It was a quiet Tuesday morning. January 24th to be exact. Maeby Fünke sat at her desk in the airline hanger she'd arranged her cousin, George Michael Bluth, to run whatever semi-functional business was to be run. It was in fact a business of keeping others out of your business – Fakeblock, the app that would revolutionise privacy for the echo chamber that is the internet. Which made it suitable that Maeby had rented out an echo chamber to run the business in. And at that moment, the business was as quiet as a hollow airline hanger could be.

"Maeby!" George Michael's voice bounced off the bare structures.

"Yes?" She reverbed back.

"Cost disclosure agreement?"

"A what?"

"Cost dis-clo-sure…"

"A what?"

In the doorway of the big empty chamber far in the distance, he pointed at his phone.

She picked up hers. And shouted back "With Barry."

Barry Zuckerkorn, the Bluth family's lawyer.

"So we don't have one?" George Micheal shouted.

"No."

George Michael returned to his smaller, but less echo-ey, office. And found his phone ringing.

"Oh, hey, beautiful! No, no, I can pick one up on the way home." He grinned.

The woman he was picking up for was Rebel Alley, daughter of acclaimed director and accomplished actor Ron Howard, who also has an exceptional voiceover ability. He won Rebel in a fight with his father, Michael Bluth.

In the garden of the brick apartment blocks, Michael had laid flat on the concrete, George Michael still weighing his clenched fists in the air.

"I think you made your point, son. I always told you to not lie…so…" Michael had struggled to peel himself from the pavers.

It had been a bit of a sketchy lesson, but Michael had learned his. He returned to the floundering Bluth Company to lick his wounds, having found himself no longer the head of the pride of lions.

Michael had flailed with his tongue out, still trying to get up.

And onto smaller, more menial things.

Back in the penthouse, Michael's disinterested father George Senior had flicked between the channels in the destroyed penthouse in a singlet and boxer shorts.

"We just need to take this chance, dad. Please, sign this." Michael had held out the leather-bound book with the bank contract laid atop.

"What's with you and risks, huh? You're sisters gonna win Congress and we'll put up this wall. Why would I risk some rinky dinky banky loan because you think you should take 'chances'. Whenever has your leadership in this company actually achieved anything?"

Michael had inhaled, "Dad. Please. We have to chase our dreams sometimes. I mean, you married mom?"

"Yeah, I tell you what, that school I spent all that money on better have told you about prophylactics…"

"Dad, dad, how about you sign first. Please? One chance."

Back at Faceblock hanger, Maeby stopped by George Michael's office. "Oh, it turns out we need a cost disclosure agreement. I'll call Bob Loblaw?"

"Yeah, just don't let him give you the blah blah, time is money."

Maeby found a khaki-clad delivery man with a wide red box with a pink bow in the hallway. "George Michael, you order something for Rebel?"

"Ah no, I'm looking for a Maeby?" The man read his black gadget.

"Oh, okay. Must be a mistake." She joked.

"Not unless your sender is an idiot. Sign here." He held the rubber thing to her face.

And once she had, she just stared at the red shiny paper, and smiled.

Maeby had not received gifts like this since she'd been a studio executive, and part of her missed it. Although often these gifts would pre-empt the need to file restraining orders.

"Someone must think you're special." George Michael remarked.

"Maybe. Or maybe it's full of dead fish heads."

One present which had looked similar had been before.

A younger Maeby had sniffed in her office, around, and eventually towards the shiny red present. "It's another one, sid!" She shouted, rushing the box outside.

George Michael peered at the box, "Well, open it."

"I will." Maeby considered, and carried it back to her desk. She read the card.

'For an afternoon of woman's snacking delight. xo'.

Gingerly, she took off the bow, and the wrapping. It was an enormous box of chocolate dipped glace cherries.

Having won their weight in them at the county fair, these were chocolates she and George Michael had eaten a lot of.

In the living area of the model home, George Michael and Maeby lay on the L-shaped sofa.

"I'd be upset but…" Maeby stuffed another one in her mouth from the big pile on the floor, "they're so good."

"They are." George Michael agreed.

"I could probably eat them forever." She kept stuffing.

Michael had strolled in beside the TV, "Don't spoil your dinner, me and Pop-Pop might have just gotten the cornballer working!"

Maeby grabbed an additional handful of chocolates. "Of course not." She spoke through her full mouth.

In the hanger, Maeby smiled, and even more when George Michael returned.

Maeby had thought Geroge Michael was a good cousin, but now, she knew she had a good friend.

"Oh, by the way, you'll have to get Barry, we have no retainer left with Bob."

Most of the time. Another week passed for the team, and Maeby found herself in a positive business position,

At the Balboa Club restaurant, Maeby sat behind her plate of salad, across from three unimpressed business types. "Of course not, this is the nature of a start up, it takes a while to start up."

"It's been five months." The man grizzled.

"And a start up can take fifteen years. I mean, this is an investment in the future of the internet. In the future of privacy technology. The future of blocking." Her phone rung. "Excuse me."

"Is this Maeby Bluth?"

"Speaking?"

"Delivery, what part of the restaurant are you in?"

"Oh, ah, table eleven. But I can see you." She spotted the man in khaki with the larger box.

"Sign here." The rubber device was again shoved in her face. She scrawled onto its pad and took the long box. Glancing both ways to see the investors busy, she took it over to the bar, and ripped the red wrapping – it was a box. Inside the box, a yellow and white floral summer dress with a looping frill around the bottom edge.

"Wow, Versace."

And a label. And the boxes tag. And a note. 'For the woman who doesn't need anyone. xo'

With the box under her arm, she returned to the table. "Guys, the sun will rise tomorrow. And without a buy in on a major privacy app, you could be left high and dry."

Which Maeby was determined to not be. But on trial for having sex with a seventeen year old boy, she couldn't quite talk her way out of this one as she had most other messes from the past three weeks, as yet one more week passed by.

Maeby sat behind the bar table of the local Californian court, and leaned into the ear of Barry. "Did they accept the deal?"

"No. They didn't seem to want to talk to me."

It could have been he had sold them out to the FBI. Or it could have been the phone number and email address on his business cards was for a Mexican restaurant, the Zuckerkorn.

"Quién es Barry?" The bearded chef had at the old PC, the well-used industrial kitchen beyond a door behind him.

Maeby slightly sunk into the bar table, a sinking feeling finally catching on. Until the shuffling of the room triggered her to stand tall, and in walked Judge Reinhold.

"Judge Reinhold isn't a judge?" She hissed.

Barry shrugged, "According to Governor Xay Duzi he is."

Governor Xavier 'Xay' Duzi, the new Governor of California, held much to his namesake.

In the middle of the golf field, two brand new golf carts had driven past behind him, as he'd squinted at the cuecards held out in front of him. "And it is with great…pride, that I dedicate this sporting facility to those who need it most."

A polite clap had then broken out.

"I'm trying to play through here!" George Senior had bellowed from the distance.

A ball barely missed Duzi's head, landing on the green, and a second polite clap had then broken out.

The judge lumbered in his robe into the court. "Yeah, sit." Reinhold instructed. "Okay, this is about you having sex with an underage boy."

Barry hastily stood up. "Your honour, y'know, my client didn't know at the time he was underage, and ah…"

"From what I understand it's a strict liability law." He exchanged confirming glances with the prosecution, then nodded more confidently. "So not knowing doesn't come into it."

"Ah, well, it must count for something? I mean, the law is blind, right?"

Reinhold slowly nodded, then glanced at the prosecution, who was rapidly shaking their head, which he mirrored.

"Okay, okay…" Barry raised his hands in surrender.

The sharp featured prosecutor held up a file, and requested, "Your honour, permission to approach the bench?"

"Me too!" Barry added, toddling behind.

"Your honour, we have a plea bargain here we'd like to tend." The prosecutor held out a manila folder.

"Plea bargain? With who?" Barry questioned.

"Your client." The prosecutor responded.

"Oh, are you sure? She didn't mention it to me?"

"It's got your firm's name on it." The prosecutor pointed to a document within the folder.

"Oh, I'm sure it does." Barry nodded.

"No, it does." The prosecutor insisted.

"Yes. It does." Barry admitted quietly.

"Great. So are we done?" Judge Reinhold asked.

The pair returned to their bar tables.

"Okay, so I hold that…" he read aloud from the file, "Maeby Fünke gets twenty hours of community service and no conviction." He bashed the gavel, rose, and departed the room.

Maeby grinned, and turned, spotting a familiar sight in khaki in the doorway. "Over here." She waved.

The deliver man thrust the rubber gadget in her face.

"Yes. Sign." She sighed, scrawled, then took the box. Inside, a bunch of tigerlillies, and a card. 'For the woman who is fighting for principles. xo'

"Boy, someone knew you won fast." Barry remarked.

"They did." She shouted at the delivery man, "hey you, who's the sender?"

"Whatever's written on the card is all you need to know."

"How can that be it?"

"You waive all right to know by signing for it." He waved the rubber gadget in the air as he left through the double doors.

Maeby glanced at Barry, who shrugged. "I guess so. Being legal, I mean."

Seeing George Michael's face on her iPhone as he called her, she smiled. "Hey, yeah, it's all over!"

And the Bluths just had to celebrate. Valentine's day, that is, with their traditional Valentines' Day Party, but which today was a brunch In a similar fashion to previous Bluth Brunches.

The whole family had stood near the huge pans of food in the penthouse, as Michael had ventured into a speech about the future. "Keep in mind we are building something that is not only for our own kids; it's also for George Michael and Maeby's kids, too."

George Michael had stood in front of Maeby, "What? What? We can't have kids! What's the matter...? What are you...? I mean it's not even an option, really."

"Well, eventually, you'll want to."

Or a celebration of something. Given most Bluths were single, it wasn't quite the frolic it had been in previous years.

Buster was drooped over the sofa in his army fatigues, the Penthouse still a shattered mess, as his mouth hooked up to juice. "I miss her, y'know. The dinner, the drinks, the bedtime stories…" he warbled to Lindsay, her head crowned in tight curls, who was busy with her half empty glass of Champaign.

"Y'know, politics is just so lonely. I just can't get a moment with loved ones." She whined, as her husband patted her from behind, "Not now," and even more as Maeby approached. "Not now." She grunted.

In the sundress, Maeby made a b-line for the kitchen, and didn't notice the rest of the family in the corner of the room, eyes mostly fixed on the TV. Except George Michael, who was standing in the kitchen, on his phone. "When? Sure. Of course. See you then, beautiful." He locked the phone.

"Hey, thanks for all this." Maeby gestured up and down her torso.

"Ah, for what?"

"So you know, I'm not like those sad-sacks."

George Michael eyed the cluster across the room, seeing from the six, only two were looking sad. "Could be worse." He left the confused Maeby to the kitchen, and she went instead to tour the overladen food table.

"Do you think we have enough?"

Maeby turned around, her frill caught in motion, up to see Michael standing in the atrium.

"You can never have enough."

"I think that's the family motto. With Ganki and Pop-Pop, close your eyes for twenty seconds..." Michael pondered. "Nice dress."

"Yeah, I had a fantastic week." She started loudly. "I got off…" she froze.

Maeby wasn't sure she wanted the whole family knowing her mistakes, and had thanked her lucky stars George Michael had permitted her to have at least Barry.

Michael nodded slowly, bemused, and pondered softly. "I guess it's a natural thing while you're single."

"No, ah, the, ah, work. I got a good result off-ah, work." And quickly added, "Michael, you doing anything for Valentines day?"

"I might." He grinned to himself.

"There is someone?"

"There is, yes."

"Does she know?"

"Not yet."

"Aren't you worried?"

"Oh, I don't know. Sometimes the chase can be just as fun." He mused wistfully. "It might not come off."

She gripped his forearm. "I'm sure it will. I'm sure she'll snap you right up."

And with that they were returned to the Bluth realty, and reality.

On the TV, Xay stood in front of a curtain. "I'm not sure where the wall would go, I mean at the border…"

George Senior smacked Lindsay on the arm. "What is it that your people told him?!"

"They told him the border, dad! I'm not his controller!"

On the screen, Xay fell to the ground like a marionette, the podium not breaking his fall.

"We could do another video dad! Send it to him!" Buster exclaimed.

George Senior shrugged. "Could send him the last one we did, he wouldn't know the difference."

"He said something about tendering companies being ready to build. You know, having the warehouses of materials ready." Lindsay mumbled, inebriated.

Lucille's lips curled upwards, and she called, "Oh George Michael?"

Which is how a privacy company came to warehousing government materials to be used against the government.

"Has anyone trademarked 'WikiLeaks'." Maeby quipped, poking at the piles of bricks.

"I dunno but the longer we hold onto this stuff, the bigger target we become." George Michael's eyes widened.

Maeby turned and stared at him, then added, "Big plans for tonight? It is Valentine's Day."

"Yeah, I'm taking Rebel to the Balboa Club." George Michael fiddled with his phone.

Maeby was becoming more certain the gifts hadn't come from George Michael.

"Oh, nice. But have you thought about the one on the boardwalk? I hear they make a mean clam chowder and crème brule. Michelin grade."

"Really? Huh." He locked his phone and returned it to his pocket.

Very sure.

"I'll give them a ring later." He returned his stare at the bricks.

"They started taking bookings in December."

"Oh, right." He started to fidget, with his fingers.

"Call them now."

"Yeah. I might do that." George Michael quickly whipped out his phone and jogged to his office.

Maeby sighed, wondering if the mystery man might have a plan for her tonight. He had certainly been quiet this week, but he had, after all, only visited her once a week. She need not have worried too much longer though, as the man in Khaki returned.

"Hey!" She called, beaming, and jogging towards the doorway into the hanger.

"You in construction now?" The man stared at the bricks.

"We're doing firewalls now." Maeby replied, "Rubber thingy in my face?"

"Oh yeah." The man obliged, she scrawled, and Maeby was handed an envelope. Inside, written on a card, 'Meeting tonight perhaps with games, or chemistry, the umbrella at south beach, at 6.03. xo'

"He's good at not giving things away." Maeby remarked.

And while it was cool, Maeby felt obliged to wear the dress the stranger had left for her.

Maeby, her hair in careful ringlets, in sandals with a practical heel, walked along the sand, finding a lone tent with two lounges under it.

"This has to be it." And she lay on one of them, checking her phone. A message then came through from an unknown number. 'I can see you, and you will soon see me as sand falls through the hourglass or hammers through a banana door. Will you do one thing for me, and close your eyes for me for twenty seconds?'

She smiled and text back. 'Yes.'

For twenty seconds, all she heard was the squawk of seagulls, the crashing of the waves, the odd mopeed, and some quiet footprints- that had ceased after seven seconds, but she honoured the whole twenty anyway.

Before her, in his black-tie tuxedo, holding a tigerlily, he stood, beaming at her.

"Michael?"

She felt a sudden shyness as he stepped toward her.

"Maeby."

"It was you?"

"You sure loved those chocolate things. And I know why you didn't want anything outta that cornballer."

"No…but….How did you know about the deal?"

"George Michael asked for my advice on it."

"And the court? Wait…"

"You were risking being placed on the sex offenders register with the way things are at the moment, you didn't quite have only Barry helping you with that."

Bob Loblaw had sat opposite the prosecutor in his ultra professional conference room.

"No. A conviction and the deal is off." Bob had insisted.

"Come off it. We have a witness. It's a strict liability statute."

"It's Judge Reinhold, you don't think he would follow the rules of evidence? I'll admit this tape of the last Bluth charity Gala, and she'll get nothing." Bob had waved the VHS cassette around.

Maeby sat up on the lounge. "So he didn't sign the letters with his name on them?"

"I think the signing might have pre-empted his Spring Break weekend."

Surrounded by thirty co-eds in swimsuits, Barry had responded to the chanting by sculling ten shots of tequila in a minute.

On the lounge, Maeby recalled, "Oh yeah. He mentioned that."

Michael stepped towards her, and Maeby shifted her knees off the lounge, giving him room to sit down.

"You look beautiful tonight, Miss Fünke."

"Someone with good taste clearly chose it. You look handsome, Mr Bluth."

Michael's eyes diverted towards, and he found himself feeling flushed. "I enjoyed the times we spent together. Mexico. Karaoke. George Michael's dorm. The flyers." He looked at her.

She leaned forward enough to reach him, "yeah, we always seem to have fun when we're together, huh." Her finger grazed the tendons on his hand.

And he slid forward leaned forward, hovering for a fleeting moment over her lips as the glorious sunlight cast its crisp winter rays over the bay, and over her. She admired his soft, worn eyes, and the frank candor of a man who had poured his heart out. And finally, they met in the middle, the long, soft, warm caress of their first kiss.