So I've decided to make this a series of oneshots, I suppose. I really appreciate the feedback, too. I wanted to keep reading between the lines of BN, but I can't write a novel-length piece right now, so this will do. This one is a little angsty, and is drawn out of one of my favorite episodes, Hot Spot. I hope you enjoy and will continue to let me know what you think. :-)

The First Time: Confession

Michael could tell something was wrong with her. As coy as Fiona could be, he could read her. Maybe it was his training, his way of knowing what people were thinking, or maybe it was because her eyes couldn't lie to him. Whatever the reason, Michael knew there was more to this situation than just a job. He'd known it when Fiona had come into the room, huffing her way through a story about a high school boy caught up in violence resulting from defending his sister. Still, Michael didn't betray his thoughts. He heard Fiona and the kids out, including her icily delivered promise to help.

Then, he asked to speak to her outside. On the tiny balcony, they had their usual argument about how he didn't need a new job right then. Fiona made her case, as usual, and Michael prepared his arguments. He had enough going on right now. He didn't need his focus and resources split doing something that local law enforcement could most likely handle. It was then that Fiona said it.

She looked him dead in the eyes and said, "I feel very strongly about this, Michael."

The next argument was on the tip of his tongue, but he stopped. Michael looked into her eyes and saw something rare. Vulnerability. It startled and unnerved him, and he thought back over the job they'd just been offered - a young girl who had been abducted and assaulted, maybe raped, by some older boys. Now, her brother was being threatened for defending her.

Fiona had never spoken much about her past, before the IRA and her training. Most of what Michael knew of it had been told to him in angry bursts as she loaded a weapon or built a bomb. He knew she'd had a younger sister, Claire, who had been killed violently. He knew the subject was mostly off-limits. Fiona had trembled with emotion the last time her sister had been mentioned. Michael had never broached the subject, both out of fear for Fiona's reaction and because he was still clinging to the idea that Fiona didn't have a hold on his heart if he kept their relationship mostly physical. But now, for a moment, he couldn't help but wonder…

"We're taking the job," Fiona spat.

Michael had no time to argue as she stormed back inside the loft.

Several days later, the job was wrapped up and the conversation was all but forgotten. Michael had bigger things on his mind, mainly trying to unravel another knot in the web of people who'd burned him. This time, he and Fiona were tracking a man with an itch for blowing things up. Michael was on his way to the address she'd sent him, a house where they would hopefully find this bomber. If they could search his place or interrogate him, they might get some answers.

Pulling up to the location in his car, Michael felt his chest tighten. The house was ablaze. Jumping from the car and breaking into a run, he took in the scene. Police and firefighters surrounded the area, trying to combat the raging fire. With a trained eye, Michael could tell no one was coming out of the house. It had gone up in a fire trap, with flames sweeping the dwelling before anyone could make a decent escape plan. If Fiona was still in there, she was…

Michael felt a painful stab in his chest and he couldn't finish the thought. He couldn't think rationally beyond that. All of his training in remaining calm and intentional left him as he ambushed the emergency personnel, demanding to know if anyone had been pulled from the house.

When they finally shook him off, he had to concede that they had no answers. He turned and fled back to his car, angry, defeated, and with a sick emptiness in his stomach that he'd tried to avoid for so long.

This is why you don't get involved, he told himself, This is why you chose not to contact her. This is why you don't care.

He was involved now, though, in spite of himself. As much as he hated it, he couldn't focus on the reasons why they'd needed to get in the house. He couldn't stay and try to covertly collect evidence as to who might have torched the house or why. All he could do was drive around Miami, searching for her. He traced her route, going anywhere she might've retreated to. He checked her house and the Carlito, where they often would rendezvous after a mission. Finally, when it was long past dark and the rain was coming down hard, he headed back to the loft. Michael was spent and sick and angry. He knew Fiona could get out of most any situation. He hoped he was still worrying for nothing. Still, as he got out of the car, he stood in the rain for a long time, staring at the steps leading to the dark loft. He was confronting for the first time, for more than a few seconds or minutes, that Fiona might be dead. She might be gone for good, and the size and magnitude of the ache in his chest immobilized Michael for several minutes.

It was only when he was soaked nearly to his core that he slowly made his way up the steps. Slowly he opened the door, staring again at the blast damage where he himself had nearly been blown apart recently. Then, as he carefully bolted the door, he heard a voice.

He wasn't sure exactly what she was saying, because the moment felt surreal. At first, Michael decided he must be imagining her, there. But as he turned and stared, she was sitting at his kitchen counter like nothing had happened. She held up a charred cell phone and the last thing she said was all he heard.

"And now, I need a new phone."

Michael just looked at her. He watched her cock her head at his disheveled, wet appearance. He watched her features move into realization, understanding that he'd been worried.

She stared to question him, stating, "You didn't think that…"

He didn't let her finish. Michael went to her, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her. He held to her as though the flames were chasing them, as though she might still slip out of his grasp and disappear. And Fiona sensed the difference in this embrace. He kept kissing her, pressing himself into her against the counter, but his need was not entirely sexual. Unlike many of their urgent, grasping encounters where words were lost in desire, this was different. Michael was clinging to her, and she could tell how afraid he had been.

After a long time, Fiona finally pulled back. Still sitting on the stool, she brushed wet droplets of rain off of his forehead and smoothed his rain-soaked hair. Eventually, she said, "Michael, I'm fine."

He looked at her, and she could tell something more was coming. He was troubled, warring with himself, much the same way he did over things with his mother. After another minute, he pulled away from her and crossed to the bed. Sitting down, he said, "Come here."

Fiona quirked an eyebrow and said, "So, no combat foreplay tonight?"

Michael looked at her again, his expression still unsettled, and just said, "Please?"

Perhaps because of how very off his behavior was, she obeyed. Crossing to the bed, she sat in front of him, trying to read what was going on in his head.

Michael looked at her for a moment, and then looked away. Staring off into space, he was quiet for some time. Finally, when Fiona was starting to worry that he'd lapsed into some sort of trance, he turned back and quietly asked, "Fi…what did you mean the other day, about feeling 'very strongly' about that last job?"

Fiona was caught off guard. She was still reeling from the fact that Michael had shown so much raw concern for her this evening. Now, her emotions were wrenched in another direction. She wasn't prepared to answer this question. She never would be. She hated blubbering, emotional conversations, especially ones that showed her potential weaknesses. And yet, somehow, Michael could take her to this place. He was the only person who could draw tears from her eyes and longing in her heart. He was the only man who could break down her walls. Anyone else, she would've slapped right now. Part of her still wanted to slap him. But Fiona looked up at him, and melted.

He was looking at her with such mournful eyes she thought she might unravel right then. Michael had a way of doing that, of looking at her that way. Most of the time, he was all rugged handsomeness and confident smiles. His blue eyes could be piercing, menacing, playful, even smoldering. But every now and then, those eyes would hold such concern, such desperate longing and deep devotion that Fiona had to look away. And now, she was tempted to do just that.

Shaking her head, she said, "Don't look at me like that, Michael. Don't…"

She felt the tears well up, then. Fiona turned away, cursing herself for being such putty in his hands.

"Fi," he said softly, "We put our lives in each other's hands every day. You don't know all my secrets, but you know the ones that made me who I am."

She looked back at him and crumbled a little more. She saw him as a little boy, with bruises from an angry father. She remembered how it had hurt, to know what had been done to him. But she didn't want him to feel for her that way.

She finally looked back into his eyes and saw the hurt register as she said, "I think you know the answer to your own question, Michael."

Michael held her gaze, brushed her hair back from her face and said, "Tell me, Fi."

Fiona let herself go back in time for a moment. She let her thoughts tumble backward to the week she'd spent in the goat stall with Claire. She remembered the patch of green grass they could see through a chink in the wall. She remembered the gray sky and the stench of animals. She remembered hearing Claire's screams as the men forced themselves on her. She remembered her sister's pain more clearly than her own. Fiona had ceased to care about her own body, her own virtue, if she'd ever really had any. But Claire's screams had turned her into something like a feral cat, clawing and howling to be released.

If she'd been trained, then, she could've gotten them out. Fiona was certain she could've outsmarted them, outran them, maybe even killed them. But her brothers had kept the girls out of the fight, until then. Liam, her eldest brother, hadn't seen the value in training them. He'd wanted to protect them, but, instead, they were taken and used as bait, as bargaining chips, as leverage.

In the violent rescue attempt, both girls were wounded. Fiona once again remembered the blood. She had held onto her right arm, trying to stem the flow from a nasty gash. Claire had been stabbed in the chest and throat. She had lay on the floor next to Fiona and had bled out before their brothers could reach them. After that day, Fiona's promise to protect her sister became a hollow, painful regret that she buried deep, and drew upon only when she needed irrational strength.

As she stood in Michael's loft now, Fiona couldn't make the story come out. In a strained voice, she choked out, "Damnit Michael, I didn't ask you for a shoulder to cry on. I don't need your pity."

From behind her, she heard him say, "I don't pity you, Fi. I just want to know you."

Heaving a sigh and trying to feign annoyance, Fiona answered without looking at him, "My sister was killed in the hill country outside of Belfast. We were held hostage, used as bait. The bastards beat her…raped her. She never stopped crying. She was only fourteen, and she was stabbed to death. And I promised," her voice hitched, "I swore I would get her out of there…"

In a sudden fit of rage, Fiona seized a glass off of the counter and hurled at the wall. It shattered, and neither she nor Michael said anything for a minute.

Finally, Michael said, "They did the same to you, didn't they?"

Turning on him, Fiona seethed, "It doesn't matter what they did to me! I promised her!"

Michael stood and crossed to her, taking her face carefully in his hands, and said softly, "I'm sorry…"

Fiona wriggled free, her heart in her throat. Looking at the heavy emotion etched on his face, she did what came natural. She slapped him.

As he winced, she choked out, "Don't do that! Don't feel sorry for me!"

Michael rubbed his face and then looked at her with troubled frustration, saying, "This is isn't pity, Fi. But I can't help that…" he stopped and struggled, "It makes me angry. It makes me feel...and you know I hate that, too. But I can't help it because it's you. And I—"

He stopped suddenly then, and Fiona knew exactly what he'd started to say. Three words. Words they carefully avoided. A confession neither of them was willing to make.

I love you.

Fiona couldn't let him finish. She didn't want to hear it. It was enough to see it in his eyes. It was their secret, kept silent and held close so that the world around them could never use it against them. It was more sacred when it wasn't spoken.

Michael stood there, staring at her, and Fiona went to him. She kissed him softly and pressed him back towards the bed, because she knew they were done talking. Instead, she reassured him with her lips, kissing him softly and then more urgently. Michael finally stripped off the wet t-shirt, and then stepped away to remove his rain-soaked pants. With him standing in front of her in just his boxers, Fiona didn't give him a chance to redress himself. She pushed him back onto the bed and trapped him with her body. Relishing the softness of his skin under her hands, she translated her want for him into restless aggressiveness.

Michael, however, was noticeably gentle with her. He took his time pulling her clothes away and dropping feather-light kisses on her skin. He revealed her body slowly, tasting every inch, as though he was memorizing every bony angle and soft curve. Fiona let herself do the same with her hands, tracing the line of his spine and the curve of his buttocks. She splayed her fingers over his strong shoulders and nibbled his neck. And when Michael finally slid their bodies together, he held her like that for a long time.

Fiona let her fingers find his dark hair and she kissed his cheeks, both wondering what he was thinking and not wanting to know at the same time. She was done talking. Confession was too hard, too messy. So she urged him in their lovemaking instead. Michael moved with her, all while holding her close to his chest. He kissed her neck and then her mouth again as his movements grew more urgent.

Fiona went with him, letting her body take him and then slowly, with a more deliberate, prolonged ache then usual, to climax around him. When Michael finally released within her, he gripped her tightly. Their sexual encounters had always been powerful, but he seemed more at the mercy of himself than usual. In the last few thrusts that led to orgasm, he wrapped her in his arms and his breath came in ragged gasps. She could feel the strength of his body's reaction across his back. She could feel the heaving of his chest. Then, slowly, the tension began to melt away. Still, holding her close, he kissed her softly.

Michael only pulled away enough to lay beside her, his legs still tangled with hers. They were quiet for a long time, lost in thought. When Fiona could finally feel that his breath had become even again, she turned and looked at him. And there was that look again.

Damn you, Michael Westen, she thought to herself.

She couldn't help feeling that she owed him something, since she'd obviously scared him so badly earlier that evening. She hated being in debt to anyone, but a needy Michael was her Achilles heel.

So, before she could think it through and change her mind, she said softly to him, "You know, you were the first, Michael. In Belfast…in the basement. I was not pure as driven snow, but you were the first man I ever made love to."

With that, she turned away and closed her eyes. She didn't want a fussy reaction. She couldn't even bear to look in his eyes anymore. She simply wanted him to know.

The next morning, however, Fiona couldn't stay. The night had been too much, and she was afraid he might take it all back. She was afraid he would revoke what he'd almost said, or that she might say something hateful. That tended to be her reaction, when people pressed too hard.

So Fiona let him sleep, tearing her eyes away from his naked form, so tempting in the buttery morning light. She pretended to be asleep when he stirred and whispered that he would be right back. She didn't watch him dress and leave. Then, she dressed herself and quietly slipped away, tucking the previous night somewhere in the back of her heart, because she wasn't ready yet. She wasn't ready for him to love her, yet.