Author's Note: Thank you for reading! We've reached the end of my story. Oh how I miss Stonebridge and Scott. What are your plans in getting over the end of Strike Back? I think I will purchase myself a face towel with the words "SS Forever" embossed on the corner, then eat a whole cheesecake while watching re-runs of their bromance.
Sweet dreams!

Chapter 10

Helena, Montana. United States of America.

Attending a party isn't the kind of event that I had in mind for tonight. But since it has been planned and perfected in ruthless precision by Ava's mother, she couldn't get out of it. She extends an invitation to me, and I probably was in a delirious frame of mind after being out on mission in the jungles of Colombia, when I in turn, extend the invitation to Scott.

"Have you guys talked about being exclusive, yet, Mikey?" Damien asks.

"Mate, I think now is not the time to talk about affairs of the heart, yeah?" I say as I duck and cover my face from gunshots and grenades exploding around us.

"You have to put dibs on her before someone else does!" he insists. I can see his white teeth against his blackened face, blood dribbling down his eyebrow.

"Dibs? What's dibs?" I ask in confusion. "Changing!" I yell as I throw my gun's empty magazine to the ground, and jam a new one in its place.

"Ya know, brand her as yours! Like cattle. Put a damn "S" for "StoneHenge" on her ass so everyone will see that she's taken." He tells me patiently as if talking to a slow-witted child.

"We don't need to do that, asshole." I shake my head at his daft way of thinking. "See for yourself in Montana." My left eye is blurry from all the blood trickling down from somewhere in the vicinity of my head. I wipe it with my sleeve, and take a deep breath, "Moving! Go! Go! Go!"

That is why it's my own damn fault that I'm now stuck in the middle of this flirtation between him and Scarlett – Ava's mother. Ava's mother! Does this wanker even have any line he will not cross? What am I thinking, it's Damien Scott, for fuck's sake. Of course he doesn't. Given, Ava's mum still looks young and beautiful, but still. She's Ava's mum!

"I still think you're pulling my leg." I hear Scott purr in that voice he thinks is charming. "You must've had her when you were two!"

Scarlett tips her head back and laughs, exposing her long throat. Her eyes are the same wide, green depths as Ava's. Same luxurious red hair, but where Ava is very petite, Scarlett is statuesque and towers over all the women in the room.

"You're a dear," her voice is low and throaty. "A compliment from a big tall glass of water, a woman can only take so much," she touches Scott's arms.

Jesus, I guess Scott's voice is working its charms. I can see Scott's Cheshire cat grin. He looks at me and without words, manages to let me know that before the night is over, he will be taking Scarlett to his bed. Sometimes, I hate this weird brain-reading superpower that Damien and I have seemed to have developed. It has saved both our asses numerous times out in the field, but I do not need to see into his dirty thoughts right about now.

I try to drown out that image by taking a sip of my whiskey. I swirl it around my glass, which is made of heavy translucent glass in the shape of a skull. A black cloth napkin with an embossed letter "S" in pink thread complements the drink. Scarlett has gone all out for her birthday party.

I scan the crowd for help out of this hellhole and laser in on Ava by the other side of the room. She's wearing a red dress in a soft-looking jersey fabric, being held up by two skinny straps on her shoulders. The neckline is gathered into a low v that ends in a ruched gathering by her right hip, flowing all the way to the ground with a very high slit, where a slender leg peeks out when she moves. She has clipped a riot of white flowers by her right ear, and her hair hangs in soft curls over her left shoulder. Ava in a red dress. I swallow.

She's talking to a tall, muscular bloke near a profusion of flowers, and I notice they're in a quite serious discussion about something. And… they are very close to each other. In fact, they are so close that he has no problems reaching his right hand over, and placing it on her lower back.

My jaw twitches and I feel Scott's eyes leave Scarlett's for a second, to follow my line of sight. I hear him mutter, "Down, Mikey." I continue to watch the scene unfurl before me, and in front of my very eyes, I see this twat's hand slowly creeping down Ava's ass. I hear Damien say, "Aw, shit," a second before I plunk my skull glass down on the table to my right, and stalk to where Ava is standing, canoodling with another man. I know Scott is right behind me.

I reach the adulterous pair, grab his paw in my right hand, press down on his thumb, and twist it mercilessly behind his back until he crumples down to his right knee, squealing like the pig he is. His ten gallon cowboy hat, just recently placed in a perfect rakish angle on his head, falls to the floor.

"Michael!" I hear Ava's surprised screech. "What the hell are you doing?! Let him go!" I decide breaking this guy's arm is probably warranted and start to twist his hand even higher up his back when Ava says, "He's my cousin - my first cousin, you insufferable Neanderthal! Let him go!"

I let his hand go and he whimpers in pain, clutching his hand by his chest, while looking up at me. "And I'm gay, you big brute." He shrieks at me as he starts to stand up.

I look at Ava, and her eyes are flaming mad. Something in her face reminds me of the first time we met when she socked me in the nose. I instinctively cover my nose with my hand, and take an involuntary step away from her.

"You, you, you wanker!" she finally manages to spit out in her rage, and turns around to stalk out of the room. Probably too disgusted to look at me any longer.

Mister Muscular Gay Cousin observes this exchange with his plucked eyebrows going so high up his blonde hairline, that they almost disappear from sight. He looks at me in pity, and touches my chest with his unhurt hand. "Once she beats you to a bloody pulp, come see me." One finger traces up my chest, to my neck, to my nose. "I'll fix you up real nice" he pronounces it "naaahs" with a long, hot breath. I turn on my heel to follow Ava. I hear Scott slapping his thighs, laughing hysterically in the face of my misery.

I find her in one of the large rooms, pacing back and forth in front of a wall of books that reaches all the way to the ceiling. Mounted heads of bears and moose with giant antlers fill every nook and cranny of the leather-furnished room. Her body is tightly coiled, and trembles in tightly controlled anger. She spins around when she feels my presence and points a finger at me,

"Do not touch me if you value your fingers," she warns through gritted teeth when she sees my hand start to reach for her.

"I'm so sorry, Ava," I start my groveling. "I don't know what came over me," I plead. "I saw his hand on you and I lost my damn mind."

"I am not one of your missions, Michael. To conquer and own as you wish. I am fully capable of defending myself against any man. I do not need you to come rescue me in your fuckin' white horse!" she's mixing her metaphors, but my instinct for life preservation kicks in just in time not to mention this out loud.

"I know, I know, baby," I say in my most soothing voice. The same one I use to talk kidnappers out of letting their hostages go.

"Do not "baby" me, Michael." She commands.

"Of course, of course, baby, er, I mean… Ava." I stammer. "It's just… you looked so cozy and happy and I haven't gotten my dibs on you yet and there have been no branding involved and I was afraid…."

"Dibs? What dibs? And I am not livestock you can brand!" her hands are raised in frustration. That fuckin' Scott, I'm gonna kill him for putting those words in my vocabulary.

"I have had enough of this macho posturing. I've endured it all my life with my father and I am damned if I will tolerate it with you." I approach slowly, as if I'm trying to subdue a nervous filly.

"I'm sorry, Ava. I'm an idiot. You're right, I'm a big, stupid Neanderthal."

Her back is to me when I finally reach her, and I tentatively place my hands around her. She lets me hold her, and I can feel her body finally start to lose its rigidity, her anger spent. "I'm a big fuck-up, I'm so sorry." I whisper. She sniffles softly, and we stay like that, with me hugging her from behind, my forehead touching her hair, the flowers in her hair fragrant and sweet.

"You're not." She finally deems to talk to me after a while.

"Not what, baby?" I ask.

"You're not a stupid Neanderthal," she concedes. I turn her around, and gather her in my arms. I start kissing her face,

"Can I call you baby again?" I ask in my cutest voice. She grants me with a soft smile,

"I guess, you big lug."

And there, in the dim library, with the smell of old books and sweet flowers, in the presence of stuffed animals, their button eyes as witnesses, I finally acknowledge what I've been denying to myself for months. With her generosity, and her vulnerable little feet, her terrible cooking, and her righteous right hook, I finally admit that I have fallen head over heels with this woman. I look at her in defeat, and mutter,

"Fuck Me."

And somewhere outside the wooden doors, I hear Damien guffaw like a hyena.

THE END.