[Room 15, with Michael]

[notinthebook]

 She's got the brand-new bottle of Johnny Walker Blue in one hand when she knocks at the door of Room 15, feeling unaccountably nervous.  

It's not like this is weird, or anything.  It's not like she thinks he'll be unhappy to see her -- or the whiskey.  And she wants to know how the latest mission went, whether there were more crab-monsters involved, or...whatever might be out there.

(But they haven't talked, alone, since her stint as bartender and the fight they'd had, which, in retrospect...she doesn't even remember how it got started, or why.  That feeling of sinking unhappiness is pretty immediately recognizable, though.)

If asked, she might not even be able to say why she's here, aside from the simplest reason she can put in words: she wanted to see him.

I miss you, he'd written, once.

Well, the feeling's mutual.

Comments

[luvs_yogurt]

She'll be fine, he's sure of it. As much as the thought of sending someone he cares about into the lion's den bothers him - he knows that if anyone can make it happen, it's her. She's smart and adaptable, and if all else fails he'll be listening to the whole thing and able to make emergency contact.

"Thought you might." He nods more to himself than anything; "Have you ever been bugged before?"

It's simple conversation for him, he already knows how he's going to set up her rig - she'll barely know it's there.

[notinthebook]

She shrugs again, shoulders round against the back of the seat. "I've used bugs before. They don't normally need to be on me, but I'm pretty familiar with the concept."

Not that she's ever really needed to make extensive use of them. She was a bounty hunter: she didn't do a lot of research ahead of time to snag her bailjumpers, because for the most part, it wasn't needed.

From time to time, though.

She glances at the rearviews, starts moving towards the right lane as their exit sign comes up.

"I figure you'll walk me through it."

[luvs_yogurt]

He nods easily enough, "I'll run you through it tomorrow well before you go in."

Giving directions two turns at a time, it's easy to guide Emma to the shop - she listens well and seems comfortable enough in the unfamiliar car on unfamiliar roads.

The shop itself is pretty basic from the outside, inside it looks like most any boutique you'd find from one end of the country to the other. Several off the rack pieces in a variety of 'average' sizes. At the back, a large woman of about fifty works at a sewing machine and doesn't even look up when they enter.

[notinthebook]

This is...maybe not what she was expecting, but, she realizes, that's mostly due to not really thinking about it that hard. She'd had a vague image in her head of the kind of designer boutiques where she'd up picked the few dresses she owns, but this makes more sense. It's quiet, it's out of the way, and it doesn't look like the kind of place that can knock out something amazing overnight.

But what does she know? She sucks at sewing.

One hand drops to her hip as she follows him in, the other tracing lightly along the clothing racks, making a few hangars rattle gently as the cloth beneath them sways.

Aside from that, she lets him take point: she's just here to get fitted.

[luvs_yogurt]

"Ms. Vee?" Michael asks with a soft smile as he approaches the woman, "A mutual friend said you could help us out with a couple of dresses overnight."

The woman stops her machine slowly, finishing the line of careful stitching before looking up at him with what could almost be described as a glare if not for a certain sense of playfulness behind it. "This friend..." she replies in a thick Czechoslovakian accent; "he tells you wrong, I don't do rush job."

"I understand, but this is very important, see - I need two versions of the same dress. One fitted to my very special lady friend here and another for me." He admits, somewhat sheepishly. "It's, uh... sort of our anniversary tomorrow and we're gonna try something a little... naughty."

When you want people to hurry, embarrass them. The more shocking you're willing to be without going over the top, the more they will do whatever it takes to get you out of there.

"I don't fit men."

"Please? Chuck Finley said that you are the best, and I need the best." He withdrew his wallet, pulling out the cash he'd earmarked for the dresses; "I'll pay cash."

At the name, her face seems to draw up even further only to relax with the easy flash of his money. After considering it a moment, she calls out toward the back in Czech; "We got a deviant here, two dresses overnight - says he's a friend of Mr. Finley."

Smiling as though he didn't understand what she was saying; Michael reiterated; "Lots of cash, up front if you fit us both now and then have the dresses ready by four o'clock tomorrow afternoon."

A low male voice responds in Czech; "They know Mr. Finely? He got the police off me last month. No charge, no charge for friends of Mr. Finely. We have time."

The woman frowns deeply and looks to Michael; "My son thinks that you should pay extra for rush job. No guarantee, I never fit man."

"Mama!" An even larger man of about thirty steps through a curtain hanging over the door to what Michael assumes is their office. "You don't lie like that..."

Grinning even wider, Michael replies in their own language; "No problem. I can pay regular price, I just need this work done. Will you help me?"

The pair was silenced, hearing Czech out of his mouth. After a long moment, the man said; "No charge, I insist. I will fit him, Mama. You measure his wife."

[notinthebook]

She's got to hand it to him; the guy is a master of ridiculous stories. She's watching with a tiny sort of smile edging at her lips, hand cocked on her hip, eyes going back and forth between Michael and the stubborn old woman who doesn't -- unsurprisingly -- want to fit this admittedly masculine guy for a dress.

She's pretty sure she wouldn't want to, either.

It's not much of a surprise when the son gets dragged in, either, but Michael busting out a few choice sentences in Czech is, a little. Not that she'd forgotten he speaks other languages, but...it's different hearing them come out of his mouth.

Whatever he says shuts both bickering family members right up, though, and it seems to work, because the sullen old lady gets up, moving slowly, and crooks an annoyed finger at Emma. "You," she says, imperiously. "Come."

So she goes.

The woman produces a tape from some pocket or other, nods sharply at Emma, who lifts her arms obligingly. Bust, underbust, waist, hip; shoulder to shoulder, shoulder to waist, waist to hemline. She's efficient, muttering to herself as she works, marking down the measurements taken with a dull pencil.

"You know," she tells Michael when she's done, "I always feel kind of violated after getting measured for stuff."

It's too up close and personal, but this will be worth it.

[luvs_yogurt]

For her, it will be. If nothing, she'll get an amazing custom fit dress out of it. He's just got a little more personal humiliation to deal with. Not that it really bothers him much. After all, it sort of was his plan. But, he needs to catch the asshole off his guard and a guy in a dress and blonde wig that is probably not the blonde you came out with? That'll get your attention.

Measuring him takes a little more work, and he talks in Czech in hushed tones with the man as he works. Turns out he's a friend of Sam's (not shocking) and owed him a few favors. Hey - if it saves a couple grand and ensures the work gets done he's more than happy to call one in for him. With Mikal, the son, he goes over the pattern of the dress - a simple, longer cocktail dress in soft red.

When he finally slides back into the car - taking the wheel himself this time - he's decidedly worse off than she is.

"Yeah, try having those same measurements taken and then having to account for body parts that you don't have."

[notinthebook]

"Along with adding in a couple you're lacking?" She gives him a look that's part amused, part sympathetic. "Yeah. I feel for you."

Buckling up, she frowns at the radio, changes the station to something a little more classic, and leans back, head rolling against the headrest so she can look over at him while he drives, and wonder. Why her? He'd said from the second time they met that he trusted her, and she still doesn't know why. People don't trust her that easily, ever.

(Except...she can still hear the hesitation in Mary Margaret's voice. I, um, trust you.)

And Michael says the same thing.

Better than that, he wants her around, offered to be a friend and ally if nothing else, someone she can rely on.

And he's the one she wanted to see to make her crappy day better, so maybe she shouldn't be laying all these questions on him. "Any more errands for today?"

[luvs_yogurt]

Yeah, definitely a few he's lacking, and he really can't blame her amusement - if it were Sam instead of him he'd be laughing.

He watches the miles slide by just over the speed limit, and after a long pause he offers her a shrug. "Up to you. Barry took care of the hotel and it won't be time to find some dinner for at least an hour. So, if there's anywhere you'd like to be... or something you want to do..."

It's open ended on purpose, he's giving her room - letting her know this is her time as much as it's his. Comfortable, no pressure.

[notinthebook]

The sun takes a long time to set in Miami: up in Maine, it's starting to brush the tips of the trees even in the middle of the day, and she closes her eyes, basks in it, trying to make her muscles and joints relax while he takes so long to answer.

Like there's anything she knows to do or anyplace she wants to be in Miami. It's a cautious answer, one that makes her think he's got something else in mind, but that it's personal, not the business they've been doing so far.

"Well," she says, "let's at least go check in and drop our stuff off. Maybe by then inspiration will strike."

[luvs_yogurt]

Inspiration is one word for the low boil sexual tension - the obvious knot that says they both want the same things but neither wants to be the first to bend.

The closer they get to the hotel room, the more certain Michael is that he'll have to break the sheet of glass between them.

He checks in and before both bags have hit the floor, he turns to pin Emma between himself and the door - kissing her firmly as the lock clicks over.

It's something.

[notinthebook]

There isn't time to do anything but drop her bag and close her eyes, and then he's right there, solid and heavy and pushing her back against the door, making her lips part and a low, needy sound pull itself out of her throat. Her fingers knot in his shirt, run up his back, tug at his belt loops to bring him closer.

This -- this is what she wants, wants that spark to light and burn away the misery of the last day. She wants to take every last brick she's built up and rip them out.

He kisses her until she pants for breath, grinning against his mouth, and when she has to pause to take a breath, she reaches up to cradle his head with both hands and tug him back to meet her again. He tastes like salt and peppermint tea and it's so good she feels a little like a hydrogen balloon about to swallow itself up in flames.

[luvs_yogurt]

Yes...

His body warms when she pulls against him instead of pulling away, the way her lips smile against his even before he tastes the sweet whiskey on her tongue.

When he breaks again, he pushes her even harder against the solidness of the door and whispers; "Emma..." The word somehow solidfying in his mind that it's real and it's going to happen - whatever IT may be.

When he opens his eyes, she's staring back at him with that same warm look that reminds him of what'd happened the last time they worked a job. Would it always be like this? Is she only interested when they work together? Did it even matter?

"I want you," he whispers with a firm tilt to his voice; "now."

[notinthebook]

It's like she can't pull him close enough, even when her fingers dig blunt circles into his back, even when he's flush against her, chest and stomach and thigh pressed together.

This must be why she went to find him, because he makes her feel like this, like she's being dipped in warm oil.

"You read my mind," she says, and her voice comes low and husky, thanks to breathlessness and those kisses that are making every muscle in her body tremble. Her fingers tighten in his shirt, tug at him.

"Come on."

It's half challenge, half-invitation.

[luvs_yogurt]

He's just fine with that feeling, even better with the flirty grin on her lips when she gives another hard tug at his shirt. She sure as hell doesn't have to ask twice.

Kissing her even harder, more demanding than before, he hooks both arms at the small of her back and then sweeps them down under her ass - lifting her up to his waist before turning to get her the several feet to the bed. Honestly, it was a little easier with Fiona - but she was tiny and lacked the wonderful solidness that Emma has - still, when he lays her out on the overly soft, overly decorated bed and follows astride her he's eager for even more.

"Yes..." he groans through gritted teeth, pushing his hand up the front of her tank top just to feel the warm softness of the skin he'd missed touching. "Better."

[notinthebook]

The last time this happened, she'd been hesitant, and he'd waited for her go-ahead before making a move, but now her arms slide around his neck and her legs wrap around his waist and she presses kisses to his mouth like she can't breathe without them.

The thing is -- not that there's only one, there's got to be at least a dozen reasons why she's ended up, here, wrapped around him -- Michael hasn't made any secret of wanting her. He's reached out for her, been there for her, and that's real, is something she can reach out and touch.

So she's grinning when they hit the mattress, as her fingers scramble to tug his shirt over his head and then run, palms flat and fingers wide, over the skin that's bared.

"Yeah," she says, in dizzy agreement, and then "Michael..." which comes out as a gasp at the feel of his hand against her skin, her head tipping back into the mattress.

[luvs_yogurt]

"Mmmm..." his murmur is more of an agreement than a question, she's not hesitating and it only makes it easier for him to push further and let himself be just as eager as he feels. It's what he wants, what he thinks they both might need just to deal with life.

A more philosophical person might call it an affirmation - he just thinks it feels really, really nice.

His hand hits the line of black lace and follows it under her shoulders to easily unhook the clasp before sitting up across her hips. She's beautiful, and part of him really hopes that she knows it - she carries herself like a woman who does.

[notinthebook]

She feels flushed and feverish when he pulls away, arching her back so he can trace the line of her bra, and when he sits up, her hands slide to his hips, settling there as she smiles.

"Hey."

Her lips feel a little bruised; she wets the bottom one. "What're you looking for?"

Her eyes are tracing his face, piecing together her thoughts as they start fracturing, distracted from them by his touch. It feels so good, and right now she can't remember why she'd thought it would be a good idea to leave and try and keep him from getting hit by her collateral damage.

They tried that, and it clearly isn't working.

[luvs_yogurt]

"Nothing," he shakes his head, smiling softly. After peeling off her shirt and the opened bra, he quietly adds; "You're, uh... you're beautiful, Emma. I just hope you know that."

It's awkward and strange and anyone but him would have sounded a lot more smooth saying something like that. From him it sounds the same way genuine compliments always do - simple and yet foreign.

Shaking his head again, he leans back down and presses a warm kiss against her chin - trailing his mouth and tongue to her ear as he enjoys the simple comfort of skin to skin contact across his chest.

[notinthebook]

She has to half sit up for him to slide the shirt and bra off, tousling her hair in the process, and she's only just laid down again when he answers her, voice low and sincere. His eyes are so blue it's dizzying, and a warm flush floods her skin, turning it pink in pleased embarrassment, like she's some sort of infatuated teenager.

Fortunately, she doesn't have a lot of time to be embarrassed before that flush warms further, thanks to the shivers chasing over her skin at the feel of warm breath and lips against the sensitive skin on her neck and ear. Another gasp drags itself from deep in her chest, and her fingers tighten against his back, digging in, wanting him closer, tighter.

She was an idiot to leave that night.

"You've been driving me crazy," she says, when she can string together enough words to form a full sentence without her brain exploding or her breath disappearing. "Just so you know."

[luvs_yogurt]

He's not sure what she means, he can't be sure - there's so much he could read into her words. So instead, he focuses on that pleasant gasp and the way she seems determined to pull him even closer.

His teeth find the ridge of her ear, distracting her with a gentle nip as his palms fold over her bare breasts - drinking in each sensation and yet forcing himself to take it slow and easy.

It could go fast... so very fast and energetic like a series of concussive blasts.

[notinthebook]

Last time, it was all desperation, a deep desire to prove to each other that they'd made it through the night and the job and that they were both alive and in one piece. That's what had sparked those kisses, those touches, the need to be close and closer.

Right now, though, she doesn't have adrenaline pumping through her veins, isn't afraid that he was dead or hurt. The sun hasn't even really set, spilling through the window and warming the bedspread they're so thoroughly messing up. This is just about him, and what they both want, and the fact that what she really needs, right now, is to be wanted.

So she closes her eyes and concentrates on the way his teeth skim over her ear and how his hands and warm and gentle and how it feels so good when she runs her hands up the dip of his spine, slide them over his chest. She finds the juncture of neck and shoulder and kisses there, sliding mouth and tongue up the tensing muscle at the side of his neck and tasting salt on his skin.

[luvs_yogurt]

Slow is good, slowly enjoying the curves of her body - drinking in the warmth of the moment as they take their time in heaving, shuddering and exhausting gasps until they're left satisfied and wrung out like sponges as he clings to her in the mussed collection of overpriced egyptian cotton sheets and decorative pillows. Such a contrast to the way it had been before - something new and almost entirely different.

Just as nice.

"Mmmm, Emma...." he traces his hand down her side as they lie belly to belly - looking at her with what he's sure is a dopey, exhausted grin. "I'm thinking dinner."

[notinthebook]

Slow is definitely good.

It's nice to take their time, and it quells the little nervous jumps she keeps getting: maybe this is due to the job, maybe it's thanks to the missions he's been going on, maybe he'll change his mind. Each slow, deliberate kiss and gentle touch and movement together soothes her a little further, winds that knot up until it finally snaps, making her whole body shake and her hands tighten against his back and finally, finally letting her relax.

She feels like a puddle of herself, legs tangled in sheets and him, her arm loose and comfortable over his waist, fingers idly tracing the curve at the small of his back.

"If I could move, dinner would be great," she says, laughing, letting her head sink a little further into the pillow. This is it, what she's been needing, the thing that will shake all her tensions and aches away.

He's got such a stupidly amazing smile, and she leans over to kiss it, lightly. "I'm kind of a fan of staying here for a minute, though."

[luvs_yogurt]

He can't help but keep grinning at her - it's not fair that someone can do this to him... that a friend can make him feel like this.

"Mmm, I could probably manage putting on some shorts to make it to the door when room service comes." He answers, echoing her kiss with a somewhat harder one. "And then you could simply enjoy yourself until food is brought up."

It wouldn't take much to get used to this, he thinks, to actually care about the person you're in bed with - to want to make them feel special and adored. The thought disturbs him so he buries his head against Emma's sloped shoulder - kissing the familiar pinked flesh.