Chapter Three
Fiona was sitting at the kitchen table when Michael arrived at the loft, staring down at a steaming cup of coffee she had no real intention of drinking. At the sound of his knock, she bounded to her feet and raced to the door, all of her moody trepidation becoming a rush of nervous excitement.
She yanked open the heavy steel door to greet him, and they stood there for a moment on opposite sides of the threshold. Michael was wearing a drab, black, off-the-rack suit, which she recognized immediately as a government suit. If he'd been wearing a tie, it was long gone; his blue striped shirt was unbuttoned to the groove of his chest. Even in the dim light, she could tell he was pale, from both tiredness and a lack of sun; there was purple in the creases around his eyes, and he hadn't shaved in at least a day, suggesting either a long flight, or an indirect one. He didn't look awful—Michael never looked truly awful, at least to her eyes. But he didn't quite look like himself.
His visage improved somewhat when his lips curved into a small, weary smile.
"Hi, Fi."
Fiona's heart pounded in her throat as she did her best to smile back, and stepped aside to invite him in.
As she turned to close the door, Michael reached for her. Not expecting his touch, Fiona started, causing Michael to drop his hand. She tried to repair the damage by stepping forward into his body, but he remained strangely stiff, and the resulting kiss was brief, and awkward.
"Sorry," Michael offered, talking a half-step back. "It's, uh… been a long day."
"It's been a long month," she corrected.
"I'm—"
"Sorry. I know."
Michael nodded, avoiding her eyes as his right hand massaged the back of his neck.
Fiona decided to change tacks. "Do you want some coffee?"
"Yeah," he agreed. "I'll be there in a minute. Just let me get changed."
Fiona returned to the kitchen to pour another cup of coffee from the French press. She gave Michael some time alone to come back to himself, keeping her attention focused on her own steaming mug of coffee as Michael stripped off his government suit behind the privacy of the wardrobe door across the room. After a few minutes, Michael returned, wearing a much more Miami-appropriate outfit of faded jeans, a dark grey t-shirt, and a pair of well-loved Adidas sneakers. His outfit matched the tone of her own: a pair of 7 for All Mankind cut-offs and a drapey white tank top over a vivid purple bra.
"You look better," she remarked.
"I thought you liked me in suits."
"Not that suit."
"Fair enough."
She could practically hear the exhausted creak of Michael's joints as he climbed up onto the bar stool next to hers, and wrapped his hand around the mug of black coffee she'd set out for him.
"Do you want a yogurt?" Fiona asked.
"Maybe later. Coffee's good for now."
Fiona pretended to study her own beverage as Michael took a small, slightly noisy sip. Tiny details seemed to take on an outsized importance as she tried to imagine where he'd been, and what he'd been through. His arms were pale along with his face, and there was a chip in the index finger of his right hand. His hair was slightly longer than usual, and she was surprised to see some tiny, barely perceptible flecks of grey at his temples, matching those in his stubble; she'd long suspected that Michael coloured his hair, but the tangible evidence was nonetheless off-putting, reminding her of everything they still didn't know or understand about each other. She wanted to reach out and repair that gap. But short of knocking him off his stool and covering his body with hers, she wasn't sure how to start.
They picked the same moment to break the silence, voices overlapping.
"So what have you—" "Where have you—"
They both stopped abruptly. Fiona wanted to find the humour, but instead she was frustrated. She hadn't been sure what she wanted from their reunion, but she definitely hadn't expected it to consist of awkward kisses and brittle conversation.
"We're no good at this," she said quietly.
"But maybe we could try…?"
Michael's eyes told her he meant it. Fiona took a breath, and started again.
"Sam and I did a few jobs while you were gone."
"Anything interesting?"
"On Tuesday, we helped save a kitten from a tree."
Michael regarded her skeptically, waiting for a punchline.
"The kitten was hooked into a Ponzi scheme, and the tree was run by a shady hedge fund manager in the pocket of a Columbian cartel," Fiona finished.
"Funny."
"I thought so."
"How's Jesse?"
"He's back at CIFA. They cleared him a few weeks ago."
"Wow. That's great."
"I don't think he likes it."
"Really? Why?"
Fiona shrugged. "I think he misses saving kittens from trees."
For a moment, Fiona was sure Michael was going to respond to her intentionally loaded comment. But instead, he sipped his coffee.
"And Sam?" he asked.
"You haven't talked to him?"
"I called him on the way over, but we didn't talk long."
"He's good. The girlfriend is keeping him busy."
"Which girlfriend is this?"
"The one with the hotels."
"Uh…"
"Elsa."
"Still…?"
"I think it's for real."
"Well, he did sound out of breath when he picked up the phone."
Fiona made a face. "Ew."
Michael smirked at her discomfort. "He's always been like that."
"Sam's like an inversion of you."
Michael's gaze flickered over the rim of his mug as he took a long, deliberate sip. She watched him swallow, and wondered if she was reading too much into the way his fingers curled and tensed around the smooth surface of the mug as he replaced it on the table.
"If you say so," he said.
Fiona sipped her own coffee to distract her itchy hands, not yet trusting her read of the situation. Michael's flirting was so rare, it was sometimes hard to spot.
"Wait until you see him—Sam's lost at least ten pounds since you've been gone."
"You're kidding."
"Don't tell him I said this—but he looks good."
"This is what happens when I leave for six weeks—I deteriorate, and my friends thrive."
He ran his hand through his hair as he said it, yet Fiona knew his words were more than just a reference to his objectively minor flecks of grey.
"We prefer having you around," she told him.
Michael met her eyes quickly, offering a tiny, somewhat melancholy smile.
"I noticed a bunch of your stuff in the closet," he said. "Have you been staying here?"
Fiona shifted her shoulders against the tensing of her spine. "Sam and I thought someone should keep an eye on things. We were taking turns, but then he got busy with Elsa, and it was starting to be a lot of driving between here and Brickell every day, especially when were working, so I thought—"
"Fi," he interrupted. "It's fine. Bring whatever stuff you need—there's lots of room."
It was one of Michael's most impressive and irritating gifts: to say things that were seemingly direct, but altogether sideways. Fiona knew that, in his own way, Michael was trying to tell her something important. But all she could think about was how much easier it would be if she could touch him, and use her hands and body to bring him back to himself—and back to her.
Her eyes wandered from his tired blue eyes to his much-missed lips and down to his chest, dwelling on the subtle bump of his nipples under his thin, soft t-shirt. Her hands tightened around her mug as she imagined herself peeling his clothes off his body, seeing if his tan had faded everywhere and if she'd missed any other grey hairs.
"Fi, I—"
Fiona silenced him with her lips. Michael was surprised, but willing, gripping her shoulder for balance as he struggled to match her enthusiasm. Their stools squealed as they both tried to get closer, Fiona almost falling from her seat as she arched her back into Michael's grip. A moment later, Michael stepped down from his stool to press himself between her open legs, sighing into her mouth as he ran his fingers through her loose hair.
Things progressed quickly. Fiona moaned through a messy flurry of kisses while Michael's hands swept over her hips and under her top; her own hands mapped the contours of his back, dipping into the rear waistband of his jeans before circling to the front. Michael bit her lip as she outlined the shape of his need through the denim, and then made a delicious sound as she popped open the button to reach inside.
Her breath was fast and deep against his rough cheek when she asked, "How long are you staying?"
Michael cupped the back of her head as he sucked her exposed throat, his half-open jeans rubbing against her bare thigh.
"I have to go back tomorrow," he breathed.
"Tomorrow?" Fiona echoed, pulling her face away.
Michael swallowed, pleasure-cloudy eyes struggling to focus. "Tomorrow evening. It's a twenty-four hour leave."
"Leave?" she echoed again. "Does that mean you're back in?"
"For now, I'm just an asset."
"For now…?" she asked, sick of repeating his poorly chosen words.
"That's all I know—honestly," Michael pleaded, clearing hoping they could move past the familiar argument.
"Are they going after the people on the list?"
Michael nodded. "Starting tomorrow, basically."
"And you're in on it?"
He nodded again.
"And what about us?" she asked, then amended quickly, "Me, Sam, and Jesse, I mean."
Michael let out a breath as he finally released her, and backed away. He was still hard as he paced to the end of the table and back, rubbing his neck.
In his hesitation, Fiona had her answer.
"Oh. I get it," she said flatly. "Now that the government's involved, we're not."
"It's not up to me, Fi," Michael protested.
Fiona glared at him, anger building.
"And this is, what—a pit stop?"
"No," he denied, turning to meet her anger. "I have to leave, but I'll be back."
"When?"
"I don't know," he admitted.
"Ballpark?"
"A month? Two months, tops? Again, it's not—"
"Not up to you—I know."
"Do you have any idea," he began, tone rising, "what I went through just to get here?"
"No," she shot back. "How could I? You never tell me anything."
Michael elided her accusation. "It's not just about me, you know."
"What does that—"
"I need to get back in to keep you safe. To keep everyone safe."
"This again? Michael—I don't need protecting. I can take care of myself. We can all take care of ourselves."
The hurt on Michael's face was immediate and obvious a split second before he caught himself, wiping his face blank and looking anywhere that wasn't in her direction. Fiona literally bit her tongue, recognizing too late her own poor choice of words.
"Michael…" she pleaded, climbing down from her stool. "I didn't mean it like that."
"It's fine," he lied.
"We want you here. That's all anyone wants."
"But now I am here, and it's not enough. Isn't that what you keep telling me?"
"I don't know, Michael," she said wearily. "Not anymore."
"Since—"
"Since everything. I don't know…"
They both avoided each other's eyes, though Fiona continued to watch Michael from the corner of hers. He shifted his weight uncomfortably as he buttoned the jeans that now threatened to slide off his narrow hips. After he'd done that, he didn't seem to know what to do with his hands, fumbling with his pockets before finally crossing his arms across his chest. Her heart broke a little at the messy spectacle of his frustrated passion. Everything seemed backwards; for once, he was the one with the palpable desire, while she was disturbingly uncertain.
"Do you want to get out of here for a bit?" Michael asked at last. "Maybe take a drive?"
"Where?" Fiona questioned.
"The beach…?" he asked tentatively.
His suggestion caught her genuinely off-guard. "You want to go to Miami Beach. And do what—walk along the boardwalk holding hands?"
"Humour me, Fi. Please."
She eyed him for another long moment. From anyone else, a suggestion to visit the beach would sound normal; but from Michael Westen, it sounded suspicious, and borderline insane.
"Fine," she agreed. "Should I change?"
"It's Miami Beach, so…"
"So I'm probably over-dressed."
Fiona combed her fingers through her hair and pushed her bra back into place as she went to the wardrobe to collect some shoes. She chose a pair of Stuart Weitzman wedge sandals that were walkable without sacrificing the benefits of extra height.
When she returned, Michael was waiting for her by the door.
"You can drive," he said.
"What's your rental?"
"Ford Focus."
"Ug."
"I know. The trunk barely fits two sniper rifles with tripod mounts."
She smiled half-heartedly at his attempted humour, glad of the effort even if she still wasn't in the mood. At the very least, his invitation to the beach had surprised her, and she was willing to see if the night had any more surprises in store.