From across the room, Sean sits up and calls Michael over. "So it's Westen now, is it?" Sean growls. Not bothering with the leprechaun voice, Michael starts to explain. He looks a little nervous about the conversation that's about to happen, like he couldn't just stick his finger into one of Sean's new nipples if things get too awkward. Sean doesn't want to hear Michael's explanation, and cuts him off: "Back in Ireland, there were a lot of questions about whether or not you were one of us. I always thought you were. Now I know I was right." Aw, I'm puking shamrocks over here. Sean says the problem is that now Michael can't ever go back to Ireland, now that O'Neill has outed him as an American. As if he could leave Miami at all. "Neither can she," he adds, nodding over at Fi. Can't she even try? Let her give it a shot and see what happens. Michael asks if there's anyone in particular he should look out for, and Sean says he'll take care of that. "I'll owe you for that," Michel says. "The hell you will! That squares us," Sean insists. He offers Michael help fleeing after what he did to Strickler. Michael's way ahead of him on that score: "Strickler's body was found next to a certain type of bomb," he says. "Our friend O'Neill will be charged with his murder and the twelve bombings in Europe." How did Michael arrange that, exactly? Did he have Strickler in the bag with the bomb? Whatever the case, it seems to satisfy Sean.
Now Fi's awake as well, so Michael goes back over to sit with her. Whatever it is she has to say to him, he lets her off the hook. "It's okay," he says. "We're no good at this." Does that mean they don't ever have to talk about the fact that the guy Michael insisted on working with, over Fi's strenuous objections, ended up nearly getting her killed? Awfully big of Michael to let it drop, if that's the case.
Just then, Michael gets a cell phone call from Garza, and it's not good news. Garza is freaking out, yelling in Michael's ear about Strickler. Calling from an apartment kitchen and slugging straight from a bottle of Jack Daniels, Garza says that Strickler's dead, and now someone is cleaning up his messes. Don't worry, Garza, they're going to be busy with those display cases for a little while. "I don't know who I can trust, even at the agency," Garza frets. He says someone's after both of them, and they need to meet right away. Garza gives Michael the address and apartment number where he is (he seems pretty sure that nobody's listening, as panicked as he is), and Michael promises to be right there.