Unexpected
Chapter One: The Cricket Bat
Fiona had only just settled into an easy sleep, having finished her book two hours ago, but still being restless to not sleep properly, when she heard the resounding THUD of a car door. She calmed herself down saying that she lived in a suburban society where noises like doors were expected. But when the crunch of leaves, her leaves because she had been the only condo member too busy to fully clean the small yard, and the soft swish of a gate, her gate, resounded through the house the Irish ex-pat could all but ignore her instincts.
Tonight as she moved silently down the hall in one of Michael's old shirts she favoured her old cricket bat for a weapon. It was a faded yellow and plastic with a green rubber handle, but because it was covered in stickers and childish scrawls in permanent marker blended with splotches of blood from its victims, Fiona preferred it to the wooden ones the professionals used. That and it was actually a Kanga Cricket Bat, a parting gift from an Australian exchange student young Fiona Glenanne had befriended.
Fiona peered around the corner into the foyer waiting for the would-be victim to enter. She heard the jingling of metal then a curse as they clattered to the ground, the looming shadow in the frosted glass bending very slowly to retrieve it. What a lazy crook, Fiona thought, can't even pick a lock properly. But when the jangling started again, Fiona realised the noise were keys. Curiosity over ran the need for protection and she lowered the bat as she started into the foyer, not bothering with the lights inside as the moon provided sufficient illumination. The keys fell once more, a whimper escaping the unexpected visitor's mouth, so Fiona decided she had the element of surprise on her side.
Fiona Glenanne, however, was the one struck by surprise when she opened the door to find Michael Westen of all people, leaning against the door frame somewhat sluggishly.
"Michael?"
The prized bat clattered to the ground as Fiona immediately swapped safety for concern, almost catching the ex-spy as he stumbled in the door. At first she thought he may have been drinking, and decided to sleep somewhere closer to the bar of the time than risk driving all the way home, but when she smelt no alcohol on his breath, she knew otherwise. Then she thought someone may have tried to attack him and actually succeeded, leaving him no choice but to seek shelter at his lover's condo. But then Michael pinched his brow in what Fiona knew only to be the Michael Westen has a headache he can't shake look he'd perfected early on in his dubious career. She guided him to the sofa, flicking on a lamp as they passed by it, sensing how he moved and how he sounded so she could assess the situation. Moments after the lamp turned on, Michael groaned aloud, almost trying to bury his head in his torso as he curled in on himself. Fiona cocked a brow in surprise briefly parting from him to turn the lamp off returning them to darkness. Michael with a migraine, huh. She mused. This time, figuring normal volume speech was sending nine-millimetres ricocheting through his head, she lowered her voice to an octave below whisper. "Michael? What's wrong?"
~!~
Michael Westen's head hurt. And anyone who knew him well would know the impact of the statement when he said it hurt more than when bullets would graze his scalp.
So, yeah, big bad-arse spy Michael Westen – the bane of most European countries – had a migraine. And one of the worst ones yet.
Despite the late hour, his landlord's downstairs club was grating on his last nerve. Which Michael was surprised he still had. On any other night, with any other ailment, Michael would have simply tuned out the doof doof of high paced disco vibrating through his floor, shaking his walls, thumping through his skull with a laser-edged ice-pick. After three hours of unwanted agony, Michael bit the bullet and got in the Charger, cursing all the way to Fiona's as the engine revving grated on his brain.
Clearly he was a mess when he arrived at Fiona's.
So now here he was, sitting on her sofa, almost curled into a ball, caving in and asking for help in the only way he knew, at the last minute in the middle of the crisis. Even Fi's whisper was slicing through his skull right now, but beggars can't be choosers and well Michael needed a little TLC right now.
He did his best to hold in the groans of pain as Fiona gently coaxed him to her room, to her bed which was by far one million times softer than his. His head felt like an anchor as she gently pushed him to lie down on the pillow, feeling an odd sort of relief as his body was levelled, after she removed his shoes and shoved his feet under her Hungarian duvet. Fiona was a bit disappointed she had to close the thick curtains tonight in her room, the rare chance of a Miami breeze being stopped at the window sill, as the woman opted for air conditioning instead. It also meant that the big full moon tonight would not supply lighting which was soft enough to encourage her to sleep. But she wasn't really worried about that. She had Michael to snuggle up to.
Fiona did a quick perimeter check, double checking locks and ensuring weapons were always on hand, before returning to her room and sliding in next to Michael, doing her best not to wake him from his uneasy slumber.
As she lay facing him, her hand slid under his shirt to rest on his hip, assuring Fiona that he had a somewhat stable temperature. Her hand relaxed there and ex-IRA and ex-spy alike fell into a world of unconscious.
A/N: I don't have a beta as yet, so any mistakes – including ones where it may seem OOC – are all mine. Chapter two, not far behind!