[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

[notinthebook]

"Sounds good to me."

She pushes herself up with a swing of blonde waves, bright against the soft black sweater that she straightens once she's standing again. "See you down there."

It's a good thing she'd put that cash on her tab, considering that when she heads back into the bar, she ends up doing a kind of mini-shopping trip that ends with her taking a small bag from the bartop. It's nothing much: makeup, hair supplies (if she's gotta look the part, then she's gonna make damn sure she looks it a hundred percent), toothbrush, a little vial of her usual perfume, a bathing suit and coverup. It's more than she normally has with her when she's taking a trip, but not by much, and the bag's light when she slings it over her shoulder.

Which leaves her with an overnight bag, plans to go overnight, and way too much time to think about both those facts.

Is this stupid? Her previous trip had been on a whim; she'd never meant to spend as much time there as she had.

She really hadn't meant for things to go the way they did, but it happened and now she doesn't know what to expect, or what to consider, or even what she wants.

She hates that.

So she sits at the bar, fingers drumming idly against a glass of water, waiting and pushing aside each of those little uncertain thoughts that try to take hold.

[luvs_yogurt]

Michael makes it down the stairs with his bag packed and ready, not entirely surprised to see she's still wearing a sweater; "It'll probably be about... eighty or so when we get there? You might want to reconsider your wardrobe."

Not that he's one to dress someone, just that it's bound to get horribly uncomfortable in a car with no AC until they get to the rental place.

[notinthebook]

In answer, she sets the bag aside and skins the sweater off over her head, leaving the thin black tank top. Goosebumps prickle along her bare shoulders when the cool air hits them.

The sweater goes in her bag, and she pats it.

"I'm good. Picked up a few things to change into, so let's roll."

As they head towards the door, she turns her head to look at him, something suddenly crossing her mind. "Hey, you never said why we're buying a dress. I mean, I could head back to my place and grab one in like, two seconds."

[luvs_yogurt]

Better. Much, much better.

She's good - he's got to give her that much. Most women, Fi included, would have been perfectly happy at just buying a new dress.

"It, uh..." he stalls, pretending to stumble on his words before quickly answering; "it has to be a special dress."

He guides her to continue toward the door with a gentle hand on her elbow, hoping that'll be enough for now.

[notinthebook]

She eyes him, eyebrows lifting skeptically at the way his words fumble, even while little flickers of warmth chase each other over her arm from the spot where his fingers meet her bare skin.

(Michael always knows exactly what to say. The only times she's seen him at a loss have been...

Well, nothing like now.)

He's not lying, but he's sure as hell not being straight with her, either. "A special dress," she repeats, flat disbelief in her voice. "In my experience, most men don't really care as much about the dress as what it's showing off. If you don't want to tell me, don't tell me -- but it might be a good idea for us to be on the same page, don't you think?"

[luvs_yogurt]

"I'm not most men," he smiles, pausing outside the door. After a moment, he licks his lips again and then says casually; "You'll have to be able to wear a listening device, and we have to match."

He raises an eyebrow in a clear; 'there, happy?' gesture before reaching toward the door. "You ready for this?"

[notinthebook]

"Yeah, true," she says, grinning crookedly. "You have a whole other idea of what 'checking someone out' means."

The first time they met, she'd caught him watching her, like he was trying to put her together in his head, but it turns out that the assessments he makes are rarely anything other than perfunctory and businesslike.

The bigger mystery is how she managed to get past that and become something other than just an asset...or if she did.

The answer gets a satisfied smirk from her, and she tips her head toward the door, slipping her hand around his arm as she does.

"Ready for Miami? Absolutely."

Ready for anything else? That'll have to be determined later.

[luvs_yogurt]

When she touches him, his reflexive smile takes on a much softer tilt and he nods. "Yeah, well... you can never be too sure when you meet someone interesting."

A little more bold, he catches the unsure cloud in her eyes and murmurs; "I don't expect anything to happen that you don't want to happen, Emma. This can just be a little bit of business and a little bit of fun if that's what you want."

[notinthebook]

"You know what?"

Now that he's said something, caught whatever tic or flicker or shade was in her face that gave her away, she finds she can relax.

At least she's not the only one who's wondering where this might go, but what the hell is the point of going to Miami and pulling a stunt like the one he's got planned if she's just going to stress herself out?

So she tips her head a little, thoughtful for a second, then smile.

"I'm not worried about it. Let's go."

[luvs_yogurt]

"Good, I don't want you to worry about anything." He smiles and briefly considers kissing her, that it would feel right - but then the moment passes and instead he steps through the door with her by his side and into the back room of the Carlito.

"The outside employee entrance is unlocked this time," he murmurs; by which he means that he popped it when he came back through before. "We don't have to run into anyone on the way to the Charger."

[notinthebook]

For a second, something in those sharp blue eyes of his turns soft, and she feels that knot tighten again, just below her ribcage. It's a good feeling, like the one that had stolen over her when they were lying curled up in bed together, a kind of contented, uncertain pleasure.

It's got to say something that she feels secure, with him -- he's a dangerous guy with a dangerous job and more secrets than you can shake a stick at, but maybe that's why she feels so comfortable with him.

In a lot of ways, they're kind of a matched set, and that's not something she can say about Graham.

(Not that those thoughts can stop the dull thud in her stomach at the thought of Graham.)

She can feel the shift in the air instantly: Miami's hot, even in a cool back room, and she can hear the bustling sounds of the restaurant outside. "Good," she says, indicating her bag and his. "Because these might take a little extra explaining."

[luvs_yogurt]

He laughs under his breath, shifting his own bag before quietly responding; "I'm pretty sure the owner's friendly enough for us to shift anything short of a body without too many questions."

He leads them straight to the Charger, depositing his bag in the back as he slips behind the wheel. "We should probably switch out cars after the shop in case they happen to have eyes on this place or Sam's suit guy. We might have to lose a tail."

[notinthebook]

Her bag goes on the floor by her feet, and she slides into the seat, but not before taking a second to appreciate the Charger.

It's a hell of a change from her little Bug, that's for sure. There's nothing like a classic car, and the Charger is a beast of a car. That last trip may have been a bitch, but out of every thing that went wrong, two things were right: driving this thing, and taking that step to kiss him when it was clear he thought she'd run.

Food for thought.

"Just let me know so I know to put on my seatbelt," she says, dry.

"You know, for a spy, you sure advertise yourself with this car."

Not that she minds, but it does seem a little like a flashing neon sign.

[luvs_yogurt]

Michael buckles his and then says; "Probably a good idea just in case."

Advertising, as a thought, gives him some pause and when he does respond he's already heading for a cheap rental place he knows that doesn't run drivers licenses that look legitimate.

"It's a good car."

[notinthebook]

"Don't get me wrong," she says, holding up a hand. "This is a badass of a car. It's the kind of car a spy ought to drive, you know? Forget the shiny James Bond mobiles. This is the kind of car that makes other people want to lock their doors at red lights. It's just sort of recognizable."

Settling back, she buckles her seatbelt, rolls her head against the seat to grin at him.

"You should see my car. You'd probably laugh, but that thing's gotten me everywhere I need to go."

[luvs_yogurt]

It's definitely an attention getter, but he doesn't drive it for any of those reasons. It has meaning, that bridge between Michael and his father: doing it right. Taking care of what Frank left behind, as always.

"Uh, let me guess... some tiny little Toyota that gets amazing gas mileage but feels like plastic?"

He flashes a teasing grin and then adds; "A car's a car... it serves a purpose."

[notinthebook]

"Yeah, right."

She laughs at the way he grins at her, but right now she feels good enough to laugh at just about anything. It's like walking out the door and into a place other than the apartment so full of misery and heartache has turned some key and locked some door that will let her up through the thundercloud that's been hanging over her head all day.

The fact that Michael's got a great smile probably has something to do with it, too.

"It's a Bug. One of the old ones. Yellow. And, uh...right now it's got kind of a dent in the front bumper, from when I ran over the 'Welcome to Storybrooke' sign a few weeks ago."

[luvs_yogurt]

Ahh, she does know a classic when she sees one. "Not bad, not bad. At least the engine's in the back when you get a little rammy."

He licks his lower lip, ready to duck a punch as he cuts down a side road - checking his mirrors for any sign of a tail. So far, so good.

[notinthebook]

She makes a face at that, but it's not a punch-worthy offense.

He's really got to talk to Tommy more often to start shelling those out.

"I didn't run into it on purpose. It's a sign, it's not like I've got anything against it. There was a wolf in the road."

Her eyes slide to the rearview on the passenger door, too, but nobody seems to be coming after them.

It's a stroke of luck, just like him being in his room, just like getting to Miami, and each one makes her mood a little lighter.

[luvs_yogurt]

"When we get to the rental place, you'll probably want to keep an eye out for trouble. They're not bad guys, but when your primary business is not necessarily requiring a valid ID to rent a car on the cheap - trouble kind of happens."

They're not illegal... strictly speaking. Of course, the drivers licence he's got is a genuine Sam Axe forgery job.

"I've got my gun," tucked handily into the back of his jeans, "and the other one is under your seat."

[notinthebook]

"Sure."

She leans over to reach under the seat and extract the gun, turning it over, eyes running over the details in the metal.

"Honestly, I would so love for someone to give me an excuse to punch them in the face today. That would be great."

Someone will -- or she'll let it hit enough buttons that they will, whether they deserve it or not. It's singing through her blood, this edgy frustration, and she's going to have to let it out somehow.

And she'd rather not hit Michael, though it's not like it's outside the realm of possibility.

[luvs_yogurt]

He wouldn't be shocked... though, stranger things have happened.

Pulling up to a packed public lot, he finds one of the few empty spots and locks down the Charger after parking. The best security he's got is putting somewhere it'll blend in with the other vehicles.

It's a short half mile walk to the place and as expected it's pretty quiet. A nice silver Eclipse that's a couple years old catches his eye on the way to the rental desk.

"Hi there!" He grins wide, slipping into an easy somewhat dumbed down character as he sticks his hand out to the large, tattooed man behind the desk. "Friend of mine says you can hook me up with a sweet ride for three or four days on the cheap."

The man narrows his eyes and his eyes dart to an even larger man with a magnum tucked in the front of his jeans. "Maybe, maybe not..."

"Oh, it's all right, Mister. I don't want no trouble. See, I'm in town doing some work for Mister Finley and said you were the guys that could hook me up with a ride to keep my baby mama happy."

"Finley?" The guy asks with a somewhat less gruff tone and then nods to the goon before pulling out a key box. "All right, what're you looking for?"

Michael's eyes dart to Emma and he flashes her an even bigger grin; "I dunno, Frannie! What'd you think of that there silver one out in the front?"

[notinthebook]

She can't ever seem to quite catch the exact second when he slides into character, but one second it's Michael, and the next it's somebody totally different: holds himself differently, talks differently.

It's still that same shit-eating grin, though, and her own widens in response as her eyes go round and she laughs, sliding a hand along his chest to his shoulder and shaking her hair back as she presses up to his side.

"Like I know anything about cars," she says, derisive and teasing, the kind of bubble-headed blonde that's a threat to exactly no one. When she rolls her eyes at the thug behind the desk, his slide right off her like she's not even there.

Good enough. "It looks kinda fun, though. And fast. "

[luvs_yogurt]

Perfect... he slips his arm tight around her waist for an encouraging squeeze - she's doing good at keeping up.

"Oh, I don't know though baby - I think a red one might be funner." He looks back to the clerk with an equally large grin; "I'll take one of those in red."

The dealer snorted; "Yeah, and I'll explain to the cops when you get pulled over. We don't do red cars - attract too much attention. You want flashy hot wheels, go play somewhere else."

"Oh, nononono!" He stammers, knowing full and well they wouldn't have anything that high profile. "I think the silver one's plenty sexy enough for us - I'll just be sure to put the perfect girl in it."

He looks over to Emma and brushes a kiss against her ear as he draws out his battered wallet; "Mister Finley said it's a grand cash up front?"

The dealer nods, eyeing the thick patch of bills in his wallet. "Convertibles are extra - twelve hundred."

"Twelve hundred? That dollars or pesos!" Michael laughed, thumbing out a fake ID from the collection and then counting out fifties; "Just kiddin' there, big fella - no need to break out the irons... here ya go. Name's JJ - Johnny Johnson, my folks thought they was funny or some shit." He leans against Emma and brushes a kiss against her bare shoulder; "That price, you better be glad I love you baby."

[notinthebook]

She's hanging on his shoulder like any good piece of arm-candy would, snuggling into the curve his arm makes when it goes around her, and it's not entirely acting when she smiles, all pleased and goofy, at the brush of his lips against the sensitive skin of her ear and then her shoulder.

At least, the way something sparks and flares and settles into a steadily rising warmth deep in her belly certainly isn't.

"I love it," she says, practically purring, pulling his arm around her waist with her hand over his. "I knew you'd get something just right, honey."

There've got to be a million silver convertibles in Miami, and she's not entirely lying: she did know he'd pick just the right car.