AN: This was actually the first chapter I ever wrote in this story. It's quite long because I didn't want to cut it in half and give you yet another cliffhanger-in-which-nothing-really-happens-good-heavens-when-will-they-have-sex-already chapter. Hope you enjoy.

-

Emory fell asleep to blissful, enveloping silence.

And she awoke to screams crackling through the two-way monitor on her desk. They were faint and filled with the horror of the dying. She leapt off her couch and was hurrying to the door before she was fully awake, knocking her hip hard against the doorknob as she stumbled out into the brightly lit hallway. Blinking rapidly to adjust her eyes, she moved instinctively towards Michael's room. She knew, as surely as if she could read his thoughts, that he was trying to escape.

Shit.

Emory sprinted through the hallways barefoot, taking stairs two at a time, focused only on getting to Michael before he caused too much damage. Her heart rate was elevated, and adrenaline flooded through her body. Why? Why had he chosen tonight? What had set him off?

Shit.

She shoved the stairwell door open and skidded to a halt.

"Shit," Emory whispered.

Three figures lay sprawled on the white linoleum floor, surrounded by growing puddles of blood. Splashes of red colored the walls, a twisted Pollock mockery. And in the midst of it all, standing tall in pure silence, stood Michael.

His eyes were trained directly on her.

And he wasn't wearing a mask.

Emory felt her heart leap into her throat with what could only be excitement. She walked towards him, drawn like a moth to flame, absently side-stepping the bodies. She could only see his face. He looked like a Viking, rugged and strong, eyes of burning ice, standing over his slain enemy like some ancient heathen god.

Sweet Jesus, he was so handsome.

She stopped in front of him.

Silence stretched between them, tense with blood and sweat and death. Emory could feel something rising within her, something that filled her mind with giddy, unexplainable delight. She did not fight it.

"Come with me," she told him, tearing her gaze away from his long enough to inspect the carnage. Three dead security guards. They would be discovered soon. Emory looked back to Michael, found his eyes still locked onto her. "I can help you find her."

Michael raised an eyebrow, and one corner of his mouth turned up in a smirk, and that movement alone was enough to send Emory reeling. She reached out to steady herself against the wall and found her hands slick with blood. She felt laughter bubble up inside her. And she did not fight it.

"Figures," she muttered. "The bodies don't bother me but your facial expression knocks me on my ass." And she laughed again, wiping her hand on her wrinkled lab coat. She turned back to Michael. He lifted his hands to show her his handcuffs. He'd broken the heavy-duty chain that connected them. The look in his eyes, it was almost mischievous.

Emory grinned. She couldn't help herself. Glancing down at the bodies, she saw a ring of keys on the belt of an older man. He was the only one whose face was still intact. Emory unclasped the keyring and walked towards Michael.

He held his hands out expectantly. Emory took hold of his left wrist and quickly unclasped the first shackle. When her fingertips brushed his skin it felt as if she were touching a furnace, a fact that she could only marvel at, as she had never touched him before.

When his hands were free, he took the keys and unlocked the iron shackles that tethered his ankles. His fingers moved with a swiftness that spoke of perfect coordination, and Emory wondered at how she could possibly find that alluring.

He straightened, dropping the keys back onto the guard's body.

Emory nodded. "Let's go." She turned around and made her way back towards the stairwell, not waiting to see if he followed. Something was wrong in her head, and she needed to get some measure of control over it before she did something stupid.

Like help a psychopath escape from an asylum.

She laughed again. Maybe she was just dreaming. She would wake up in her office, on that damn uncomfortable couch, and everything would be normal again.

"I've got to get my car keys," she said, glancing over her shoulder. Michael was following her silently. Either he actually trusted her or he intended to kill her very soon. "Then we'll find you some clothes."

Of course, she never made it to her office. She didn't even make it out of the stairwell.

Michael's hands closed over her shoulders, spun her around and lifted her off her feet, then slammed her none-too-gently back against the concrete wall. He pinned her there with impressive, but not surprising, strength. In the dim light, the only thing Emory could see was the faint outline of his form. She gritted her teeth against the pain in her shoulders and waited.

Michael's fingertips skimmed down her cheek and to her neck, where they paused for a long moment. When they made no further move to crush the life out of her, Emory let her mind relax enough to listen to the rest of her senses.

Heat radiated from him, and everywhere her body was pressed to his she felt hard, unyielding muscle. Her skin was tingling where he touched her, and that sensation flowed through her body to concentrate in her lower abdomen. The sudden, intense ache that blossomed there made her inhale sharply.

His fingertips tapped her neck gently in time with her heartbeat. He was, she realized suddenly, counting her pulse.

"Michael," she whispered. It was all she could bring herself to say. His fingertips slid further down her neck and over her collarbone like hot silk, sending shivers down her spine. She couldn't think… couldn't breathe. He was so close, after so many days looking at him, sitting across from him, wondering what his touch… Oh, Christ. She was out of her mind. She'd done so well ignoring her attraction to him and he was tearing down all those walls as if they were made of Saran Wrap.

He leaned closer, she could feel him moving, pressing himself more tightly against her. She took one deep, shuddering breath.

And then he released her, setting her gently back onto the ground. Emory felt a flash of despair at his absence, followed instantly by anger.

"Don't play games with me, Michael," she snapped. "I'm not your toy."

Was it her imagination, or was that a quick grin that curled on his lips? Emory was about to scold him again, but just as she opened her mouth, he bent down and picked her up, one arm beneath her knees and one at her back. He kicked open the stairwell door and moved swiftly down the deserted hallway.

"Put me down, damn you!" She hissed. "I'm perfectly capable of walking and you don't even know where my office is." Emory elbowed him sharply in the sternum, but he merely tightened his grip on her.

And then he walked into the showers.

---

Once she realized what he was doing, Emory's attitude altered completely.

Michael clenched his jaws together. Now she was looking at him with a sly grin on her face, a grin that made him want to ravage her on the spot, and he wasn't sure how much longer he could maintain some semblance of control.

He set her onto her feet only to pin her back against the wall again, sliding his fingers into her hair, soft as sin, and pulling her head back to expose her throat. He bent down and bit her neck with just enough pressure to leave a mark. His message was clear. She belonged to him now.

Emory whimpered. That sound, it communicated need. Desire.

Michael responded with a soft growl, deep in his throat, barely audible, as fire took the place of blood in his veins.

Somehow, he managed to reach out and turn on the shower, while Emory stripped off her lab coat and began unbuttoning her shirt. Michael shrugged out of his ragged bathrobe and dropped it to the floor. When he pulled off his shirt, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Emory pause. She was staring at him, and the hungry look on her face... Holy Hell. Without thinking, Michael snatched her into his arms and pressed his lips to hers in a heated kiss. Emory slid her arms around his neck and lifted up onto her toes. She sank her teeth into his bottom lip. Fiery little thing.

Michael reached behind her and unclasped her bra. He stepped back so that he could look at her while she removed her pants and a lacy black thong. She stood before him, completely naked, and looked up into his eyes and smiled. And he could only stare at her, at her curves, at that sinful-soft skin.

She moved forward and slid her fingertips over his chest, down his stomach, to the waistline of his pants, untying them slowly so that she could slip them down off his narrow hips. When she saw him, all of him, she let out a very soft gasp. Something akin to worry flickered in her eyes. Michael glanced down at himself.

Well, yes. He was quite large, wasn't he?

With a wicked look in his eyes, he picked her up and pressed her, much more gently this time, back against the slick tiled wall, just beneath the spray of steaming hot water. And this time, she wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. He could feel her, hot and wet against him, so achingly close...

He leaned down and kissed her, slid his hands down her waist, to her hips, grabbed her there and shifted her higher so that he could enter her. He looked down at his succubus, saw her eyes closed, head thrown back, holding her breath. It was too much. He slammed himself deep inside her, and all at once felt tight, wet heat surrounding him, fingernails digging sharply into his back. She cried out his name, clutching him tight enough to surprise Michael with her strength. Tight enough to know that he'd hurt her. He paused; it took every ounce of willpower he'd ever had in his life to hold still as she accustomed to his size.

She began to relax, so he slid back out of her, only slightly, and looked down between them at their joined bodies, at the glitter of water that surrounded them, the steam clouding the room. And then, just as she started to whimper, he slammed back into her. Emory gasped, and her hands slid around to capture his face and force him to look her in the eye.

"Stop teasing me, Michael," she whispered. "I will make you suffer for it."

Amusement glittered in his eyes. In any other circumstances, he would have taken her up on that offer, but he was already nearing the end of his control. Her challenge would have to wait until later.

So he leaned down and caught her lips in a kiss, and began pounding wildly into her. She moaned into his lips, and her legs tightened around his waist, pulling him deeper into her with each thrust, digging her nails into his back.

Michael felt himself reaching the edge of an abyss, drowning beneath a wave of pleasure so hot and fierce that it overpowered every barrier in his mind. Emory cried out as she climaxed, called out his name, dug her nails into his back, and Michael exploded within her, thrusting hard and deep, drowning beneath a sea of aching, screaming pleasure.

In the stillness that followed, only the sound of water splashing down over them broke the silence. Michael could feel the ache in his back where Emory's nails had cut crescent-shaped marks into his flesh. He buried his face in the curve of her neck and smiled, breathed her scent deeply. She smelled like autumn, clean and sweet.

"Michael," she murmured, holding him tightly against her. "Michael, we have to leave..." The half-drugged tone of satisfaction in her voice brought forth a fierce wave of pride in him. But he knew they needed to leave. The sooner, the better. Those bodies would only go unnoticed for about an hour, until the next shift came in and the nurse returned from her break.

So he pulled out of Emory's embrace, lowering her to the floor so that he could focus on finishing his shower. He made quick work of it, cleansing himself thoroughly, dragging a comb through his hair and scrubbing the dirt and blood from his hands and feet. All the while, Emory watched him with a languid smile on her face, curled up on the bench.

He liked that look on her face. More than any other expression he'd ever seen, he liked that satisfied cat-with-cream smile. And he liked the appreciation he saw in her eyes.

Irritation stabbed at him briefly as he remembered their encounter in the stairwell. For a while now, he'd had a growing suspicion that Emory could not feel fear. He'd put her in a position where he could crush the life out of her in seconds, and she hadn't shown any signs of panic. In fact, the only elevation in her heart rate had come when he'd trailed his fingertips over her skin.

She was quite possibly the most dangerous person in the world to him right now.

Michael glanced over at her as she stood up and went over to the closet to pull out some towels and a fresh pair of scrubs. She laid them on the bench for Michael and toweled herself off. He watched soft cotton slide over her breasts, her slim stomach, the curve of her hips. And he suppressed a groan.

By the time he finished scrubbing his body clean, Emory was completely dressed. She discarded her lab coat; it had a bright smear of blood from where she'd wiped her hands. Michael dried himself off and slipped into clean scrubs. He shut the water off.

Silence fell.

Emory moved towards him, looked up into his eyes, and he saw curiosity there.

"It's called Adaerexia," she said softly. "It's characterized by the inability to feel anxiety or fear. I've been this way since I was a child."

Michael blinked at her, marveling at how perceptive she was. A twinge of unease lit into his mind. Yes, she was incredibly dangerous. In that moment, he felt the absence of his masks like an intense ache within him. They were his security blanket; no matter how meaningless they'd been when he'd first started using them as a way to distract Loomis from asking difficult questions, they had at some point become a part of him. He hated that part of him. It was weak. He had been waiting to take those damn things off for years, and yet… He had almost faltered, he had almost not been able to remove it in time. Emory had crashed out of the stairwell only moments after he had ripped the paper shield from his face and tossed it into his room.

The look on her eyes when she'd seen him, though, had made it more than worthwhile.

"I think it has something to do with what my brother has," she continued, turning away to gather Michael's old clothes and shove them deep into the towel closet. "Fugue Disorders are very diverse illnesses, and can appear in varying degrees of intensity." Michael moved up behind her so that when she turned around, she nearly bumped into him.

He leaned down and kissed her. He wasn't quite sure why. Perhaps because he was so starved of affection and contact. Perhaps because it would reinforce his hold over her.

Perhaps because he knew it would make her smile

It did exactly that, despite the shadow of sadness in her eyes. He could taste her on his lips, something sweet and frighteningly alluring.

Emory took his hand and led him out of the shower.

-

AN: Yes, that was a totally shameless Slevin tribute. 3 Let me know what you think!