Four Hours
"Everybody should try to get some sleep. Tomorrow's gonna be a long day."
The workshop seemed stuffy and hot, even in the early morning hours. They each found rest in their own way.
Jesse stood outside, on the metal grille landing, one story above the wreckage of old cars and boats and junk that lay rusting , bleeding onto the black asphalt. He looked down over the dark warehouses and parking lots, silent and damp. A cat ran through the shadows below, yowling its pursuit of a mystery, and it sounded to him like a warning cry. He scanned the darkness, taut, worried, anticipation speeding his heart and knotting his gut. Everything they had done had been undone in a moment, a friend's life had ended, and their future had come to this. Four hours. Sleep? No way, man. He didn't know how to still his mind, to quiet his conscience. He did know how to keep those inside safe, and that was what he would do. He leaned back against the wall of the warehouse, bent his knees slowly and slid down. Arms propped on his knees, the 9mm in his hand, he let his head fall back against the wall and listened and watched. He never knew when he fell asleep.
Madeline needed a cigarette. Seeing Jesse on the landing, she'd stopped, turned, and re-entered the workshop. Sam was already asleep. Flat on his back, on the hard floor, with flattened cardboard boxes beneath him, he snored softly. Do they learn to do that in the military? She wondered. Hell, I suppose so. No wonder he's always so damn cheery. He doesn't know the meaning of 'sleep deprived'. The man can sleep anywhere. God bless him. And God bless and protect us. She shuffled quietly to the threadbare armchair in the furthest corner of the workshop, near the hotplate and mini fridge. Old newspapers and 'Playboys' littered the floor unnoticed as she walked over them, and sat in the surprising comfort of the old upholstery. Listening to Sam's breathing she lit her last cigarette, closed her eyes and said a prayer. It came to her from decades ago, when she would brush the hair from the foreheads of her sleeping boys, wipe away the salt of dried tears and kiss their bruises. They never let her kiss them when they were awake. "See that you despise not one of these little ones: for I say to you, that their angel guardians in heaven always see the face of my Father." Sleep came slowly, but it came.
Fiona lay beside Michael on the floor of the upper level of the workshop. Her heart hurt for them all. She felt a familiar restlessness overtake her, as her body and instincts ramped up to protect her vulnerability and those she loved. Her senses seemed to reach out from her body. She could hear Sam's steady breathing. A cat howled outside. She smelled Maddie's cigarette, oddly comforting. Familiar.
Michael had laid canvas tarps on the floor and gathered towels for pillows. He lay there now, inches away. He was still, but his presence pounded her. How can someone take up more space than their body actually occupies? Was it the strength inside him, the determination that pushed from his very pores, that she felt radiating from him, pulsating against her skin? At times like this he was a magnet to her, positive and negative poles pulling her to him, and as firmly pushing her away. As if his polarity reversed again and again. Fiona turned away from him, onto her right side, in an effort to diminish her physical response to the smell and power of him. Oh, how she loved the scent of his hair, and his skin. Every man has their own fragrance, she thought. She remembered her Da, letting her nuzzle into his neck when he carried her as a little girl. He smelled like home. Green grass and cold air, pipe tobacco and whiskey when he kissed her goodnight. Michael smelled of gunpowder and soap and sweat (just a little), and a male warmth that she would never forget, assuming she lived long enough to forget anything.
The sudden touch of his hand on her hip surprised her. She hadn't heard him move. But now he was pressing his chest and stomach against her back, his knees behind hers, and he pulled her to him firmly. He slid his right elbow under her head with his arm bent back and beneath his own head, supporting them both. His left arm encircled her, bent up between her breasts, and crushed her to him. Ah, I could be happy forever in this embrace, she thought. His breath was warm in her ear, and she wriggled back into him.
Feeling him harden behind her she reached back and unbuckled his jeans with one hand. When he didn't stop her, she slid her hand down, inside them, and wrapped her hand around him. Well, this is unexpected…
Michael freed his left arm from its prison between her breasts and unbuckled her pants, sliding them down and off just enough to reveal her smooth backside. Caressing her briefly, he released himself from his jeans with uncharacteristic urgency. Fiona guided him, impatient too. His first thrust into her took their breath away, and they lay silent, still, joined in desperate pleasure. When they remembered to breathe, they remembered to move, and they rocked together quietly. Fiona pulled his left arm back around her, bringing his hand to her face, and kissed his fingers. His embrace became stronger and more mindless as he lost himself more deeply within her. The ache in Fiona's heart grew as she absorbed from him the fear and anger that he'd been containing. He suddenly let it all go, releasing everything into her with a small moan, his body trembling around her. She felt the hot rush from him, and was swept away by it, losing the ache and the fear and even the anger.
Sleep claimed them as they lay, still joined. Later when she woke, she pulled some of the tarp over them, and pushed herself back into his lap.