OOM: Millways Room 15 with Emma, Take Two

[luvs_yogurt]

It's been a long couple days and frankly Michael's  not ready to go back to Miami. All he can think about is making things right with Emma, fixing the good thing they have as best he can. After stopping at the bar for a much needed beer he fished a napkin out of his pocket and left Emma a note to come find him.

After a long shower, where he manages to wash away as much evidence of the fire as he can - leaving behind only pink skin that could be a sunburn and singed eyebrows to go with his rough throat and aching chest - he puts on a clean t-shirt and boxers, and then curls up with his pillow and blanket for some much needed rest until she (hopefully) comes to see him.

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[notinthebook]

I miss you.

It's a good thing she'd gotten the note before Graham showed up: if there's one thing she wouldn't have been excited to explain, it's got to be Bar's ability to store and deliver personal notes.

At least, not with this one as an example.

She reads it again, standing outside Room 15 with her keychain undecided in her hand, the silver star hanging over her index finger. I miss you.

He misses her. It's not a sentiment she's accustomed to: Henry would miss her, Mary Margaret would miss her. Maybe even Graham, but Michael?

Or maybe her doubt comes from the fact that she hasn't interrogated her own feelings well enough to know what this reaction is: relief, worry, a little frustration? Sure. But there's also that uncomfortable little leap in her stomach, the one that says me, too.

She looks at the key he'd given her, then tucks the chain into her palm and knocks briefly.

If he's there, he'll let her in.

[luvs_yogurt]

Michael wasn't expecting a knock, but when it comes he's easy enough to rouse from the bed. Moving on flat, tired feet, he opens the door in a plain white t-shirt and boxers, his hair flat on one side from the pillow. He's had better looks.

But he's glad to see Emma on the other side.

"You came," he says, standing away from the door to let her in if she wants to come in.

[notinthebook]

Knock, wait a second, oh, just as well, he's not there. She almost turns and leaves -- she's even shifted her weight, hands in her back pockets, shoulders turning -- but before the step can actually be taken, the door opens, and something settled right below her diaphragm contracts in a sudden, painful knot.

That was unexpected.

He looks...undressed, for starters; tired, sunburned, and with weary, heavy lines around his eyes that suggest he'd just been taking a nap, and she feels kind of bad about interrupting. For a second, she stands there, feeling shifty, eyes on his face, then the door, then his shirt, then his face again. "Yeah," she says, "well, you asked so nice."

When he steps aside, she hesitates just for a second before heading into the room, holding up the napkin.

"New York, huh?"

[luvs_yogurt]

He nods slowly, scrubbing a hand over the back of his head carefully to avoid the new wound as well as the old.

His voice has a heavy rasp to it when he speaks again; "I don't even know how long it's been since I dropped you off, but whatever it's been - it's been a long one." He chuckles without humor, and the rubs his eyes - leaving the door open for her to close if she feels safe enough to.

Turning his back to her, he digs a pair of cold water bottles out of the minibar and offers her one.

"Have you seen Mary Margaret in the last couple days? Did she make it home safe?"

[notinthebook]

She frowns at the way his voice scrapes against itself: that's weird, and she gives him a close look as she shuts the door behind her and comes into the room.

"Yeah, I saw her this morning before I went to work. When did you see her?"

It's been...what, a week? Something like that, anyway. A week since the last time she saw him, looking so carefully neutral in the back room at Carlito's, and it should have been enough time, but she's finding out now that it isn't, really, because his eyes are still so blue and they still meet hers with absolutely no apology.

He's got a way of looking at her that makes her feel as pinned as a bug.

"You don't sound so good."

[luvs_yogurt]

He rubs his red-rimmed eyes and takes a long drink before answering; "A couple days ago I was... sort of..." Awkward doesn't suit him well, but there's no way to say 'I was waiting for you' that doesn't sound like a creepy stalker situation.

"I found her at the bar and asked if she'd take me to come talk to you... in Storybrooke." He sighs and sits in the same chair he'd been in the first time he brought her up, leaning back. "I didn't make it there, there was some sort of crazy malfunction and I ended up in a multi-story inferno."

Yeah, that was fun.

[notinthebook]

She pauses in the middle of cracking open the water bottle, plastic crackling under her palm, and stares at him.

Coming to Storybrooke...she'll work on that in a minute.

"You were in a what, now?"

Inferno? Did he say inferno? That's not a word that normally makes it into her everyday conversations, and though Michael's pretty much blown those out of the water, she's still not expecting inferno.

She doesn't sit down yet (last time she was here and she sat there and he sat there it got all...hazy and complicated and this won't be much of a talk if she runs again, will it?) but she stands where she is, watching him.

"What happened?"

[luvs_yogurt]

"Well, it just so happens that said inferno was in New York city in the jurisdiction of a certain mutual acquaintance that happens to be a firefighter."

He sighs and takes another long sip. "So, after a flaming wall collapsed on me Tommy dragged my ass out of the building, helped spring me from the hospital and then put me up for the night I sort of had a little bit of time to get my head together."

[notinthebook]

"Wait. Tommy? Tommy from here, the firefighter with all the attitude? That Tommy?"

She saw Tommy just a couple of days ago. Hell, the call he was getting just as he went through the door might have been the one he ended up dragged Michael out of.

Her eyes are wide and surprised, and now that she looks at him closely, she can see the singeing on his eyebrows and the short hair by his ears and neck. She could go over, check on him, touch his shoulder, run her hand over his back and make sure for herself that he's fine, but she stays where she is, struggling a sudden uncomfortable feeling that's trying it's damnedest to fill her stomach up with lead. "Holy crap," she says, after a long minute wresting with her thoughts.

"That's a hell of a stroke of luck. Are you okay?"

[luvs_yogurt]

"I don't know if it was luck or the bar was trying to tell me something or if I did just get really lucky," his lips quirk into a half-frown; "but yeah, I'll be fine. Took a shelf to the head, but as we've discovered my skull takes more than a couple good blows to drop me."

He leans forward, stretching his back to show her the circular scalp cut from their altercation in Miami and a few inches below a large welt where the shelf had hit him. "See? A little burned, caught some smoke... but I'll be fine."

[notinthebook]

Jesus.

There's a self-indulgent second where she wishes she could go back to those early morning hours in Miami, change her own mind, agree to stay for breakfast and whatever else.

It might have been complicated, but at least he wouldn't have gotten part of a building dropped on him.

She steps forward before she thinks about it, rests a hand that's not quite gentle but not quite not, either, on his head to inspect the red line raised there. "You'd better try and lay low for a couple of days," she tells him, coming back to herself and lifting her hand away, tugging out the other chair to sit.

"You sound like shit and you look like you ought to sleep for about a week."

[luvs_yogurt]

The gentle touch only reminds him of why he's still there to begin with. "That's the plan... I didn't know how long you'd take to decide if you want to see me."

He looks back up at her, his gaze softened slightly.

"I'll take time, before going back."

[notinthebook]

She doesn't know what to do with that look, isn't sure what to make of the way it just makes that knot tie itself tighter, so she meets it for a second before letting her eyes drop, using the excuse of taking a sip of water.

"Well, good."

She wants to cross her arms, wants to lean back, wants to show this isn't bothering her, that she's untouchable, but it's hard, when she remembers how it felt when his fingers ran so carefully over her bare skin. "Try and stay in one piece, huh?"

[luvs_yogurt]

"I always do."

He looks back down and turns his head to the side, steeling his nerves for what he asked her there to say.

"Look, Emma. I want to tell you something and I don't want you to run away from me. Can we do that now?"

[notinthebook]

There aren't many single-sentence phrases that can strike straight into her gut and stick there, sick, like any phrase that can be boiled down to we need to talk. It's got to be something learned, because on its own, it's a totally reasonable thing to say, right?

But she doesn't know what he'll say, and she doesn't know where to even start sorting through her own thoughts and feelings and right now, sitting slouched in that chair and looking at the guy who, for a little while, thought she was so amazing, she's more confused than ever.

"Sure."

If she's a little wary, maybe she can't be blamed. These little talks so rarely end in anything other than flaming disaster for her.

[luvs_yogurt]

It's sure not the easiest thing to say either, but when it comes down to it one of them is going to have to say something and he's okay being the one.

He leans forward in his chair again - rubbing the base of his palms over his eyes before looking back up at her. "Sit down, please? I'll feel a little less like you're about to walk away if you do."

[notinthebook]

"Okay."

She'd pulled the chair out, but now she wets her lips, and nods, once, before pulling it further and sitting down, shoulders rounding as she leans forward to put one arm on the table.

"What's going on?"

He's got her kind of worried, and hell, there's no reason not to be. His life is dangerous enough, but he was just in a goddam structure fire? She can't keep concern out of her eyes as she studies him.

[luvs_yogurt]

"I thought a bit while I was..." Waiting for you? Trying to figure out what I've done wrong? "... away."

He licks his lips again and takes another drink of water, not quite able to look at her yet. "I want you to know why I am the way I am and maybe it will make it easier for you to decide if we're going to try and work something out here because I really like you, Emma." He doesn't stop, forcing the thought before he can drop it as he manages to look up at her; "I want you to know that I trust you, and that means more to me than sleeping with you. Not that I don't want to... just that it's not the end of the world."

[notinthebook]

A faint frown of concentration flickers between her brows as she listens, watching his face even though he's not looking up at her.

He's not lying.

He's not lying, and he's dragging this -- something -- whatever it is up out of a place deep inside, someplace he probably doesn't look very often, and it's costing him. When she leans forward, it's with her eyes wide and earnest on his, and an aching something deep under her ribs that feels like the soreness of a day-old bruise.

Maybe a normal girl would say yeah, I really like you, too, and that would solve everything and they'd get to have just normal problems like a normal couple, but he's from another universe and they both have bigger fish to fry.

It's not about not liking him. It never was.

"Whatever's going on with you," she says, "whatever you think is going on with us, you can still trust me. If you want to ... tell me what's on your mind, then you can tell me whatever you need to."

[luvs_yogurt]

It takes him a long moment to continue, searching her eyes - trying to get a read on her. She's thinking, not running. It's a good sign.

"A long time ago I was engaged to marry a woman named Samantha, she was a thief but we got along pretty well. I think at the time I loved her, but I was confused. And then I was on assignment in Dublin where I met Fiona."

When he says their names, he feels a dull pinch boring at him - as though he's opening up wounds that should be long healed.

"I fell in love with her and things were good, but she fell in love with the man I was in Dublin - with my cover." He looks back down at the table, swallowing a hard lump with a throat coated in sandpaper; "I was extracted in the middle of the night, my cover was blown, and I just left her there and went on with my work."

It's oversimplifying, and it occurs to him that he's trying to make himself sound like a bad guy. Like exactly the kind of guy Emma wouldn't want to deal with. Shaking his head, his lips draw up into a grimace and he forces himself to look her in the eyes; "I didn't want to, but I did what I had to do. It was the best thing for her, as far as she was concerned the man she fell in love with was gone. And then... she found me, in Miami."

[notinthebook]

It's hard to imagine people you don't know well involved in the kind of relationships he's telling her about, and she doesn't really know Michael all that well, not really, not when you get down to it. Sure, she knows what he does, what he did; his name, his address. She knows there's a deep well of goodness in him that appears only occasionally, and that he's probably just as lonely and messed-up as she is, and when it comes to really knowing someone, you can't really beat saving their life and then spending the night with them.

But she left before she could really get that deep -- not that it stopped her from managing to glimpse him behind those masks and accents and smiles he wears so easily.

Still, it's weird, hearing about him being engaged, being in love. Not bad, just...weird. He'd probably feel the same way about her sad stories.

It's the kind of thing you talk about with someone new, someone you want to let in, maybe in bed, where everything feels like it can be safe for just a little while.

"The psycho ex-girlfriend," she says, remembering their first conversation. That frown is back, pulling hard between her brows as she picks at the label on her water bottle, though her voice is carefully neutral.

"I guess she's still in the picture, huh?"

Looking him up in Miami after all that? Uh, yeah.

[luvs_yogurt]

"No."

His voice is cold, and he can't help it. It's a sore subject still, that in the end he couldn't be what she needed.

After a long pause, he continues; "We tried, but uh... It didn't work. She wanted me to be something I'm not."

[notinthebook]

Yeah, that's a feeling she knows. Not being something, the right thing -- that's pretty damn familiar.

It's what she's tried to tell Henry, but the kid just won't believe her.

"I'm sorry."

She is. It clearly hurt a lot, still must, and if there's one thing she can sympathize with, it's a shitty relationship with an even worse ending. It's got nothing to do with her, so she can be just as sorry as she wants.

Not that it'll make a difference.

[luvs_yogurt]

"Don't be." He forces his eyes back up to her again. "I want you to know that because that's what relationships are for me. When I meet someone that I trust, the lines get blurry and it's hard to tell what's going to happen no matter how I feel."

He takes another hard swallow, his water already almost gone.

"I am a spy. Right now, my life is being a spy. I can't be a good boyfriend, but I want to be a good friend. And if that means we can't have another night like we had, I can handle that."

He fights the urge to look away, to be looking anywhere but her soft face - he feels like he's lying, but it has to be said. "I'll get over it."

[notinthebook]

Crap.

Of course he thinks it's him, of course he thinks there's something about him that makes her want to run, and there is, but it's not anything he's just said. It's not being a spy and having a dangerous life or the lines blurring.

Though that stuff doesn't exactly help.

"Michael..."

He's looking at her so intently, but her eyes drop, looking towards the table without seeing it as her forehead wrinkles, fingers running along the edge of the table just to have something to do.

"It's not -- any of that, okay? I like you. And believe me, there is nothing more appealing than the idea of staying a night and having breakfast and letting that all be okay. I just don't know how." Glancing up, she watches him, looking for a reaction, anything to see whether he understands what she means.

"Look, I understand bad relationships. I've been there -- pretty much every one I've had falls into that category. I get it, I really do. You're screwed up, and I'm screwed up, and together we'd probably just screw each other up even more."

Maybe she shouldn't be saying all this, but the memory of the way he'd looked at her as she got up and got dressed still makes guilt twinge in her chest.

She has to make sure he knows it's not that, not that she doesn't like him or want him or care.

It's just that it's never enough to change the world into a place where any of this is possible.

Her expression is rueful. "Friends would be good." Not so dangerous, anyway.