A/N: This story takes place right after Michael and Fiona reconnect in 2.11 "Hot Spot" and follows on from my M-rated take of what happened that night in Chapter 10 of "Bed Time Stories" and can be read as a sequel to that piece. Fiona's POV will be detailed in an upcoming chapter of "While Michael Sleeps."

Much love and appreciation to the #burners out there in BN FF Land and the Twitterverse, thank you!

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"Michael McBride... Sometimes I wonder if he's the one I fell in love with."

"I wouldn't be surprised. We caused a lot of mayhem, you and I. He was your type of guy."

"Yes, he was. Where'd he go?"

There have been times when Michael Westen had sincerely wished he was Michael McBride. There were times when he had longed for a life as simple, and this spoke to just how damned complicated his life could get sometimes that this alternative was considered easier, as being the boyfriend of a gun dealing Provo paramilitary whose Republican family was steeped in the Cause for generations back.

Times like he had been dreaming about… when mornings in bed in their run down Dublin flat had led to more of the same from the previous night... Michael had told himself then he was cultivating an asset and that moving from dating Fiona to sharing her bed regularly was just a step, a fucking fantastic one, on his journey to being on the inside of the Provo instead of just inside her as often as he could manage.

But life had made a liar out of him as much as he had committed the acts of deception on his own.

When you work as a spy, it's easy to think of people as assets, resources to accomplish a goal, because you don't have a personal relationship with an asset. You don't care about an asset. You don't miss the scent of an asset when she leaves the room.

That was the first thing that hit him. It had also been the thing that had convinced him last night that she wasn't an apparition, that his overwrought guilty mind wasn't playing tricks on him. He'd smelled that acrid nauseating odor of burnt plastic from the melted phone in her hand and he'd known he wasn't imagining it. She was real. She was alive. She hadn't died in Derek Poole's house. She was there!

A scent… that was the thing that penetrated his brain this morning as he tried to shake off the sleepiness of the first decent rest he'd had in weeks since he'd almost been blown up trying to open his front door.

It wasn't the lingering fragrance Fiona sometimes left after she'd been sprawling all over his bed like she had every right to be there. Sometimes he wondered if she put extra perfume on before she came over just to ensure that she left an olfactory calling card to remind him of what he had chosen to be missing.

No, the first thing that he noticed as the much needed sleep had started to recede was the scent of Fiona's skin and the faint hint of smoke still in her hair, both of which were pressed against his face.

And as awareness filtered through, he realized he'd slipped off the pillow somehow and his neck was stiff because he was resting against Fiona's head, his cheek pressing into those long auburn locks and his nose inches from her ear. An irrational temptation to taste that ear came over him as his eyes cracked open just a sliver to take in the sight. But he'd learned a very long time ago not to startle her awake.

Strangely, the next thing he smelled was just a trace of his own cologne on the fabric that was rubbing against the light stubble on his chin as he shifted his head slightly. That second bit of information was followed quickly by subsequent revelations. When Michael moved back a little more, the very distinct aroma of post coital bliss hit him right before he realized he was spooned up tightly against her warm semi-naked frame, his arm about her waist ended with a hand possessively curved around her right breast and his pajamas bottoms were tangled about the one leg that wasn't bare and lying over hers.

Which meant he'd done more than dream about the early morning antics that happened all too frequently in Dublin and all too rarely in Miami and not at all recently while she'd been dating Campbell.

"G'back t'sleep, Michael," she slurred and let out a long sigh that he knew from experience meant the Irishwoman would settle back into slumber without being concerned if he chose to get up right then.

So he did.

Moving unsteadily towards the bathroom after sliding back into his nightwear that now needed a wash as surely as the sheets did, Michael was quickly confronted with more evidence of what had transpired last night when he opened the door to the tiny water closet at the back of the loft. Their semi-damp clothes were hanging from the shower curtain rail and draped over the side of the old porcelain tub.

"Michael, you didn't think that..."

Yeah, he had thought exactly that. He had realized painfully and almost too late that there were far, far worse things that losing her to a so-called romantic rival… He had left her behind so many times over the years to pursue other things that it had just never dawned on him she might truly leave him behind. Of course, he recognized the possibility intellectually given the lives they both led that she could die.

But how he had felt as he had made that long arduous climb up the stairs to the loft, the skies pouring down on him, as if the heavens too were mourning her loss, had absolutely nothing to do with his brain.

Michael picked up the still slightly damp striped top she had been wearing along with his grey T-shirt, trying not to be overwhelmed again by the emotions that had coursed through him when he saw her there, alive and reckless as ever, ready to go out and do battle again, laughing in the face of death.

Leaving the shirts on the sink, he moved their jeans out of the way, laying them on the toilet seat. So many of their amorous encounters, especially back in the day, were a celebration of cheating the odds… Fiona in particular could barely contain herself once an operation was over, whether it went well or badly, before she was rending his clothes in an effort to start the fireworks after the fireworks.

But she hadn't been the one to initiate things this time… His ex-girlfriend had been her usual flippant herself, though as he thought about it now, her not quite admitting that she'd made a mistake spoke volumes about how much the incident must have rattled her as well. After finally agreeing with him that they couldn't be together and now they had… twice apparently… and Fiona hadn't fought him on it.

Michael quickly shed his sticky pajamas and stepped into the tub. Leaning over slightly while trying to coax some warm water out of the ancient plumbing, the dark haired man remembered sitting at the bottom of that old porcelain monstrosity last night, Fiona astride his lap, seeing her beautiful face lost in ecstasy while coming back to his senses from his own blissful release.

He had held her tightly in his arms after she had collapsed against his shoulder, reveling in the joy of her presence as their breathing had evened out. Then the water had grown chilly and the fiery Irishwoman had shuddered since the cold liquid was pelting her back and backside primarily, her body blocking his from the now frigid spray. One quick kiss to her saturated hair and then he had released his embrace.

The former paramilitary had stood up quickly and stepped out of the shower, turning the water off while he had exited the tub. Wordlessly, he'd handed her a towel and secured one about his own waist before taking the only other large sheet of white terry cloth and wrapping it around her soaked auburn mane.

Lowering his large hands from her head to her shoulders, he'd gazed into her eyes and uttered one word, the same query he'd made the night she'd come over at 3:00 AM when he'd completed his call to Lesher.

"Stay…?"

Michael hadn't known what she'd been looking for as she'd stared back at him, but apparently Fiona had found it because she had reached behind him to pluck one of his dress shirts off the nail in the paneling he used for lightly worn clothing… the less he had to go his mom's to do laundry the better…

Coming back to the present, the ex-operative completed his ablution quickly, drying off and putting on his boxers and a pair of dark blue denims while taking a moment to stare at the empty hangar that had held the blue pin stripe shirt she'd slipped into before excusing herself from the bathroom last night.

The sight that greeted him this morning was the same as it had been last night also, albeit her hair was somewhat less wet. Fiona was curled up on her side, lying on what would always be her side of whatever bed they shared with her back to him, swathed in his oversized shirt and not bothering with the sheets in the heat and humidity that came with being stuck in Miami in a non-air conditioned industrial space.

He'd exited that tiny place at the back of his living space and padded silently to bed. As he had the night she'd come to keep him company while Brad the security guard shared his revelations with his boss, Michael had laid down next to her, but this time he'd felt free to touch her with more than friendship.

Without the specter of her former boyfriend between them, her Irish ex-lover had taken over, snaking an arm about her waist and settling her against his chest, unlike before when he had lain shoulder to shoulder with her as they'd stared at the ceiling, her hand taking his in a gesture of familiarity, comfort…

The dark haired man gathered his shirt, socks and shoes and the inevitable happened. His stomach rumbled, reminding him once again when he noted his dress shirt she was wearing was open that he'd been he'd been the one to unbutton it and push the shirt tail up and over her waist, initiating their other intimate encounter in the early morning hours. He couldn't help the grin that graced his face while pulling the light sheet over her lower half. If he'd been dreaming of times past, apparently she had also.

Sitting down in his favorite ugly green chair, Michael shrugged into a light blue polo and then found himself staring at the exposed parts of her skin that were visible through the gap in his garment until he forcefully redirected his gaze to her face, looking at last peaceful as only Fiona could while unconscious.

He'd always been fascinated with watching her like this for many reasons: the fact that she was such a light sleeper, making the moments all the more precious by their rarity; the feral feline quality of her transitions from rest to alertness if not startled; and if he was being honest, which he rarely was regarding his relationships, the opportunity to observe her openly without having to guard his features, ensuring that she didn't discern the depth of his emotions where she was concerned.

Although his expression when he came in from the storm last night probably had taken care of that one, he thought wryly. Based on the looks she had been giving him, she knew what was churning in his heart.

He told himself that he'd done much better job of not letting her know how badly her relationship with Campbell had hurt him. He was sure she suspected… she wasn't a twit… and that was no doubt why Fiona had made sure she was dangling Soup Boy in front of him every chance she conceivably got.

"Oh, we've socialized enough for one day…" She'd smirked at her new lover before looking over at him, just to make sure he was paying attention and knew exactly what they'd been doing before they arrived.

And yet his ex-girlfriend was always over at his place, lounging on his bed, eating his last yogurt, hanging around with and without her boy toy. Michael could always find a reason why she needed to come by, something he needed help with, something that required tactical support and there she would be…

"Why is it so important what I think about your boyfriend?"

"Cause I want you to like him."

"I'm happy that he makes you happy."

Fiona deserved better than what he could offer her, someone like her brilliant adorable paramedic boyfriend… Like his mother, Michael was good at telling himself the things he needed to that would make reality something he could live with. He could tell himself he wanted her to be happy, which really he did, but secretly the burned spy was pleased knowing that he was still number one on her call sheet.

"Michael, if I ask Campbell one more time…"

"Please… I'm not asking for me."

Apparently Campbell was pretty bright after all because Soup Boy had also figured out Fiona was always going to answer when Mr. Westen called. Sitting with her at Carlito's while the Irishwoman bemoaned the loss of the sweet and cute man with other impressive qualities, Michael had tried to mask how he felt about it. There was no denying, even to himself, that he'd been pleased he'd gotten a reprieve from watching her be with another man, but Fiona being Fiona, he'd been certain his respite would be brief.

"You think I've never broken into a house before?"

"Fiona, just take it easy and be careful."

But far worse was the possibility those could have been the last words they'd ever speak to one another. Michael started to reach out to brush some wild wisps of her auburn tresses from her face, but dropped his hand back into his lap again. He wasn't ready to face Fiona any more than he had been the morning they'd lain in bed back to back for an hour before Bly had shown up with his burn notice dossier.

Now he felt bad that he had completely ignored her from the moment it landed in his hands… He'd been lucky not to lose a limb over that one… luckier still that she had forgiven him eventually, but only after testing their relationship with the emotion equivalent of artillery fire. Tolerating her flirtations with the hapless Tomas McKee was nothing compared to knowing he'd sent her straight into Campbell's arms.

Michael exhaled a shaky breath, pressing his knuckles to his forehead, recalling his panic as he'd stood out in the street, trying to press through the fireman, desperate to reach her in that burning inferno…

Question was: what was he going to do about it? He couldn't pretend that last night hadn't happened.

He'd left her back in Ireland, tried to tell himself he'd gotten over her, reconnected with her a half dozen times over a decade, connected with her here in Miami, their relationship growing close once more until he'd walked away from her again. Then she'd left him, first for a man, then forever, or so he'd believed.

The better question was: what could he do about it?

He was still a disavowed agent, trapped in Miami and under the thumb of some very nasty people who would not hesitate to use any leverage necessary to force him to do their bidding. Making Fiona more of a target than she already was would be terrible tactics, not that she couldn't take care of herself, but…

Fully dressed now, Michael leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, staring at the woman whose death would have blown out all his operating parameters. Last night had been more than just them reconnecting… they'd done that before with mixed results…. He needed to do something; that much he knew. However, despite his uncharacteristic motivation, he was totally clueless what to do.

"Well, you know how it is with cover ID's. You become who you need to be."

"And everyone gets to guess who you really are."

Thenone memory bled into the other

"You ran away in the middle of the night for my benefit?"

"Believe it or not, Fi, yeah, it was for your benefit."

"And yours."

"Yes, Fi, and mine."

"Thanks, Michael. A little honesty is... refreshing."

He couldn't give her what she wanted or deserved, but maybe he could give her a little of what she'd asked for. Spanish omelets with egg whites only was what Michael McBride had made for his lover many a cold Dublin morning. Michael Westen didn't have any eggs or potatoes on hand, but if he hurried, he knew a café that could remedy that before she woke up and maybe, just maybe, he could give her a little honesty too. It certainly wouldn't be easy. Talking about relationships was not his thing.

But nothing could be harder than the devastation he'd felt last night. He had long ago buried the hurts he'd had when he'd been forced to leave her behind in Ireland and Michael had never let himself think about what it must have been like for her, he couldn't have functioned if he had, until last night when he'd had one small taste of what it must have been like for her... He owed it to her to at least try to talk.

()()()()()()

Getting breakfast, it turned out, had taken a lot longer than he'd anticipated. Michael hadn't expected to see her Saab when he got back from picking up their food, as Fiona must have parked on the rear of the property where she could slip in and out without being noticed by anyone watching the front of the building last night. The habits one acquired as an IRA guerilla were somewhat different than those one acquired living the life of a spy, but still useful, he mused as he ascended the staircase trying to be quiet.

But what Michael really hadn't expected to see when he slipped through his front entry door and turned around to try to close it silently in hopes of not disturbing the redhead was the sight of his new handler sitting at the breakfast bar making herself at home instead of the woman he'd spent the night with.

"Breakfast? For me?"

The grin wanted to turn into a grimace, but he covered it quickly. Tossing his keys on the workbench, he continued to carry his packages toward the kitchen whilst looking around the loft wondering just where the former paramilitary might gone off to. Hopefully she was planting another tracker on Carla's car.

"I see Fiona is spending the night now. Good for you, putting down roots."

That was not a conversation he was interested in having with the burn notice lady of all people and his earlier concerns about their organization trying to leverage his relationship with Fiona resurfaced.

"Sooo, you've had your couple of days... What's the good news?

The dark haired man went around to the other side, putting the wooden barrier between them and setting down the bag of Styrofoam containers. Trying not to think about what potentially could have transpired in his absence, the former operative took off his sunglasses and put on his best spy face.

"I ruled out every one on the list you gave me. I took another look at the blast, checking demolition specialists, er….private contractors. If you could have someone look at that list to see if there's any one worth flagging…"

The slender blonde was not pleased.

"Is this some kind of a joke? From what I hear, you have plenty of time to run around town playing dress up with your friends; the best you can do for me is needle in a haystack?"

Oh, he had a few better ideas, but none he was willing to share with her or act on at the moment.

"You gotta better idea? I'm willing to hear it."

"You're my idea, Michael… You're making a mistake. There are those that think you're more trouble than you're worth. I convinced them that you could be useful because you can find the bomber. But what do you think is going to happen to you if you don't deliver?

"The same thing that would happen to you I suppose..." the ex-agent answered, pausing to letting those possibilities sink in before taking a sip from his drink. "Are you going to run that check for me?

"Give me the list," Carla commanded tersely. "Michael, it's time you focused on helping yourself. Or you're not going to be around to help anybody else."

Threats delivered and marching orders given, his perturbed handler had swept out of the room. As soon as the recently bomb damaged door to the loft clicked shut, Mr. Westen had his phone out.

"It's Fi. Leave a message…"

Of course she wouldn't have had time to replace the cellular; it had just melted last night. Biting down on his bottom lip, Michael made a quick circuit of the loft. Her damp clothes were missing from the bathroom and the wrinkled shirt she had worn was back on its hangar. Then he spotted the drawer where her emergency stash of clothing resided. They were still operatives even if they were exes…

As anticipated, a white tank and a pair of denim shorts were missing. Returning to the main room, Michael sat down heavily on her side of the bed, the irony of it all not lost on him for change.

The one time he'd been willing to attempt to engage in a conversation…

And she was gone…