Rifiuto: Non Miriena

A/N: Written: 2006.- Licia

The sun danced through the window, warming the blankets of the bed. Tim sighed, tossing his light jacket on the back of his chair and taking a seat on the bed. The furniture for both his and Sarah's rooms had arrived that morning, and they'd spent it putting both together and making the rooms feel a little more... adult.

"'bout time ye both 'ad grown up beds." Mams had joked, and the siblings had taken it all in stride. They loved Kathleen deeply, and were grateful to be back home. He lay back against the pillow, the sun splashing across his face. He tucked his arms beneath his head, sighing.

Home.

America. Silver Spring. The place where his job and his house and his life and... Ziva... were waiting. That was supposed to be home. Not Dublin, and certainly not Ireland. Ireland was his birthplace, it wasn't supposed to be his home, even though he'd spent his early, formative years watching the violence in the North from the safety of the house in the South. Unlike many Irish, his parents hadn't fled the Troubles- by the time he'd been born, they'd been married five months, and Da- born and raised in Belfast, in the heart of the conflict- had converted to Catholicism and left the North. Though his parents, brother and sister were still in Belfast, Da had been safe, now married with a baby.

Uncle Matthew and Aintin Orla. Tim's memories of his father's siblings were few and far between. It wasn't until the Good Friday Agreement was reached in ninety-eight that those from the North could move freely into the South without being stopped and searched at checkpoint. He'd been ten, and Sarah eight, when Mams and Da had decided it was best to flee the country for America. By then, Da had been working with the Navy, tensions in the North had continued to rise, the very real fear that the violence would spill into the South was palpable, and...

He sighed, rubbing his face. And by then, Zippi had been cold in her grave three years, and his parents finally felt it was safe to flee. Though it had near killed Mams, they'd fled, keeping the house in their name and making for America, where they'd be safe. It had been hard, the first few months; Mams had had a difficult time adjusting to being a military wife, what with her blunt, outspoken nature and tendency to do what she wanted, often disregarding the unspoken protocol among the military wives, but eventually, the family had fallen into a routine, and soon, things had eased and they'd settled in. And for the last few years, it had been fine, being in America, but Ireland had always called to him- to both of them- and he'd longed to return; they all had, for Ireland was in their very souls. It was in every beat of their hearts, as Mams recalled Zippi saying.

Even Da, in his last months, weeks, and days as he battled cancer, had desired to set foot in their homeland one last time before he left his family for good. "I wish to see our rolling green hills, to smell and taste the sweet, salty Belfast sea air, to walk the streets of Dublin again... one last time, with my family..."

Slowly, he turned his head, letting the warmth of the sun splash across his face. Da had never gotten his wish; the cancer had stolen him away before they returned, and it had been up to Mams to arrange for his return; because even though he'd served in the American Navy, he was and Irishman born, and an Irishman died, and he wished to be buried within the earth of their home country. And the Navy- to everyone's surprise- had agreed, preparing a full transport back to Ireland for Kathleen and the kids.

No matter Tim's feelings on the matter, he had to admit, that in this instance, America had done right. Now if only Ireland would do right by Timothy Michael... Eventually, the warmth of the sun lulled him to sleep.

"Now ye list'n t' me, Timothy Michael. 'tis no' matt'r wha' oth'rs say. We's a prou' Irish, we is. F'r she beats in our v'ry 'earts an' souls. We are Éireann, jus' as she is us. Nev'r f'rget where ye come fr'm. Okay, lad?"

"Aye, Da."

John brushed a kiss to his son's head. It had been another day of the boy coming home from school in tears, because the other children at the American school not far from the base they lived on, had picked on him- poking fun at his red hair and green eyes, the thickness of his accent and the splash of freckles across the right side of his face- for not a single freckle appeared on the left side- simply because he was different. He was the only child in the long, twisted tree that was joined by his marriage to Kathleen, that possessed freckles that only covered one side of his face. An anomaly, certainly, but only considered one by those not within the family. And as he grew, John knew that the freckles would appear more and more, especially with the increasing amount of time the boy spent in the sun, and he wished for his son to know that they were beautiful, and something meant to be treasured.

"Yer freckles are t' r'mind ye o' where ye come fr'm, as much as yer eyes an' hair. Nev'r feel asham'd o' 'em. Okay?" The boy nodded again, and John smiled, kissing the boy again before standing. As he rushed off to play with his sister, his father turned, feeling his wife's arms slide around him from behind. Kathleen said nothing, just pressed a kiss to his shoulder, the meaning clear.

The young man jolted awake; hours had passed and darkness had started to fall. As he ran a hand through his hair, he turned; someone was watching him. Probably Mams or Sarah, makin' sure I'm alright.

"Ye don' 'ave t' 'over ov'r me. I'm fine, I pr'mise. 'twas jus' a... jus'..." He stopped, realizing what exactly it was. "Jus' a mem'ry."

"'twill always watch ov'r ye, Timothy. Ye're family, an O'Shea, an' O'Shea's look aft'r their own."

Tim sighed, sitting up and pinching the bridge of his nose. "I know, Da-"

The person chuckled, taking a sea on the edge, across from him. "Da? I'm no' yer Da, young one, though," They tilted their head back and forth, choosing their words carefully. "we are rela'ed. Me bel'ved Zippi spends mos' o' 'er time watchin' ov'r ye, an' I fig'r'd I'd give 'er a chance t' rest. Been lookin' ov'r this 'ouse f'r so long, she 'as, tha' she des'rves some time off. B'sides, 'tis only righ' I step in. 'tis my 'ouse, aft'r all. I am the 'ead o' this fam'ly."

Zippi, right. Wait... Zippi? Tim's head snapped up.

The person who sat before him, he'd only ever seen in old, fading photographs, forever frozen in time. The man was young- around Tim's age, perhaps a little younger- with the same red hair, and pale skin. Dressed in a nice three-piece leisure suit of brown Donegal tweed, white dress shirt, waistcoat and all, a flat cap on his head that just slightly hid his green eyes from view, he looked as though he'd stepped from the pages of an old nineteen-twenties magazine. An unlit cigarette dangled between his lips, and Tim could see the flash of a wedding band on his finger.

Tim swallowed the lump in throat. Head of the family? No, that wasn't right. Mams was the head of it, what with Da now gone, and Zippi dead now some twenty-years, unless- "I... I'ma s'rry, bu'... I don' know ye-"

The man chuckled softly, lifting his head, and Tim's heart constricted. "O' course ye don' know me. Been dead near three qua'ers a cent'ry 'afore ye came 'long. Thanks be t' me bel'ved Zippi f'r savin' yer Ma fr'm th' same fate as me sis'er, Fiona, bless 'er soul. Bu' ye's don' know tha', d' ye?" The agent swallowed, afraid to answer. He was too caught up in the man before him, and with good reason.

He looked to be the spitting image of Tim himself, but what unnerved the young agent the most, was the man's face. It wasn't just the eyes, skin and features that unnerved Tim. It was the man's freckles. The man grinned; it was a mirror image of his own. The cigarette continued to dangle from between his lips, but he made no move to touch it. And all across his face, were freckles; hundreds, and hundreds of freckles.

That only covered the right side of his face.

Tim for years, had, as had everyone else, believed he was the only one in the family to have this very distinct birthmark, but clearly he was wrong. A moment passed, before the man finally removed the cigarette from his lips and spoke,

"Wha's a matt'r, lad? Don' ye know 'tis no' polite t' stare at th' patriarch o' th' O'Shea fam'ly? Ain't ye ev'r seen yer great-great-gran'fath'r b'fore?"