A/N: We would like to thank everyone for their interest and positive feedback on our previous offering, Victims of War. Next up is a series of ultimate shipper wish fulfiments AU's based on Jeffrey Donovan's comments that the fans want our favorite couple to tie the knot and have violent babies.

As such, each story changes the prior season finale and offers a new season premiere. In which episode we start changing the previous season is marked for clarity's sake and a new season premiere follows on for our shattered shippers' sanity's sake. This will start with 7.01 and move progressively backwards.

Much thanks and love to Amanda Hawthorn for reading through and doing the BETA honors and love to Daisy Day and all the wonderful women of Burner fame out there on Twitter and FB. We appreciate all the reads, reviews and comments so very much and hope these stories help us all to get through S7!

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PUPPIES, KITTENS & GUN TOTING BABIES

7.01 - We'll Always Have Paris

An alternate S7 premiere following on from 6.18 – Game Change

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Going to Milan had been a mistake.

And not the first one, she thought sardonically as she sat under the clouds and the bright red canopy of the Castel Café on Avenue de Suffren near the Eiffel Tower. The drinks were over priced, the food and the service spotty and the only real thing it had to recommend it was the crowd and the visibility of the overhang. If she wasn't convinced that the source of her contact was genuine, she would have assumed she was being set up for a hit. Not that she cared much if she had in fact been targeted.

Not the first time for that, either, she noted as she picked at her day old croissant, trying vainly to find anything that vaguely resembled an appetite. Her body was in full rebellion. The months she'd spent in prison and on the run, the weeks spent trapped in a secret CIA holding cell, the crushing blow of realizing that he had truly gone this time and the jet lag that accompanied going from EDT to GMT and beyond had left her weak and weary. She slept, she cried, she cried, she slept, she drank massive amounts of water, she cried some more, she slept until her bladder woke her up and forced marched her to the bathroom and then she cried and slept and drank some more with a generous bit of sniffling thrown in for good measure, and then the cylce repeated itself as her days had become a merciful blur.

Telling Dani Pearce to go back home might have been a mistake too, she decided as the immense sorrow threatened to engulf her again. Jesse had accompanied her to Greece, where she had had a reunion of sorts with her family, albeit a few members at a time. The Glenanne clan could hardly go on holiday all at once without attracting attention. It was a time of catching up, consoling and exchanging the bank account numbers necessary for her survival. She was happy that Seamus had come first. Her brother's wife Isabelle was the closest thing to a female friend she had in the world outside of Dani.

That thought struck her as funny and she laughed out loud, the harsh noise sounding very foreign to her own ears. Yes, she had resented Michael's new handler. She had been very fond of Max before he had been murdered and the spy was either being coy or oblivious by not mentioning that Agent Pearce was a woman. In his case, oblivious was probably the right answer. But she appreciated what the woman had done to help get her out of prison and she appreciated everything Kimberly Danielle Pearce had done for her even before that time. Back then, working with Pearce had given her hope that maybe, just maybe, this whole moving in with a reinstated Michael and living with his job at the CIA would work.

But hope deferred makes the heart sick and there was nothing worse than the death of a dream.

At least Jesse Porter was getting to live his dream and she was friend enough not to begrudge him that. He had met up with Dani in Greece to escort her back from her exile in Mumbai. But Fiona had politely declined to join them on their trip to Cairo before returning home to the United States. She knew too many people in Cairo and, although Seamus was keen to have her refocus quickly and go back to work, she just couldn't do it. Not only was it too soon, but her traveling companions were a problem for her.

The truth was, she couldn't stand to be around Jesse and Dani together, any more than she could Sam and Elsa. There'd been a reason she had fled their company in Miami. There was only so much giddy mated-pair happiness her stomach could take. As bad as that was, Madeline's anguish had been worse.

The grief and guilt had been a horrific combination and Fi was ashamed to admit that she'd been grateful when Michael's mother had gone to stay with her sister Jill out of state. She'd been equally grateful to have Jesse sitting next to her while she slept almost the entire sixteen hour flight over the Atlantic. He had laid his long limb around her small shoulders and, oddly enough, she had quietly and gratefully accepted the comfort because she had needed it so damned much.

There was no longer anything vaguely romantic in their interactions now, hadn't been for years. The tall younger man was a brother, as surely as Sean was. It had been Jesse's presence at her side that had allowed her to relax enough to get some serious rest. Still, he and Dani deserved their happiness, so Fi had emphatically told both of them "to get out of her sight" with as much humor as she could muster.

But since then, she'd found herself alone with her memories and her tears and the dreams and the nightmares that invaded her mind whenever she closed her eyes for the briefest second. She rented the little villa in Milano where they had spent two glorious weeks together back… when was it? Eight years ago was it? How had time gotten so fuzzy? It had been a disaster in the long run. Instead of invoking the pleasant memories of a secret rendezvous, she had cried until she'd gotten sick and then she was just ill.

It had gone well at first. She had managed to get into the spirit of things. Sweet reminiscences of him trying to surprise her in the tub, posing as room service with a bottle of champagne until he met the business end of her H&K, that surrounded her whilst Fiona had bathed that first night had made her think this might go well. Memories of eating various delicacies off of one another had flowed around her as she had settled into the bed that night, too. But as soon as sleep claimed her, she was back in Jed's house, on the run and running out of options once more. She knew taking his mom on the run had been worrying Michael, but what had almost happened to Sam had been completely tearing him apart.

It had frightened Fiona too, more than she cared to admit, hence the clinging to one another that night. Since Panama, their opportunities for privacy had been scattered and stress-filled. In seeking comfort, one or the other would initiate an embrace or a kiss and then, like hitting a detonator, that would grow progressively more passionate and desperate until they could barely take the time to pull their clothing away before they were locked in intimacy, the close personal contact as important as the euphoria.

She sniffed hard, trying to stem the flow of water from her red rimmed eyes, dabbing at them with her napkin. Giving the elderly couple at the next table a watery smile, she said, 'allergies' in French and took another sip of her tea, trying not to choke on it. Her second night in Milan she dreamed of what would be their last night together, the combination of the love making followed by a drug lord's assault team attack had been all too evocative of their time together in Ireland, and it had left her a sobbing mess.

Her third night in Milan, she dreamed of them driving the surveillance van containing the motorbike to the hospital while the others had taken the car, giving them a moment alone. She had slid into his lap before letting him exit the van, kissing him frantically which he returned in equal measure. "Take care," she had whispered before watching him walk away. That had been the last time she had seen him.

She had left Milan for Paris the next morning.

Normally thinking about explosions brought a spark to her eye and a song to her heart. But as the plane had climbed above the clouds, it had been all she could do to contain herself as she thought back on sitting behind those rusted barrels beside Mr. Porter watching Riley and her new drug cartel cronies, her assault rifle ready to defend Michael… and Bly…God help her, how had she come to that?...where they were hidden away, gathering the evidence that would hopefully set them all free from this madness.

What was that? Jesse had asked as the place where the other pair was hidden had erupted into flames.

Oh, God… ripped from her lips as the cartel's guards rushed towards that part of the marina that was just out of their line of sight which was now billowing fire and smoke.

Fi, no, no, no, you can't. There's too many of them.

Let go! She'd been almost ready to shoot the younger man until he had finally gotten through to her.

There's too many of them! We gotta figure out what's going on… His words had pulled her back, but it had been a struggle not to rush the squad of heavily armed men to find out what had just happened.

If only they had! For while they were trying to make a plan, desperately calling Michael and getting no answer, the yacht had exploded in a colossal fireball which had knocked everyone to the ground and left them easy pickings for the government tactical team that swooped in and apprehended both of them.

After she had checked into the hotel in Paris, she had fallen into an fatigued and mercifully dreamless sleep that first night, but had awoken to the bleak reality that she had no idea what she was going to do.

Her senses hadn't dulled so much that she'd missed the fact she'd been under surveillance ever since she'd left Greece. But it didn't surprise her much that some damned government somewhere was tracking her movements. It had been like that since she'd been a teenager. The Irish woman would have wished them all to hell, except she wanted to get away from them, not have them join her there.

Then she'd gotten a contact from a trusted source, instructing her to meet with someone who had what she needed. She smiled faintly and swiped at another tear that refused to remain contained. Sam Axe, trusted source. When she had launched a beer bottle at him all those years ago, she would have never put those two phrases together. They had come such a long way since it had been her and Sam and Michael against the world, robbing the rich thieves and giving it back to those who'd been victimized.

An' pursuing Michael's fecking burn notice, o' course!

Congratulations, Michael, she thought bitterly, toasting him with her dreadful weak tea. Ya got 'em all. Ya dinnae stop until they war all in tha ground, Cowan, Carla, Card, Riley and fecking Anson Fullerton.

She swallowed hard against the burn in her throat and willed her eyes to remain clear. Stay angry, she counseled. Staying mad at him was the key to not collapsing in a blubbering heap in the public eye.

Was it worth it, Michael? Does that help you where you are now? Does it help any of us? In truth, it had helped the rest of them in the end. But the cost was too high to seem much like a victory. Still, Fi had to admit that she did take a perverse pride in being able to claim Carla and Dead Larry on her hit list.

Bloody frogs, coudnae make a proper cup o' tea ta save thar lives, she groused, switching back to her native tongue as she stared at the colorful throng before her, Irish, English and French mixing together in her head yet again. She wasn't sure what to expect, but Sam had said she'd know it when she saw it.

Last night had been one of the worst. She might physically have been in the Hotel de Sers on Avenue Pierre with its gracious decor, but her mind and her heart were still trapped in that sterile holding cell.

She had asked, demanded and pleaded to know where he was, whether he was dead or alive. For weeks they had asked her questions, for hours on end every day, all of which she had answered truthfully over and over, but no one had ever answer her two questions: Where were her friends? Where was Michael?

And when she finally had gotten her answer, she wished she'd never asked.

She was sitting at the end of a table at the end of her rope. When the door opened and Jason Bly stepped through holding that heavy cardboard folder, she had barked a nasty laugh before jerking on the cuffs.

The CSS Agent had made quite the show of opening the folder carefully before pulling out several sheets.

"Again? Is that really the best you've got, Agent Bly?"

"I appreciate the irony of situation, Ms Glenanne, I truly do. Please know that when Michael saved my life, he saved all of your lives as well by preserving the evidence that demonstrated Olivia Riley's guilt."

He had slid the sheets across the table to her. There'd been something different about him, but she couldn't put her finger on it. His typical sarcasm had been tempered with an almost stoic seriousness.

"At least you made the effort to get the eye color right this time," she'd snarked as she flipped through the autopsy report. It was the photos that had given her pause. The sedan had clearly been burned from the inside by a device similar to one that she had used herself during her time undercover in the RIRA.

"Michael," Bly had paused and swallowed. That'd gotten her attention. The CSS agent had always been in control. "Michael pushed me and the evidence out of the car first and then tried to get rid of the…"

"Oh, please," she had countered flatly, though her heart had started beating faster. "You want me to believe he sacrificed himself to save you?"

"No, Fiona, to save you. To save all of you. If I had died, if the evidence we have on Olivia Riley had gone up in flames, all of your friends would be sitting in a maximum security dark prision right now with no hope of ever seeing the sun and, please believe me when I tell you this, you would have been sharing a black bag flight with Arthur Meyers back to Britain right now if it hadn't been for what Michael did."

She'd wanted to believe the counter surveilliance service trained their agents that well in spycraft, but she couldn't quite make herself. She had gone through the reports, the photograhs, the DNA analysis…

Back at the hotel last night, she hadn't made it to the toilet in time, but at least the bidet had kept her from embarressing herself completely. She had stripped off her sodden clothes and crawled into the shower. She wasn't sure how long she had spent curled up in a ball, rocking and weeping at the bottom of the tub. But she knew the water had gotten cold and that fact made her sob all the more, as she had remembered all the times they had spent making love in that old fashioned, claw-footed tub squeezed in that tiny little bathroom in the loft until the hot water had run out. She squeezed her eyes shut now. Sitting in that tourist trap of a café, she'd had to draw on all her resources to pull herself back together.

"Ya look like ya could use a bit o' good news thar."

The only thing that kept her from drawing her weapon in public and shooting the man who had come up from behind was that she recognized his voice. For one heart stopping second, the Irish lilt had opened up a well spring of possibilities and then, just that fast, they had collapsed into nothing. But curiousity saved her from herself on several counts as she turned to the large, solidly built son of Marcus Dwyer.

"Sit down then, befer someone shoots ya," she offered, indicating the seat next to her. She leaned towards him and spoke soft and low. "Whot ar' ya doing here, Ryan? I thought ya war in New York."

"Aye, we war, but thot nasty business wit' Greyson Miller has made times hard on all o' us," he said, a quiet edge of accusation in his statement. "Pa thought it better if we came back ta Ireland fer a bit."

Being reminded of what the CIA had manipulated her into doing in order to secure her release from prison didn't help her mood any, but she tried not to show it. Fi plastered a weak smile onto her face.

"Whot are ya doin' in Paris then? Holiday?"

"Thar's no holidays in this business, ya know thot," Ryan said with a slight smile of his own. Marcus' eldest was the spitting image of his father and the most trusted of his sons. "I wa' meant ta be meetin' wit' an old friend o' yars when I ran into another old chum from yar past. He asked me ta give ya this."

The younger man slid a burner phone under the tablecloth and into her waiting hands.

"Twas good ta see a friendly face fram home," he said, rising as the cell vibrated silently in her palm, indicating there was a text. "But I've other business ta tend ta and I'm thinking ya have as well."

And with that, the Irishman was gone. She didn't waste any time pulling up the incoming message.

Greetings from Stockholm, it read.

Her breath caught in her throat and her heart almost skipped a beat. See you in Stockholm had been code for I'm going on a mission and, if I don't come back, I'll see you on the other side. It meant you were on a suicide mission and you didn't want anyone else following you through death's door. You finished the job or the job finished you, but you did it by yourself. After the devastating death of her dream of being with the only man she had ever truly loved, could she dare allow herself to hope?

Rose's Garden, came the next message.

She was on her feet in an instant; her food and beverage abandoned as she sought out the nearest taxi to take her to the Avenue des Champs-Élysées and the spot where Sean's wife had once told her she'd have liked to build a garden. There were only three people in the world who knew about that. She and Michael McBride had been playing cards with Sean and his wife one evening as Rosanne had talked about the belated honeymoon Sean had taken her on following the birth of Sian, their first child.

As she stood at the curbside, her eyes scanning the crowded streets for an open cab, a limo slowly pulled in front of her and stopped, blocking traffic while the passenger window began its lazy descent.

"This is an unexpected pleasure. It's good to see you again, Fiona."

"Armand…" she almost stammered. "What are—"

"Well, that's a question I should be asking you, I think. I do have a few houses here afterall." The door to the gleaming black stretch sedan was flung open. "Do you need a ride perhaps?"

The phone in her purse was buzzing like an angry hornet, but she couldn't pull it out and look at it at just that moment. She had worked with Armand Andreani on and off for over two decades. If he wanted her dead, he'd had plenty of opportunity to arrange that. For some reason, the French merchant of war had allowed her to walk in and out of his life with no repercussion of any kind, save to her battered soul.

As she slid into the seat he had abandoned the moment before, she wondered what the consequences would be this time. He smiled at her, making no secret of running an appreciative eye over her frame.

"Avenue des Champs-Élysées, je vais vous dire où arrêter," she advised the driver.

"Hmm, I've missed hearing that," Mr. Andreani responded with a nod to the man up front to proceed. "You're beautiful as always, Fiona, though it would seem life has been somewhat unkind of late."

"C'est la vie." She shrugged. "You look well."

He smiled alittle wider at that. "I try, of course. What brings you to Paris? Business, pleasure, both?"

"Business, at the moment," she lied and then put two and two together. "You're meant to have a meeting with Ryan Dwyer, aren't you?"

"As you obviously know the answer, then yes. Marcus Dwyer was quite eager to work with me and quite informative. I understand there was some rather nasty business back in Miami. Prison, international man hunts, rogue agents… Your trip to America doesn't seem to have turned out as you planned. Do you need something more than a ride? You know me—always a friend to those in need."

Yes, she knew him all too well. His help was guaranteed, as were the strings that always came attached.

"You know me," she returned with false bravado. "I can handle meself. Permettez-moi de là-bas," she said to the driver, pointing down another block to a spot proximate to L'Arc de Triomphe.

"Fiona, I would never question your skills. However, you might be unaware that certain people with your skill set have been making threats. It might not be safe to take a walk today, particularly here."

"Really? Sounds like fun. Maybe I'll send the French government a bill for disarming whatever device I happen to come across." She knew where this was going and she had no intention of playing along. "Laissez-moi sortir," she commanded when the sedan started to drive past her destination.

She saw the driver's eyes in the rear view mirror flick to his employer's, who nodded his assent. "If you're sure there's nothing else I can help you with…?" Armand let the question linger.

"Not today," she assured him as the black limousine pulled slowly alongside the curb. She climbed out of the vehicle and, after she had shut the door, he lowered the window once more.

"Jusqu'à la prochaine fois, mon cheri. If anything should happen, remember I'm just a phone call away."

"Merci and au revoir, Armand." She turned quickly from the car, not even looking back, and pulled the cell from her designer purse. The street was crowded with tourists, motorists, Police Nationale and covert operatives of the National Gendarmerie, all of whom she ignored, pushing past to her endpoint.

She smiled at the string of coded text messages as she scrolled through them. One advising her not to get in the vehicle, the next asking if she was alright, yet another emphasizing the need to arrive quickly at the meeting point, one more reminding her to relax and go with it, no matter what happened.

And then finally….

Be brave, little angel.

She just let her legs collapse under her, trying to ensure that she would land in a heap and not damage herself too badly when she hit the rusted grate and still have it look convincing. She heard a mechanism engage somewhere off to her left as well as below her feet. What actually happened when she'd fallen towards the pavement was the metal grid she'd been standing upon had swung down and she'd been dropped into the darkness below the street. But two pairs of strong arms reached out to catch her.

As the duo righted her onto her feet and started to release her, the poor light of the service tunnel was simultaneously illuminated by the light of the titanic detonation above them and the shock wave caused them all to momentarily loose their footings. That was when she recognized them, the first man from Greece and then the twosome from Milan. They must have been tailing her since she'd left the US!

As she stamped down on the foot of the one behind, he grunted and shoved her towards his associate, who quickly took advantage of his superior size and enveloped Fiona in a tight grip. While the burly man ignored the blows and kicks that came his way, she struggled until the bite of needle stung her neck and everything went black. As they carried her limp form away, in the street above where the fireball had erupted, waves of panicked civilians and armed forces alike were scattering away from the explosion.

But to the naked eye observing what appeared to be a terrorist bombing on the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, it seemed Fiona Glennane had died the same way that she had lived: in a fiery blaze of glory.