When Emory finally passed the sign emblazoned 'Welcome to Haddonfield!' she let out a heavy sigh. She had to remind herself that this was only the beginning, that more problems still lay ahead. But she was so tired. All she wanted was to curl up in her bed – a bed, any bed would do – and sleep for days.

But the reason she couldn't was sitting patiently at her side, staring out the window with a skeptical expression in his eyes.

Emory had realized, on the long, silent drive, that if she did not try her damndest to control Michael's impulse to kill, she would never be able to live with herself. She may have gone slightly mad, but that did not mean she had lost her conscience; she simply could not let him wander off to slaughter at will, and though he did not seem inclined to do so at the moment, she had no idea how Haddonfield would affect his psychological state.

But she got a strong hint when they turned into a quiet suburb, passing house after peaceful little house, and Michael suddenly reached out – fast as lightning – and grabbed her arm in a vicious, crushing grip. Emory slammed on the breaks, cursing.

"Damnit, Michael, don't do that!" She hissed, casting him a withering glare. But he wasn't paying attention, his eyes were trained directly across the street. His fingers dug tighter into her arm, and she winced.

At first glance, the house didn't give her reason to pause, but when a bolt of pain lanced up her arm as Michael tightened his grip, Emory took a longer look. It was old, run down and clearly abandoned, with flaking paint and boarded windows. A rusty chain-link fence ran around the perimeter of the property.

With a flash of shock, Emory realized that she recognized that house from the piles of newspaper clippings Loomis had sent her; that was Michael's old house.

Shit.

"Michael," she said softly, but he wasn't listening to her. His gaze was locked on that house, and his eyes had a disturbingly hollow look to them. Emory reached up and covered his hand with hers, gritting her teeth against the bruising pain. The moment her fingertips brushed over his, he blinked, glanced down at her, and slowly released her arm. The look he sent her was half-apologetic and half-amused.

Emory sighed.

"Don't go there yet," she suggested. When his eyes flickered with displeasure, she frowned. "I'm not saying you can't. I know better than to forbid you to do anything. Just... not yet, Michael." When she saw his eyes go hard, she added in a soft voice, "please."

Michael watched her for a long moment, and Emory got the distinct impression that he was thinking about a great deal more than just his old home. And he was not happy with his own thoughts.

Emory bit her lip, because she hadn't wanted to say this to him yet; she didn't know how far she could push him. But it had to be said.

"I can't help you kill innocent people. I won't."

He tilted his head at her, but his eyes burned dark with anger.

"I never said they were innocent!" She snapped. She had no qualms with his past. Instantly, his expression eased. "But if you go in there now, you'll lose yourself. And I will do everything in my power to stop you."

There. It had been said. Now he knew that he did not have free reign; she had rules and he was going to have to play by them. Because they both knew that she was the most dangerous person in the world to him, the only one who understood how he thought, almost before he thought it. She knew how he worked, where he would go, how he would kill...

He did not like that. At all. In fact, his entire body went rigid with fury, the most blatant show of emotion she'd ever seen in him. He clenched his jaw, and she saw his lips thin as he pressed them together tightly.

For some absurd reason, Emory felt a wave sadness rush through her. It surprised her. She hadn't realized how attached she'd gotten to him.

In the brief seconds between her words and his actions, Emory wondered how he was going to kill her. She had a very vivid imagination, and so did he, but she figured it would be quick and clean.

And then he was moving; swift and incredibly strong, he reached over and pulled her onto his lap as if she weighed no more than a doll. He slid one arm around her waist and pulled her so tight against him that she couldn't breathe.

And he kissed her. A hard, demanding and angry kiss, but one that sent fire raging through her body, melting her as if she was nothing more than wax.

The small part of her mind that managed to remain cognizant wondered at his motives. Why hadn't he killed her? What had caused such a change in his attitude?

As his kisses continued, trailing over her neck, her shoulders, torture by hot silk, she felt his anger drain away. He grazed her skin with his teeth, gentle and aware, and his grip on her loosened so that he could slide his hands over any part of her that he wished to touch.

Emory willed her body to listen to her mind, tried to ignore the glorious torment so that she could push herself away from him long enough to look into his eyes and see what he was thinking. He allowed this, and the amusement on his face told her that he was only humoring her; he could keep her enthralled for as long as he wished and they both knew it.

But she saw something else in his eyes: acceptance. She intended to try to keep him on a very short leash, and he was alright with that.

For now.

Emory leaned closer to him and brushed her lips over his in a featherlight kiss. A thank you.

Michael released her. That challenge burned in his eyes, the one that made her heart jumpstart in her chest. He picked her up and slid her deftly back into the driver's seat. One corner of his mouth was turned up – just barely – in a smirk.

Emory sighed. She was just tired. She was more than capable of holding her own against her silent companion, but she was exhausted and her body was running on Empty. And from the look in his eyes, Michael knew that.

So she drove out of the neighborhood, a few miles down the road and pulled into the parking lot of a small but well-kept motel. Michael got out of the car and disappeared into the trees while Emory went inside and got them a room.

The elderly Indian man who ran the hotel escorted her to the second floor, sent her a smile and a nod and left her in peace.

Once inside the room, she dropped her purse on the table, walked over and unlocked the sliding glass door that led onto the balcony. Michael climbed over the railing moments later and joined her in the room.

"I'm going to sleep," she said, kicking off her shoes and pulling her hair out of the knot she'd tied it in earlier that morning. The sun had only just begun to rise in the eastern sky, washing the room in pale blue light.

Michael watched her as she crawled onto the bed and curled up on a pillow. Emory closed her eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath.

And then warmth enveloped her, and one large arm slid around her waist. Michael pulled her against him, curled around her. She was too tired to wonder at this. The sound of his breathing lulled her mind into peaceful blankness.

And together they slept.