Fiona and Michael rushed down Market Street away from the screams, away from the man with a bullet embedded in his hand. Fiona had not felt the need to give the stranger a warning when she felt the ruffling of her shirt and his hand brushing against her backside. The look of shock and anguish on his face as he peered through the gaping hole in his hand put a fiery smile on Fiona's face. Michael had merely rolled his eyes and grabbed her arm to hurry her away from the escalating scene. They slowed their pace to a casual stroll when they neared the apartment. He looked at her contemplatively, thinking again that she reminded him of someone.

"What, McBride?"

"What? I didn't say anything."

"You think I'm trigger happy."

"No, I don't. I didn't say anything."

She glared at him, his innocent denial not convincing her.

"Fiona, I don't think you're trigger happy."

Her eyes bore into him, and the silence was more unbearable to him than if she had responded with a verbal assault.

"Okay you're just a little bit eager to shoot people."

"I'm strategic. I always think before I pull a trigger."

"And what was your strategy back there?"

"Permanent disability. A perpetual reminder of the hazards of sexual harassment."

Michael didn't respond. He knew it was a conversation he could not win. He also knew that if he had noticed the skulking man with roaming hands before Fiona reacted, he would have done far worse. He looked at her with a softened expression of care that failed to live up to the tough image he was trying so hard to convey.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"I'm fine."

The air had turned chilly in the last few hours of the afternoon, a cold front that brought with it the first sign that summer was evolving into autumn. The fog from their breath hovered before them, and Fiona stifled a chill. Michael wanted to warm her with his arms, but instead he removed his jacket, and placed it around her shoulders.

"You can get it back to me tomorrow," he murmured into her ear. He turned to leave, knowing that a moment longer in her company would be more than his willpower could withstand. He walked home quickly, hoping that with each step he took away from her his strength and good sense would somehow recover. Instead, as the distance between them built, he felt it weigh him down like a heavy blanket.

Fiona watched Michael disappear into the distance. She slipped her arms through the oversized sleeves of Michael's coat, and wrapped the cloth tightly around her body. His scent, a faint mixture of soap and cologne, enveloped her. She breathed him in deeply, wanting his body to engulf her instead of an article of his clothing and wishing it was not just a remnant of his presence that she breathed in.

*******

It was dark by the time Michael arrived home. He flipped the switch as he walked through the door to his apartment, but he had grown accustomed to its unreliability and did not react when the lights failed to turn on. He rubbed the chill from his arms, and shuffled through the dark toward the wood burning stove. His eyes not yet adjusted to the dark, he caught his knee on the coffee table along the way. The glass Fiona drank from the night before still lay there, unwashed since she had left. The loneliness that settled in when she walked out the door had hit him hard and unexpectedly, and he knew it would be worse if he erased the traces of her visit. He fixated on the silhouette of the glass out of the corner of his eye, and the loneliness washed over him once again.

The operation today had not lasted long enough to satisfy his desire for time with her. He knew little more about her than her homicidal tendencies, and it tortured him that he could be attracted to such a person. He was drawn to her strong will, passionate soul, and unconventional approach to solving disagreements. He was enamored by her dark eyes and exquisite body. He took solace in the knowledge that he had created an excuse to see her tomorrow to retrieve his coat.

Michael threw a crumpled newspaper into the stove for kindling. He lit a match and a red glow slowly devoured the paper. He grabbed another section of the news and began to crumple it before he realized it was the paper that highlighted his first operation with Fiona. The front page photo of three charred vehicles reminded him of her, and he could not bring himself to destroy it. When you work in intelligence, you learn not to leave behind clues of your identity, daily activities, or future plans, but in a rare act of human weakness Michael disregarded this fundamental rule. He laid the article flat on the floor and smoothed it with his hand. He retrieved another log and placed it in the stove. The fire popped as the log ignited, and a shower of smoldering embers rained down on his forearm. He drew his arm back quickly, but not soon enough to avoid singeing several hairs. He brushed away the crumbling remnants of follicles, and waved the sulfurous stench from the air.

Michael walked over to the bed, removed his shirt and shoes, and sprawled out on the old, lumpy mattress. He was too tired to remove his jeans. He extended his arms above his head, lazily resting them on the pillow, and closed his eyes to visualize the scheme for their next job. It would be their last one together before the big operation. He was relieved that this mission would soon be over. His struggle to resist a woman who did not care for him, and who he should not be with anyway, would soon be a small part of his past.