on forward or turn tail an' run back tha way we came?"

Biting down on his bottom lip, Michael stared at the obstacle. For him, turning around would not mean admitting defeat. As a spy he had always been able to think fast and find another way around any problem. Scanning up and down the length of the liquid laden impediment to their progress, Mr Donahue then looked upwards, taking a critical assessment of the coming storm.

He let his eyes slide over to his waiting wife and saw the look of expectation gazing back at him.

Finally, he squared his shoulders and nodded. At least she had asked this time instead of rushing ahead blindly into the jump with a smaller mount.

Without a pause, the former Ranger pushed the large horse towards the edge of the ditch. Goliath tilted his long ears forward, dropping his nose as if he was trying to see into the depth of water before squatting on his powerful haunches and launching himself up and over.

The gray landed with his front legs over the lip of the dyke on the other side and after a second his hind hooves dug into the slippery slope and he was clear. Michael stopped his mount and looked down to where his beloved sat watching.

"I would give yar horse a bit o' a run up. Tha ground is like grease on tha landin'."

Fiona nodded, her own features set in determination. Turning around, she trotted her little mare ten steps away before facing the ditch and digging in her heels to her mount's quivering sides. Siren eagerly leapt forward, following her rider's directions towards the water-filled channel.

Michael had moved Goliath out of the way, leaving his companion clear to attack the obstruction in any place she chose. As Siren's front legs reached the edge of the frigid liquid, her whole body bunched up and then she pushed her bulk up and over to the other side landing completely clear of the water.

However, in the process her rider was sent four inches out of the saddle, landing back on board with a bump, loosening the reins. Fiona grunted and grabbed the black mane to regain her balance, as the frightened mare started to lose hers, failing to find purchase on a particularly slick patch of the ground when they had started to move away from the ditch.

As Siren skittered, the images of comrades falling to sniper fire, one dead and mangled under his mount's hooves as the animal bolted from the killing zone and the other shot and desperately trying to regain the reins assaulted him. Then there was no thought in her husband's head about waiting to allow the Irishwoman to bring the little mare under control.

Doing as he had done then, Michael brought the larger animal around to push against the smaller, forcing her away from the unstable ground, while leaning over to attempt to take the loosened leads. Unfortunately, while the former Ranger and war-tested equestrian was able to guide the more seasoned horse through the maneuver, neither his wife nor her ride had any such experience with said tactics and reacted rather badly despite its success in saving them.

Siren began to kick at Goliath while Fiona fought to retain to reins, fearing she'd have no control over the excitable mare should she chose to bolt, slugging her husband in the shoulder.

"Dammit, Michael, let go befer ya get us both killed!"

Her words more than her blows penetrated his consciousness; he relinquished his hold on the leather leads and moved away swiftly, leaving the brunette to steer the smaller horse a short distance off. Snorting and pawing at the now firm ground, Siren slowly calmed down as Fiona held her in place and spoke to her in a soft tone.

Michael was having far more trouble controlling himself and his breathing than he was Goliath. The larger animal calmly and slowly approached its companion at his direction.

"Whot wa' thot?" his wife hissed, wanting to shout but not wanting to upset the mare.

"What was I supposed to do?" he snapped back harshly. "Sit there and watch you die?!"

All the fight went out of her in a rush at his expression, a terrifying combination of anger, fear and soul wrenching guilt. The already dropping temperatures seemed to find a new level of cold, the air around them utterly still, as if everything, man, beast and plant alike, forgot to breath.

They stared at each other for another long, protracted moment, the petite ex-paramilitary trying to come up with a strategy to salvage the situation and failing miserably this time.

"Michael, I-"

"We need ta get back befer tha weather turns," he announced, the American once again banished and the Irishman in his place. Moving Goliath sharply about, horse and rider took off along the forestry trail, a little too quickly for the conditions or for Fiona to catch up right away.

The worried woman continued to follow behind, watching the stiff set of his shoulders and ramrod straight back as her lover moved as if one with his mount, an unwelcome epiphany beginning to coalesce in her consciousness.

Michael's utter sense of self possession, of self-control, a confidence in himself and his beliefs that on the surface bordered on arrogance, was one of his most annoying and paradoxically his most attractive qualities. In their time in Ireland and most especially afterwards in Miami, she loved to challenge that, to pick away at the edges, to force him to admit want, need and vulnerability where she was concerned primarily, to teach him to stop treating people like assets. Fiona knew he'd had a past marked with violence and death like she had, different circumstances to be sure, but the combat and marksmanship skills they shared came from the same place, and despite all that, he was still good at heart, retaining the best of his humanity.

As the forest had begun to thin and the trail grew more pronounced, Mrs Donahue watched the figure before her almost slump in the saddle before quickly righting himself with a growl.

Seeing him lose that much prized control in mundane circumstances, as she had when they'd first moved into the loft together and more so recently, was terrifying for many reasons. The Irishwoman had had the opportunity at the end to see what Michael Westen without a soul might have been, but worse was the realization that her husband must have been that person once.

"After all you saw him do, I don't know how you can stay in the same room with him."

Despite growing up on the mean streets of Belfast and the things she'd seen in Armand's employ, what Larry had told her about them as a team had truly sickened her. A part of that rigid control she had despised had to have been to keep that monster on a leash, the one he would have had to have been to work with an inhuman beast like Larry Sizemore for three years.

The sound of the horses' heavy breathing and the thunder of their hooves merged into a rhythm with the thudding of her heart and her own harsh inhalation as she urged the little mare on.

Worse still was the depth of hurt, the tsunami of pain, that must have only been kept at bay by those protective barriers that sometimes had frustrated her, sometimes hurt her, that anguish that was now finding its way through the cracks in those walls and… she wasn't helping.

The path they were currently on precluded her being able to ride side by side, forcing the brunette to continue to follow him and her own unhappy thoughts about her own behavior.

Her beloved's vulnerability, when shared with her, was a gift and one perhaps she was guilty of taking take too lightly, failing to protect it for the precious offering that it was.

But what, exactly, was she going to do about it?

The rest of the trip back to the stables was something of a blur while the former urban guerilla tried to put all her tactical planning skills into what her next moves should be. Mrs Murphy played her part, profoundly thanking Patsy on behalf of her uncle and praising the horses.

Neither broke cover making their way to and from the office while returning their borrowed riding gear nor while they waved farewell and marched the short distance back to their ride out front.

Wisely waiting until they were once more in the safety of their massive SUV and all alone, Fiona laid a gentle hand over his before Michael could turn over the motor to start the vehicle.

"Before ya say ya donnae want ta talk about it, thar's sommit I need ta ask ya."

He sat back into the seat slowly, letting his hands fall from the steering wheel and into his lap with an exaggerated sigh of surrender.

"I donnae pretend ta know whot ya war thinkin' an' Am sorry fer whot I said." Fiona watched his face intently as she spoke. "Am only guessin' that wa' sommit ya'd seen befer in yar days o' ridin' wit' tha military thot ya did it fer. Thot's all I can do is guess because I donnae know."

"Fi—"

She held up a slim hand, halting his words before he could continue.

"Mabbe I coulda got Siren under control by meself or mabbe she'd have dumped me arse in thot cold dirty ditch and fell on me. Am thinkin' thot wa' unlikely, but tis true it could have happened."

Her own eyes began to mist as she saw the pain in those troubled blue orbs staring back at her.

"Ya said ya had a question…"

"When ya said ya couldnae sit by an' watch me die, ya war nae talking about whot happened."

"Thot's nae a question either, lass."

The brunette shook her head. "We ar' nae playin' Jeopardy har, me darlin' man… or ar' we?"

Her husband bit down on his bottom lip and reached over and undid her seat belt. Fiona had a moment to look puzzled before he was pulling her towards him, settling her into his lap by squeezing the slender woman into the space between his chest and the Defender's steering wheel. Michael wrapped his arms around her shoulders and her waist, holding her tightly.

Their faces inches apart, he said simply, "I can't lose you, Fi. Not after all this. I just can't."

Then he closed his eyes against the moisture forming there. His words were so painfully familiar. His wife turned her head, lying her cheek on his chest, listening to his accelerating heart, her hand reaching up to cup his jawline before he took her slender hand into his own.

Fiona Glenanne had known plenty of loss, abandonment and heart ache in her life, starting as a young girl. She couldn't in clear conscience promise him that nothing was going to ever happen.

"Ya asked me how… how I became meself again after living wit' Armand all those years…"

"Aye, I did. You donnae—"

"I came home ta me family," she cut him off, answering his question with the simple facts.

The former urban guerilla had a momentary flashback of crossing the tarmac at their private hangar in Marseilles towards the jet that would take her back to Dublin, huddled against the weather not very different than the misting rain that was hitting their vehicle at the moment.

"I told Armand I needed ta go back an' fight beside me family at tha time an' so I did. Being back wit' tham, being constantly reminded o' who I had been, thot's whot helped me ta figure out who I wanted ta be. I learned ta take tha best parts o' me old life an' leave behind tha… well, tha worst o' me." Fiona pulled back, making sure to stare intently into her husband's eyes.

"I wonnae pretend it wa' easy, ya kin ask tha lot o' tham about how hard it wa' but thot's how I did it… Nar yer wit' yar new family, but back ta whare it all started. Ya can be who ya told me ya wanted ta be back then, fram tha day I stuck thot revolver in yar gut in thot dingy little bar."

Michael nodded mutely, afraid to speak. That had been exactly what he'd tried to do sixteen years ago: keep the best part of his life as McBride, one slender Irish paramilitary with a penchant for bomb making, and fold her into his life in the CIA… to have it both ways…

And he knew now that had been a fool's errand…

"You want your old life back? It's gone. It was gone when you decided she was more important than anything else."

It had taken him losing everything, his friends, his family literally, to realize what mattered.

He had now what he had always dreamed of… a dream he had been afraid to embrace his entire life, although sometimes for good reasons, sometimes not so much…

And as any good military tactician knows, it is easier to defend a position than to take it.

He had the high ground now… He just needed to hold it and he couldn't think of anyone he'd rather have helping him guard his flanks…

Now he just needed to figure out how the hell to let go of the rest…