Chapter 15- I'm not going to cry
The door screeched and then shut with a bang as Fiona walked into the loft. He tried to avoid getting his hopes up anytime she came over. The results were still pending. As a spy—ex-spy—he'd been trained to be patient. Like always, Fi had a way of erasing all of that programming from his brain. "Hi Fi."
She wandered to his side at the workbench and leaned back on her elbows with more difficulty than there used to be. "What are you doing?"
"Cleaning out my tackle box. What brings you here?"
"I have to have a reason now?"
"I didn't mean it like that. I was just wondering if something had happened."
She accepted the response with a thoughtful nod, and then gently reached out and took hold of his hand. He watched her curiously as she placed his hand on her stomach. He felt a hard kick underneath his palm. "Was that the baby?"
"It was. He's been kicking all day. It was adorable at first, but now I'm getting a little annoyed."
He smirked at how Fi that response was. "I can see why. He's got good legs."
"He'll be a great fighter…just like his father…" she spoke scarcely above a whisper and then locked her eyes with his.
"You mean that he's…?"
"Yes. You're going to be a father."
His eyes fell to her stomach and for the first time since it all started, his mind was blank. Happy, but blank. A smile crossed his face and he put his hands on her face, gently leaning his forehead against hers. She held onto his wrists and stood on her tiptoes to meet his kiss.
"I'm going to be a father…" he repeated disbelievingly.
She smiled wider than he'd seen her in a long time. "You are."
"Do the others know?"
"I told Campbell and Sam already. I even called home. I got yelled at for waiting so long. They also weren't happy about the 'McBride in the making,' as Sean put it."
"McBride? You didn't tell them?"
"Of course not! I'd be disowned if they knew the newest member of the Glenanne family was half American. They didn't like you too much to begin with. They said that we'll have to visit come Christmas. I hope you can still do an Irish accent…"
"Great. Christmas with your family and mine."
"Speaking of your family, I haven't told your mother yet. I thought that you would want to."
He wrapped his arms around her with a muttered, "Thank you, Fi."
He bent his head and they kissed again. All he could think was that they were going to be parents. The little boy wasn't going to be her boy. He was going to be their boy. Their destructive, trigger-happy boy.
Some months later…
"You're doing great," the doctor assure her over her scream.
Michael was seated behind her on the bed, holding her close to his chest to keep her from trying to punch anyone…again. He gritted through the claw marks in his forearms where her fingernails had clamped into his skin. If her legs hadn't been restrained, she would have kicked the nearest person to them. The last thing they needed was a doctor with a concussion.
She had gone into labor at the Carlito—of all places—with Sam. Michael was busy meeting with a client when he got the call. She greeted him with a slap when he finally arrived and the male nurse practically begged him to do something about her before she gave him another black eye.
"Last one. I promise. Give me a big push," the doctor calmly said, although inside she feared for her safety and that of the staff.
One more push, and then a shrill cry filled the air. Michael was more than relieved when the doctor asked him if he wanted to cut the cord. He would have done anything to get away from Fiona's grip. She was too close to piercing an artery for comfort. The nurse wrapped the baby in a blue blanket and handed him to Michael. He took him carefully, as if he were handling a potent explosive, and smiled down at his son. He had Fi's eyes and just a little bit of black hair atop his tiny head. He gingerly passed him to his mother and sat back down on the bed. She leaned against his shoulder, grinning teary-eyed at their little boy.
"He's got your smile, Michael."
"And your eyes."
"Hi there…it's your mother…" she whispered softly.
"Do you have a name picked out?" the nurse asked, hating to interrupt.
"We have the first name, but we're still working on the middle…" Michael responded.
She groaned. "Michael…"
"Come on, Fi. We have to."
"I don't want to name him after him."
"You wanted to name him after a brand of weaponry. I think this is a better tribute."
"Can't we name him after someone else?"
"He's done a lot of us."
"Fine, fine. Go ahead. Name our son after him. If he turns out like his namesake, I'm blaming you."
A few minutes later, Michael walked out into the waiting room where their immediate family waited excitedly. Madeline stood up first, shortly followed by Sam and then Nate.
"Well?" she asked expectantly.
"I'm a father."
She squealed loud enough to alert mammals in Russia of her new status. "I'm a grandma!"
"That makes me an uncle. I'll babysit whenever you need me to, bro. Well, when I'm in town…" Nate shrugged. "I can't wait to teach him how to play cards!"
"I'm not leaving you unattended with my son and you are not teaching him how to play poker or taking him to the track!"
"Aw c'mon, Mike! I'd be a good uncle!"
"If I need a babysitter, I have Mom or Sam around to watch him. But if they both can't, and there aren't any babysitters left in the state of Florida or along the East Coast, I might call you."
"So what's his name, Mikey?" Sam asked, purposely cutting of the younger Westen brother before he said anything.
"Colin Samuel Westen."
A grin spread onto his face and he looked like he was about to cry. "Oh Mikey…you named him after me?"
"I had to, Sam. It didn't seem right if we didn't."
Sam gave him a big hug and kept repeating, "I'm not going to cry…I'm not going to cry…"
"We can we meet him?" Madeline asked eagerly.
"Soon. I better get back before they take him anywhere."
"What happened to your arms?" Sam noticed as he referenced the bandages.
"Ah. I see."
He nodded and went back to the room where Fiona was still transfixed on their son. He sat beside them silently and it stayed that way for a moment.
"What are you looking forward to the most?"
"All of it."
"I can't wait to teach him the things my parents taught me."
He put his arm around her and they lied back on the uncomfortable bed. "Like what?"
"How to clean and put together a gun, how to make C4, how to shoot a rifle, tactical support, checking for exits, Irish folktales…some of that my brothers taught me…some you taught me…"
"We probably shouldn't teach him all of that until he's at least ten."
"Why not? I was shooting and cleaning guns by the time I was eight."
"That was Ireland. This is Miami. The cops are already on me. The last thing we need is for them to stumble onto our semi-automatic wielding kindergartener."
"Then we'll make sure they don't stumble."
"I don't see why he needs to know how to shoot a gun before he hits double digits."
"He's our son."
"Good point. Okay, we'll wait until he's at least talking in complete sentences."
"That sounds fair."
He kissed her temple and set his hand lightly on the soft blue blanket with a smile. She set her head on his shoulder. "Sorry about your arms."
"You've done worse."
She smirked and didn't disagree. He sighed contentedly for the first time since he was burned. The job didn't matter anymore. It stopped mattering the second he realized that he could have a family. With Fi. There was no one else he'd want one with.