After recent events on the show, I decided to write an AU fic depicting what might happen 'in the next life', if Brendan had died on the balcony.

In Another Life

Date: December 4th 2092

You wake up from a dream you've had too many times before. In the dream you are standing at the bottom of a balcony with police surrounding you and a terrible feeling of dread in your stomach. Tears are streaming down your face as you cry out to a man standing on the edge of the balcony, pointing a gun at an army of police below. Your eyes meet his in that moment and you can feel your breath hitch in your throat, preventing you from crying out any more, even though all you want to do is run to this man. This man you don't even know, yet in the dream it feels like you can't go on living your life without him; like stopping this man from doing what he is about to do is imperative to your very existence on Earth. As your eyes disconnect, the man on the balcony pushes himself forward as if about to shoot and suddenly you hear a loud, ragged scream pierce through the noise and realize with a shock that this unholy yell is coming from your mouth.

Your body shakes and convulses, and before you can stop yourself you are running towards the bottom of the steps leading up to the balcony. Before you reach the steps you feel two strong arms pull you back and hold you fiercely to a strong chest. You feel the muscles in your arms tear and ache with the struggle, as you use all your weight to catapult yourself from whatever force is stopping you from reaching the steps where this man is standing. As you struggle, you hear a barrage of gunshots fire around you and with that sound you find your heart numb inside your chest as a cold wash floods your inside and turns your face to white. You twist into the arms that are holding you back and bury your face deep into the chest that holds you and you sob.

With a jolt you awaken. You look at the clock beside your bed and realize it's five minutes until your alarm is about to go off. Your whole body is buzzing with energy and your heart feels heavy in your chest as you switch off the impending alarm. You lie in bed and watch the ceiling, realizing with mild embarrassment that your cheeks are damp and cold. You touch the skin and pull away your fingers, which glisten against the pale morning light bursting through your window. Imagine, a twenty-three year old crying at a stupid dream?

Only this dream isn't stupid. You've had it on-and-off ever since your turned nineteen and every day you wake up with that same heavy feeling in your heart and the same tear-stains on your cheeks. Your wife, Amy, says she hears you crying out in your sleep sometimes. She insists that you should go to the doctor and get something to help, claiming that your suffering from anxiety or stress, but you impatiently tell her there's nothing to worry about.

You pull yourself from your bed and trudge into the small, porcelain white bathroom of your three-bedroom home and silently brush your teeth and relieve yourself. You then return to the bedroom and pull on a suit and tie and walk downstairs, where you eat breakfast with Amy and your daughter, Pauline, who you named after your Mother.

"I heard you mumbling last night," Amy chimes, "you had your nightmare again?"

"Yeah," you mutter, reading the newspaper, "like clockwork."

"I still think you should get some anxiety medication," she says distractedly, trying to spoon-feed Pauline ,whose sitting rosy-cheeked in her high chair, "it's not normal for a young guy to be reacting to dreams like that. It's been going on for ages!"

"Leave it, Amy," you glare over your paper.

"They work you too hard in that job," she murmurs, making it loud enough for you to hear, "I can't believe they asked you to fly to Dublin today, when they know you haven't had a day off in months."

"Just leave it, would you?" You raise your voice, "besides, I don't hear you complaining when I buy you expensive clothes and shoes."

Her eyes focus coldly on you and she sits up straight in her chair. You hate when she's like this. You can practically hear her shutting down. She used to be your best friend, once upon a time...now you barely even know her.

"That's not fair," she whispers, "you bought me that stuff for my birthday."

"Yeah, well all I'm saying is think before you speak," you mumble, then rise from your seat and grab your overnight bag, which is sitting by the stairs.

You walk back into the kitchen, kiss Pauline on her forehead and walk out the door with a curt 'Goodbye.'

The airport is a nightmare. You hate airports. You sit at your departure gate and read a gossip magazine that some teenage girl has left behind. The hot coffee resting on your knee burns the skin underneath your expensive trousers, but nothing hurts as much as the sting Amy's tone this morning has left on you. You feel guilty for lashing out at her. You know it's not her fault. Not her fault that she cares about you. Not her fault that you will never feel the same. Lately you've found it harder to hide from her your lack of interest. She's beginning to grow suspicious about your lack of advances towards her and your sudden disinterest in anything remotely sexual in regards to her. You don't even try to pretend any more. It's exhausting.

You hear a voice over the intercom to make your way to your departure gate and quietly you line up behind the other passengers. The line moves quickly and it doesn't take long before you are on the plane, putting your bags in the over head compartment and trying to find your seat. You look at your ticket number and scratch your head. The ticket says 'B3,' but you struggle to find the 'B' aisle. You're sure one doesn't exist, but when you ask the stewardess she laughs lightly and points to the seats you're directly in front of. Your cheeks colour. You're an idiot.

You throw yourself down into 'B3,' the window seat, and it's now that you allow yourself to be nervous. You feel an icy chill run through your heart as you look out the window at the wing, and suddenly you get the all-encompassing urge to pull yourself from the plane. You hate flying. Always have, always will. You reassure yourself that it's only a twenty minute flight to Dublin.

Suddenly you feel movement beside you, and with a sharp jolt you feel a huge body throw itself down on the seat next to yours. Your eyes widen as you watch the back of some dark-haired guy's head as he shuffles in his seat and tries to make himself comfortable. You roll your eyes and turn your head to look out the window. However, you're soon disturbed when you hear a rough, Dublin accent beside you say,

"Hey, kid, do ye mind closing the window? I want to get some shut eye."

You turn to face him, but his face is shielded by a pair of aviator sunglasses and a ghastly moustache. The corner of his mouth quirks as you stare at him and you see an eyebrow raise from behind his sunglasses as you continue to gawk,

"Want to take a picture?" he smirks, "might last you longer."

The quip is unoriginal, but he still manages to make you feel hot with embarrassment. You wordlessly pull down the window shield and fold your arms, mouth jutted out in a pout as you grind your teeth.

Asshole.

"Cheers," he mutters, "appreciate it."

The man folds his arms and buries himself deep down into his seat, reclining the chair to maximum level until you hear the people behind you whisper in complaint. The man ignores them. As the plane begin to pull out and head towards the runway, you find yourself idly taking in the gruff man sitting next to you. His eyes are still shielded by a pair of aviators, but the rest of him is sprawled out on the seat unapologetically. The man clearly knows how to ruffle feathers and has absolutely no regard for airplane etiquette. He's also dressed pretty shabbily, like some sort of thug or low life. He's wearing a black t-shirt and leather jacket, tight black jeans and a pair of dark, lace-up boots. His favourite colour seems to be black.

You look down at your own attire in comparison. Beige suit, white shirt, grey tie...when did you become so dull? You remember a time when you used to be young; wearing tracksuits and t-shirts, getting into fights and drinking nights away. That is until you met Amy and she encouraged you to be better; get a job, follow your dreams. Now you're a success. It took next to no time for you to work your way up in business, because you were savvy and streetwise and didn't take bullshit from anyone. You were happy. At least, you thought you were. What else could happiness be if it wasn't this? A family, a job, success? That's surely all the happiness there is.

So why does it not feel like enough?

You drop your head and turn to look out the window. You can see the runway and suddenly the plane comes to a stop. You feel your heart beat rapidly in your chest as the engines roar and the sound batters your eardrums. You shift in your seat, very uncomfortable all of a sudden. No matter how many times you had to fly for work, you hated it. Couldn't get used to the loud noise or the feeling of being so high in the air that the only way to go is down.

As the engines roar in your ears, your body is tense and you rest your arms on the arm rests and squeeze the ends so tight you feel like you might crush them. You silently whisper a prayer to yourself and close your eyes, praying to whatever God there is to let you reach the emerald isle alive. You're not a very spiritual person, but sometimes you feel like it's all you have.

As the plane begins to pick up speed, you find yourself looking to the passenger beside you. He's still asleep. You wonder how the Hell he can sleep through the loudest part of the journey. The thought of sleeping through take-off was impossible to you, but this man seems like the sort who could sleep through anything.

You turn to look out the window, which you'd pulled open for take-off, and watch as the wings slowly pull the plane from the ground and into the air. Below you can see houses and fields, like tiny figures in a doll house, and you slowly feel yourself relax. You let out a breath, close your eyes and turn to face the front of the plane.

Suddenly you hear a low cough emanate from beside you. You turn around to look at the man next to you and realize that he's woken up. In fact, not only has he woken up, be he's staring at you with two electric blue eyes and a downcast expression. You look at his face, then down at his slunked body and up again.

"What?" you ask, annoyed.

"Uh, d'ye mind if I get my arm back?"

he points to his hand, which is trapped underneath something. You raise your eyebrows and your mouth falls open when you realize that the thing trapping his arm is in fact your hand, which is crushed on top of his in a panicked clamp.

"Shit," you hiss, instantly letting go, "sorry!"

"Good lad," he mutters, pressing his reddened hand over his stomach.

"Nah, I mean it, I'm really sorry," you look ahead, not wanting him to see your red cheeks, "It's just... I hate flying."

"S'OK," You don't look at him, but you know he's looking at you, "flying's not for everyone."

There's silence for a moment as his comment hangs in the air. Then suddenly, you respond, unable to hold in your disbelief that he would know anything about what it's like.

"Yeah right," you mutter, "says the guy who just slept through take off."

"Ha!" he smiles. You allow yourself to look at him, "didn't say it wasn't for me. I'm not a wuss."

"Oi!" you protest, angrily, "who you calling a wuss?"

"You," he instantly retorts, not even breaking a sweat, "I called you a wuss."

"Oh, shut up," you roll your eyes, unable to continue talking to this neanderthal, "at least I'm not dressed like the grim reaper."

"Hey!" he lowers his eyebrows and for a moment you think you've actually offended him, "would rather look like death than wear that getup you've got on."

"This is Armani," you hiss, "and I wear it for work, all right?"

"Whatever," he closes his eyes, "just sayin', you look like a knob."

You feel your face redden with fury and suddenly you hear a small bell ring. You look up and notice that the 'fasten seatbelt' sign has switched off and immediately you rise to your feet and furiously push past the man out into the aisle.

"Hey! Watch it," the Irish man splutters, "easy, easy!"

You angrily pull open the overhead luggage compartment and go to grab your bag. Suddenly you feel a hand on your arm and without thinking you snatch it away. You have no idea why you've gotten so angry, so quickly, but something about this man makes your blood boil.

"What are ye doin'?" he asks, eyes raised up at you imploringly.

"I'm moving seats!" you say through gritted teeth, "I can't sit by you, not even for this short flight, no way."

He sits back in his seat and continues to watch as you struggle to remove your bag from under the others that are piled on top of it. After a minute of struggling, you sigh and give up. You look at the man below you, who is looking up at you as if you might be insane. Maybe you are.

"Wise up," the man finally says, as you shake your head angrily, "sit back down."

You look at him, eyebrows lowered, and even though he knows you hate him there's a look in his eyes like he feels bad that he's wound you up so much. His pity only serves to irk you more. However, you reluctantly shove past him and flop back into the seat; arms folded and head pushed towards the window.

"Feisty," he mutters, and you can hear the smirk in his voice, "little fecker."

"My name is Ste, not 'Little fecker,'" you roll your eyes.

"Fascinating," he replies, dryly.

"Just don't talk to me, all right?" you spit, "the sooner this flight is over, the better."

"God, you really don't like me, do you?" the man says, laughing slightly, as if he enjoys it.

"No, not really!" you can't help yourself, you have to bite, "who would?"

"You don't even know me," he shakes his head, lowers his eyebrows and speaks to you through a sneer in his lip.

"I know enough."

Your words hang in the air as you both fall into silence. You look out the window, but listen to the shuffle as the man pulls out a book and flips through the pages. You feel like he's finally going to leave you alone, but as you close your eyes, about to slip into a light sleep before landing, he turns around and begins to speak to you.

"So, do you read?" he asks, voice light and casual.

You slowly turn your head, disgusted sneer on your lip.

"Yer wha?" you bite.

"Do. You. Read?" he looks at you and cocks his head to the side, eyes lazily glancing over your face.

He holds up his book and taps his finger on the cover. You glare at him, then look at the title with disinterest.

American Psycho.

"What's that about?" you ask, glare never faltering.

"It's about a man who works on Wall Street," he replies, then sits back in his seat and stares at the pages, "he's a serial killer."

"Nice," you say, sarcastically, "sounds like something someone like you would read."

"You should read it," he ignores you, "this guy likes Armani too."

The man glances at you out of the corner of his eye and you swear you see him smirk. Something about the way he says Armani makes your blood run hot and cold at the same time.

"Funny," you huff.

"Isn't it?"

You shift in your seat and look straight at him, while he pretends to ignore you and read his book. Your whole body is tense, as if about to strike out at any moment. You realize this man could crush you with minimal effort, but you still feel the outcome would be worth it.

Finally he turns his head and looks at you with an unreadable expression. His eyes give absolutely nothing away as to what he's thinking, but he shift his body towards you; feigning attention.

"Do you even know what manners are?" you huff, eyebrows lowered as you shake your head incredulously, "because I don't think you do!"

He's silent for a moment, eyes focused on yours with an intensity that makes you feel slightly uncomfortable. He leans forward, head low like an animal, then glances up at you,

"I don't think you're one to talk about manners," he whispers, mirthless smirk on his face, "Mr. Armani."

You feel the warmth of his breath on your face as he says it and it causes your heart to jump in fear. There's something about this man that frightens you, but you're not sure what it is. Before you can figure it out, he leans back in his seat and flicks his book open to his bookmarked page.

You both remain silent until the plane lands.

As the aircraft pulls to a stop you quickly remove yourself from your seat and push past the Irish man. You remain silent as he steps up beside you and removes his own bag from the luggage compartment. You try to grab your bag, but once again you find yourself unable to dislodge it from underneath the others. You sigh and groan as you try with all your might to pull it free, but to no avail. You pull back and let out a growl as a queue of people begin to form behind you. Several people cry out for you to move it.

Suddenly you watch as the dark haired men steps forward, reaches into the compartment and pulls your bag free. The man turns around, face expressionless, and hands you your bag. You both stand in the aisle and stare at each other for what seems like forever. A feeling of deja vu hits you.

"Thanks," you finally say, still maintaining eye contact.

"No problem," he replies.

You feel the people behind you pushing against your back, urging you forward, but you're rooted to the spot. You can't move. Before you can say anything, the man winks at you, and as he turns to leave you hear him say,

"See you around, Steven."